You have nothing to be sorry for, Victor says. After kissing his fingers. Gentle but firm enough to feel it. Feel it left, even soft, like a brand on his fingers. Like forgiveness, and something he has no idea what to call. Because forgiveness and even love, even ai doesn't encompass it. There is no ascribing this a name he does know for a feeling he doesn't. Nothing fits right. Nothing holds just right.
Not after Victor said, You can touch me if you want.
Because he does. Oh, he does. Doesn't he? He wants to touch Victor.
Which sounds so, so, so stupid even in his head. He's been touching Victor for the last hour. He's had his mouth touch Victor. His arms. His hands. His forehead. His chest. Their legs and the bounce of his whole body landing here. And none of it. None of it holds. None of it compares. All of it falls short, doesn't register, meter, matter, to this want, this need surging up.
To touch Victor. As though he's never touched Victor in his life. Not once. Not really.
To the way he lifts his hand from Victor's and his lips press, too aware, so aware, when he raises it again. When, having to think about it, while his heart is catapulting faster, he doesn't even know where to start. What's right. Or wrong. Only that he can't stop. Doesn't have to. Not this time. Even if both moving and not moving are feeling like dying, when his fingertips brush lightly against Victor's forehead and press the long, smooth curtain of he bangs, ever so gently, toward his temple, while he's forgotten to breathe at all, forgotten anything but Victor's face, but the careening madness of his heart.
When a seconds shift, even if his fingers are faintly shivering -- and how had he ever thought he'd known his hands? That he'd mastered them for the ice? For Minako and Celestino, and even for Victor for Eros and Yuri on Ice? For chopsticks, or a keyboard, or typing, or the ability to paint kanji when it was needed?
The pad of his thumb is such an imperfect, rudimentary device, moves, disjointed, skipping, like a stone on water, against the rise of Victor's cheekbone that had been hidden there below his eye, even if moving there makes his hair swing back in at the edge of his face, and nothing, nothing he's ever seen, no picture, no painting, no screenshot, no interview he's seen of Victor in his whole life is as overwhelmignly beautiful as Victor this close.
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Date: 2017-04-15 05:53 pm (UTC)Not after Victor said, You can touch me if you want.
Because he does. Oh, he does. Doesn't he? He wants to touch Victor.
Which sounds so, so, so stupid even in his head. He's been touching Victor for the last hour. He's had his mouth touch Victor. His arms. His hands. His forehead. His chest. Their legs and the bounce of his whole body landing here. And none of it. None of it holds. None of it compares. All of it falls short, doesn't register, meter, matter, to this want, this need surging up.
To touch Victor. As though he's never touched Victor in his life. Not once. Not really.
To the way he lifts his hand from Victor's and his lips press, too aware, so aware, when he raises it again. When, having to think about it, while his heart is catapulting faster, he doesn't even know where to start. What's right. Or wrong. Only that he can't stop. Doesn't have to. Not this time. Even if both moving and not moving are feeling like dying, when his fingertips brush lightly against Victor's forehead and press the long, smooth curtain of he bangs, ever so gently, toward his temple, while he's forgotten to breathe at all, forgotten anything but Victor's face, but the careening madness of his heart.
When a seconds shift, even if his fingers are faintly shivering -- and how had he ever thought he'd known his hands? That he'd mastered them for the ice? For Minako and Celestino, and even for Victor for Eros and Yuri on Ice? For chopsticks, or a keyboard, or typing, or the ability to paint kanji when it was needed?
The pad of his thumb is such an imperfect, rudimentary device, moves, disjointed, skipping, like a stone on water, against the rise of Victor's cheekbone that had been hidden there below his eye, even if moving there makes his hair swing back in at the edge of his face, and nothing, nothing he's ever seen, no picture, no painting, no screenshot, no interview he's seen of Victor in his whole life is as overwhelmignly beautiful as Victor this close.