He'd asked something. Was sure of it. Was teasing, only a second ago, because a second ago he had air to breathe and even though looking up into Yuri's face was intoxicating, he'd been more smugly satisfied than seduced, and so he'd asked that question, the one he can't remember, can't hear at all through the sudden crushing wind swirling a storm through his head and chest.
Yuri's looking at him. Like. He doesn't know. Can't find the words for anything anymore, because Yuri's not just looking at him, Yuri's looking at his own hand, that's floating near Victor's cheek so close he can almost feel it. The ghost of his fingers in the warmth they give off, and he has never, never, never in his life wanted anything more than he wants, in this second, for Yuri to reach out and touch him.
He doesn't, often. Victor might drag him into hugs, fix his position on the ice, sling an arm around his shoulder, even kiss his cheek when he's feeling especially exuberant, and Yuri lets him, but Yuri almost never reaches for him, first. No one does, aside from Maccachin. Not Chris. Not any of his other friends. Not his coaches, unless you count the cool clinical way they corrected his posture or worked out knots in his back and legs. Maybe no one in his whole life since his parents when he was very small. And how starving he is for it. Physical touch. Affection he can feel. He doesn't want to be distant anymore, clear blue water between him and the next best competitor, and no one daring to touch him even when they fawn all over him.
Doesn't want to be made of ice, the way Yakov hoped he would be, the inhuman Russian legend without a heart who lives for perfection and the gleam of gold.
He wants Yuri's fingers against his face. Against his throat. Over the too-thin, too-fragile skin just above his heart. He wants Yuri to lean down to kiss him, without being kissed first. He wants to be reached.
But Yuri's fingers drop without ever touching him, and he makes a sound like dying, like the last chisel strike against the chest of a marble statue that sends it cracking and shattering to the ground, tension strung through him like barbed wire. He can't even hear what Yuri's saying, too busy trying to calm down the stumbling, hitching race of his heart, that can't quite seem to remember that's supposed to keep beating.
Was he joking, only a second ago? How was that possible? He feels raw, like the ghost of Yuri's fingers are deftly lifting his skin and folding it back and away from bleeding muscle. Every nerve lit and frustrated and crying out.
For a touch that wasn't even a touch, that even if it had, would have been barely anything. An afterthought for anyone else. Not something he should realize he'd stopped even breathing for, for the moment it was possible.
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Date: 2017-04-15 05:06 pm (UTC)Yuri's looking at him. Like. He doesn't know. Can't find the words for anything anymore, because Yuri's not just looking at him, Yuri's looking at his own hand, that's floating near Victor's cheek so close he can almost feel it. The ghost of his fingers in the warmth they give off, and he has never, never, never in his life wanted anything more than he wants, in this second, for Yuri to reach out and touch him.
He doesn't, often. Victor might drag him into hugs, fix his position on the ice, sling an arm around his shoulder, even kiss his cheek when he's feeling especially exuberant, and Yuri lets him, but Yuri almost never reaches for him, first. No one does, aside from Maccachin. Not Chris. Not any of his other friends. Not his coaches, unless you count the cool clinical way they corrected his posture or worked out knots in his back and legs. Maybe no one in his whole life since his parents when he was very small. And how starving he is for it. Physical touch. Affection he can feel. He doesn't want to be distant anymore, clear blue water between him and the next best competitor, and no one daring to touch him even when they fawn all over him.
Doesn't want to be made of ice, the way Yakov hoped he would be, the inhuman Russian legend without a heart who lives for perfection and the gleam of gold.
He wants Yuri's fingers against his face. Against his throat. Over the too-thin, too-fragile skin just above his heart. He wants Yuri to lean down to kiss him, without being kissed first. He wants to be reached.
But Yuri's fingers drop without ever touching him, and he makes a sound like dying, like the last chisel strike against the chest of a marble statue that sends it cracking and shattering to the ground, tension strung through him like barbed wire. He can't even hear what Yuri's saying, too busy trying to calm down the stumbling, hitching race of his heart, that can't quite seem to remember that's supposed to keep beating.
Was he joking, only a second ago? How was that possible? He feels raw, like the ghost of Yuri's fingers are deftly lifting his skin and folding it back and away from bleeding muscle. Every nerve lit and frustrated and crying out.
For a touch that wasn't even a touch, that even if it had, would have been barely anything. An afterthought for anyone else. Not something he should realize he'd stopped even breathing for, for the moment it was possible.