That he doesn't let go isn't a testament to will or confusion.
That he doesn't let go is a testament to the fact so much has changed in the last three-quarters of the year.
To the way he's grown used to hear Victor talk about skating, and what little of his life he's shared outside of it. About music, and Maccachin, and every new discovery he's made about every facet of Japan since he moved there. That he knows when something is hard even Victor's answers aren't always easy ones, no matter how light and blithe and careless and arrogant he can make a lot of things.
None of the words are trite. Not even after Yuri heart seizes just for a moment after the first sentence, and before the second. When. He's not wrong. Right? Yuri hasn't even had time to think about his skate. Not really. Not with all of this. Not with Victor jumping at him, cradling his head kissing him there on the ice. And then again the step inside the locker room. And being here every step, every thought, clouded instead with this. Only this.
He hadn't thought of it. He hasn't seen a replay of it. There weren't clips of his skate before the kiss-and-cry because the scores were already up when they were pushed there finally. He'd have found one by now, even if Victor was telling him to put it away, that he'd been fine and they could worry about any flaws and falls tomorrow. Except he isn't. Has. They aren't. And he shifts, again, sliding to settle his cheek down against Victor's shoulder.
Not even certain whether he should let go. Even hugging Victor hasn't been like this. Not this long. Not ... like this.
"It was." It's soft, so soft it's almost a question. Like Yuri is asking it out loud.
"At least, I think it was." Everything feels like so much of a blur, but he remembers being out there. "After what happened ... in the garage--" His voice goes quiet and there's a wince, wrinkling his nose. He'd burst into tears and then he'd gone shouting at Victor for his comment. "--and after the triple axel, and the salchow--" Because everything out there compounded everything else out there.
Messing up, and Victor's face replaying. The face he'd made when Yuri started crying. The face he made while Yuri was screaming. The face he has the whole, silent, time while they walked and Yuri stepped onto the ice. The way none of it needed to stay. None of it needed to matter. "I think -- I wanted you to know it was okay. That everything --" There's a raise of his shoulders, that isn't a shrug it's just everything. Everything that happened before. "That everything was okay."
Except that's not enough. It's not everything. It wasn't about everything like he could hide it in everything, the way he's almost still definitely hiding himself in Victor's shoulder. In Victor's arms. Like it's somehow a shelter from. Victor's arms, and Victor's mouth, and everything that is everything else in Yuri's chest. Yuri's skin. Still warm. Still buzzing. Even now.
But not everything. It hadn't been about everything. "That we were."
Which seems, suddenly, like the stupidest thing to have chosen. Stealing something that belonged so securely to Victor, and slamming himself into the ice, without a single moment's practice. It had hurt. It had been stupid. But it felt so right. He remembers that, too. He remembers that when it defies any language he knows except his skate, except being airborne (except maybe a second ago, a second ago, when Victor was kissing him so softly, so slowly, it felt like the ease of tracing figures in the middle of the night) and his fingers released and clutch just a little against the fabric.
It had felt more right than anything in his life ever had in that moment.
Victor and his skate and his self and everything that truly was everything.
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Date: 2017-04-14 08:13 pm (UTC)That he doesn't let go is a testament to the fact so much has changed in the last three-quarters of the year.
To the way he's grown used to hear Victor talk about skating, and what little of his life he's shared outside of it. About music, and Maccachin, and every new discovery he's made about every facet of Japan since he moved there. That he knows when something is hard even Victor's answers aren't always easy ones, no matter how light and blithe and careless and arrogant he can make a lot of things.
None of the words are trite. Not even after Yuri heart seizes just for a moment after the first sentence, and before the second. When. He's not wrong. Right? Yuri hasn't even had time to think about his skate. Not really. Not with all of this. Not with Victor jumping at him, cradling his head kissing him there on the ice. And then again the step inside the locker room. And being here every step, every thought, clouded instead with this. Only this.
He hadn't thought of it. He hasn't seen a replay of it. There weren't clips of his skate before the kiss-and-cry because the scores were already up when they were pushed there finally. He'd have found one by now, even if Victor was telling him to put it away, that he'd been fine and they could worry about any flaws and falls tomorrow. Except he isn't. Has. They aren't. And he shifts, again, sliding to settle his cheek down against Victor's shoulder.
Not even certain whether he should let go. Even hugging Victor hasn't been like this. Not this long. Not ... like this.
"It was." It's soft, so soft it's almost a question. Like Yuri is asking it out loud.
"At least, I think it was." Everything feels like so much of a blur, but he remembers being out there. "After what happened ... in the garage--" His voice goes quiet and there's a wince, wrinkling his nose. He'd burst into tears and then he'd gone shouting at Victor for his comment. "--and after the triple axel, and the salchow--" Because everything out there compounded everything else out there.
Messing up, and Victor's face replaying. The face he'd made when Yuri started crying. The face he made while Yuri was screaming. The face he has the whole, silent, time while they walked and Yuri stepped onto the ice. The way none of it needed to stay. None of it needed to matter. "I think -- I wanted you to know it was okay. That everything --" There's a raise of his shoulders, that isn't a shrug it's just everything. Everything that happened before. "That everything was okay."
Except that's not enough. It's not everything. It wasn't about everything like he could hide it in everything, the way he's almost still definitely hiding himself in Victor's shoulder. In Victor's arms. Like it's somehow a shelter from. Victor's arms, and Victor's mouth, and everything that is everything else in Yuri's chest. Yuri's skin. Still warm. Still buzzing. Even now.
But not everything. It hadn't been about everything. "That we were."
Which seems, suddenly, like the stupidest thing to have chosen. Stealing something that belonged so securely to Victor, and slamming himself into the ice, without a single moment's practice. It had hurt. It had been stupid. But it felt so right. He remembers that, too. He remembers that when it defies any language he knows except his skate, except being airborne (except maybe a second ago, a second ago, when Victor was kissing him so softly, so slowly, it felt like the ease of tracing figures in the middle of the night) and his fingers released and clutch just a little against the fabric.
It had felt more right than anything in his life ever had in that moment.
Victor and his skate and his self and everything that truly was everything.