Victor's hands, wide against his waist, move to his back and pull him closer. Firmer against his lap and his hips, and his stomach and his chest, while Yuri's own body gives a shot of far too hot combusting fire in his center at the same time as the movement brings a groan of protest and blaring pain that makes his features flicker unkindly. But he doesn't want to pay attention. He can't. He won't. He can be stronger than his pain. He can.
Because the idea of pausing, the idea of breathing or stopping or moving away, it's not like slamming the ice.
It feels, even in the half-second of thought about it, like losing the ability to skate again. Losing all he knows of truth.
Because Victor is so warm and so solid against him. Because Victor's face has turned that almost pained shade again, and Yuri's somehow certain, this time, at this point, finally, even if it's just for this second and he'll lose it again in the next, that apologizing isn't the right thing for it. This pained hazarding thing, where Victor's eyes look half unfocused and slightly wild but never leave his face, and Victor's tongue wets his lips, bumping into Yuri's finger and making the whole world canter to the side, and Yuri is leaning down, toward his mouth, toward the place his tongue touched, before he's thought about it.
Because, because, because. There's nothing but Victor. And his earlier thought was a sham, about the plain of his cheekbone being the cliff he wanted to throw himself into the air over because all Yuri knows in every part of his body, even the parts made of grinding bone-deep agony, is that he has to be kissing Victor and he has to be kissing Victor now. Even if it's still untried and not good enough, and he bumps his own chin into his own thumb in his haste, not even remembering to get his own hand back to the side of Victor's face before he's kissing him.
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Date: 2017-04-15 07:53 pm (UTC)Because the idea of pausing, the idea of breathing or stopping or moving away, it's not like slamming the ice.
It feels, even in the half-second of thought about it, like losing the ability to skate again. Losing all he knows of truth.
Because Victor is so warm and so solid against him. Because Victor's face has turned that almost pained shade again, and Yuri's somehow certain, this time, at this point, finally, even if it's just for this second and he'll lose it again in the next, that apologizing isn't the right thing for it. This pained hazarding thing, where Victor's eyes look half unfocused and slightly wild but never leave his face, and Victor's tongue wets his lips, bumping into Yuri's finger and making the whole world canter to the side, and Yuri is leaning down, toward his mouth, toward the place his tongue touched, before he's thought about it.
Because, because, because. There's nothing but Victor. And his earlier thought was a sham, about the plain of his cheekbone being the cliff he wanted to throw himself into the air over because all Yuri knows in every part of his body, even the parts made of grinding bone-deep agony, is that he has to be kissing Victor and he has to be kissing Victor now. Even if it's still untried and not good enough, and he bumps his own chin into his own thumb in his haste, not even remembering to get his own hand back to the side of Victor's face before he's kissing him.