Through the pain, Yuri can already see the problem forming. The way the pain doesn't, still doesn't hold a candle. It's angry, an edged red, dots his vision briefly, at the side of it, not stopping, now that it's started. Started huffing, annoyedly, in existence, about being given its proper due. Throbbing to the tune of his too fast heart beat and the collision with Victor's legs and the bed (the bed, he's on the bed), but he can't get himself to focus on that.
He can't even entirely get himself to focus entirely on Victor's words, on this sensible question, that is sensible, smart, even in the pert and professionally innocent way he asks it, while his eyes are shining up at Yuri --
-- all Yuri has is this ache, growing, widening, slamming into his chest, like the greatest chasm in the world suddenly pushed into him, widening bigger than a continent, bigger than the world, because, he's looking down at Victor looking up at him, all peerless ownership and false innocence and professional words with absolutely nothing professional here anymore, and has it always, did he never, was Victor always this bright? This painfully, perfectly, brilliantly beautiful?
When his fingers are in the air, lifted from Victor's shoulder or neck, from wherever they'd gotten amid flailing like a cat trying to escape being crushed, and they stop. Oh, god. They do. Stop. Sway. Stutter. Stop. In his vision. Bare inches from Victor's face. When he can see his hand. Like a car. In traction. Fighting against itself. Fingers out, half in, with a stutter, and in. Closing. Fingers only crushing back into his palm. Before it drops from his sight, his breath still caught, hurting, heat seeping out to his ears, his neck, trying, trying, frantically to remember the question.
About his hip? About landing? About his flip and Victor's lap, and his heart, sprinting, idiotically in his chest.
"It's okay." It's. It's there. It hurts. Obviously. He'd probably cried out. It probably hurt. (Did.) Except he's not even sure he can feel it under the dramatic race of his stupid, stupid, heart.
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Date: 2017-04-15 04:45 pm (UTC)He can't even entirely get himself to focus entirely on Victor's words, on this sensible question, that is sensible, smart, even in the pert and professionally innocent way he asks it, while his eyes are shining up at Yuri --
-- all Yuri has is this ache, growing, widening, slamming into his chest, like the greatest chasm in the world suddenly pushed into him, widening bigger than a continent, bigger than the world, because, he's looking down at Victor looking up at him, all peerless ownership and false innocence and professional words with absolutely nothing professional here anymore, and has it always, did he never, was Victor always this bright? This painfully, perfectly, brilliantly beautiful?
When his fingers are in the air, lifted from Victor's shoulder or neck, from wherever they'd gotten amid flailing like a cat trying to escape being crushed, and they stop. Oh, god. They do. Stop. Sway. Stutter. Stop. In his vision. Bare inches from Victor's face. When he can see his hand. Like a car. In traction. Fighting against itself. Fingers out, half in, with a stutter, and in. Closing. Fingers only crushing back into his palm. Before it drops from his sight, his breath still caught, hurting, heat seeping out to his ears, his neck, trying, trying, frantically to remember the question.
About his hip? About landing? About his flip and Victor's lap, and his heart, sprinting, idiotically in his chest.
"It's okay." It's. It's there. It hurts. Obviously. He'd probably cried out. It probably hurt. (Did.)
Except he's not even sure he can feel it under the dramatic race of his stupid, stupid, heart.