Victor kisses his bare skin, setting off a million reactions in his body, teeth meeting inside his mouth and lifting one of his hands on pure impulse, kisses his lips, and then smiles as he tells him not to forget him, as though anyone in the whole world has ever forgotten Victor, ever could, and then he’s gone.
He’s just.
Gone.
And Yuri falls back on the bed and lays there, breathing breaths through his nose, at the ceiling, staring blank-eyed, chest rising and falling too fast and too many times to count, faster without being counted or watched, for the first few seconds. Everything still feeling like he stepped through fire, aching in the sudden absence, and yet somehow all of his arms, legs, fingers, toes, joints still attached, which doesn’t help the thought that barrels at him brutally breathless after that.
Victor Nikiforov — champion of the decade and longer, the poster boy for all modern ice skating, media icon, heart throb of the masses, who could have pointed at anyone and had them since, well, ever — wants him?
Victor, his Victor … his coach, and his confident, and his ... the person who has brought him more laughter, more safety, always met him wherever he was, always sent him to higher heights than he’s ever believed he could reach, always believed in him even when he couldn’t, even today, on the worst showing of what his worst could look like, even after the garage, and the crying, and the screaming, and not being able to hold his head together silver medal earned or not … wants him?
There’s something manic, something just as nauseous as it is giddy thrumming itself up through his throat and his hands end up on his mouth like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. Or throwing up. Or from whatever sound will burst out. But what he ends up with instead isn’t a sound.
It’s the ceiling above him.
It’s his blood pounding in his ears.
The feel of his own mouth underneath his own fingers.
He’d kissed Victor. He’d wanted to kiss Victor.
He … wanted Victor? He wanted Victor?
Not a vague fantasy. Not a trumped up and unreal image twisted in his thoughts for Eros based on words Victor used as a cattle prod for the proper showing of his creation. Not the bare shards of a confusing golden dream that repeated now and then after too long days of training or stress. Not Victor whispering drunken things he hadn’t meant.
(Or might have? Did he?)
Yuri wanted to grab a pillow and pull it down over his head, but he looked to the door rather than pillow. He couldn’t be found with a pillow crushed to his face when Victor got back. He couldn’t live through that. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then his palms, both so sore without any distraction from the feeling, looking at the room around him. Empty and so much bigger and so much smaller at once. So empty without Victor filling up the space and the sound. It made him restless to move. He could get off the bed? Go get his phone from his jacket pocket? But would look weird, too, that he’d moved from here? Would it? Wouldn’t it?
Was he sure he couldn’t just borrow the pillow for a second? Just one?
Instead he sat up and pulled his glasses down, feeling the creaking in his shoulders sockets, and he used his shirt to clear the lenses, amazed, somehow that his fingers aren’t shaking. Everything felt like it was, but nothing actually was. His skin still felt like it was vibrating everywhere, a low grade electric hum that had not beginning and no end and no handle, but his fingers weren’t shaking under his gaze. He took a breath and put his glasses back on. Looking at the empty space, and trying it out again.
He liked Victor. He loved Victor.
He’d kissed Victor.
That might even be the wrong word.
Was it the wrong word now? Were they passed kissing with that had just happened and flung well off the next rung into making out now? Were there even steps between those? Were there even steps after this, right here, before …
That didn’t make the fact Yuri was sitting in the middle of a bed, Victor’s bed, in the middle of a room dominated by beds, in a room that was basically just a traveling bedroom, in a building made to be full of traveling bedrooms, any less conflicted. He took a breath in, and reminded himself he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. It would look weird. If he moved. It would look weird. He couldn’t move. Breathe.
Yuri. Breathe. Victor’s voice repeated in this head.
Try again.
He liked Victor. He loved Victor.
He’d kissed, and, or, made out with Victor.
Right here. On this bed. Because.
He wanted Victor.
And Victor wanted him.
What did that even mean?
Aside from that he might be relieved ice was taking a minute. (At least as much as he was terribly desperate to hear the door click already.)
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Date: 2017-04-16 01:20 am (UTC)He’s just.
Gone.
And Yuri falls back on the bed and lays there, breathing breaths through his nose, at the ceiling, staring blank-eyed, chest rising and falling too fast and too many times to count, faster without being counted or watched, for the first few seconds. Everything still feeling like he stepped through fire, aching in the sudden absence, and yet somehow all of his arms, legs, fingers, toes, joints still attached, which doesn’t help the thought that barrels at him brutally breathless after that.
Victor Nikiforov — champion of the decade and longer, the poster boy for all modern ice skating, media icon, heart throb of the masses, who could have pointed at anyone and had them since, well, ever — wants him?
Victor, his Victor … his coach, and his confident, and his ... the person who has brought him more laughter, more safety, always met him wherever he was, always sent him to higher heights than he’s ever believed he could reach, always believed in him even when he couldn’t, even today, on the worst showing of what his worst could look like, even after the garage, and the crying, and the screaming, and not being able to hold his head together silver medal earned or not … wants him?
There’s something manic, something just as nauseous as it is giddy thrumming itself up through his throat and his hands end up on his mouth like he’s trying to stop himself from laughing. Or throwing up. Or from whatever sound will burst out. But what he ends up with instead isn’t a sound.
It’s the ceiling above him.
It’s his blood pounding in his ears.
The feel of his own mouth underneath his own fingers.
He’d kissed Victor.
He’d wanted to kiss Victor.
He … wanted Victor? He wanted Victor?
Not a vague fantasy. Not a trumped up and unreal image twisted in his thoughts for Eros based on words Victor used as a cattle prod for the proper showing of his creation. Not the bare shards of a confusing golden dream that repeated now and then after too long days of training or stress. Not Victor whispering drunken things he hadn’t meant.
(Or might have? Did he?)
Yuri wanted to grab a pillow and pull it down over his head, but he looked to the door rather than pillow. He couldn’t be found with a pillow crushed to his face when Victor got back. He couldn’t live through that. He pushed himself up on his elbows, then his palms, both so sore without any distraction from the feeling, looking at the room around him. Empty and so much bigger and so much smaller at once. So empty without Victor filling up the space and the sound. It made him restless to move. He could get off the bed? Go get his phone from his jacket pocket? But would look weird, too, that he’d moved from here? Would it? Wouldn’t it?
Was he sure he couldn’t just borrow the pillow for a second? Just one?
Instead he sat up and pulled his glasses down, feeling the creaking in his shoulders sockets, and he used his shirt to clear the lenses, amazed, somehow that his fingers aren’t shaking. Everything felt like it was, but nothing actually was. His skin still felt like it was vibrating everywhere, a low grade electric hum that had not beginning and no end and no handle, but his fingers weren’t shaking under his gaze. He took a breath and put his glasses back on. Looking at the empty space, and trying it out again.
He liked Victor.
He loved Victor.
He’d kissed Victor.
That might even be the wrong word.
Was it the wrong word now? Were they passed kissing with that had just happened and flung well off the next rung into making out now? Were there even steps between those? Were there even steps after this, right here, before …
That didn’t make the fact Yuri was sitting in the middle of a bed, Victor’s bed, in the middle of a room dominated by beds, in a room that was basically just a traveling bedroom, in a building made to be full of traveling bedrooms, any less conflicted. He took a breath in, and reminded himself he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. It would look weird. If he moved. It would look weird. He couldn’t move. Breathe.
Yuri. Breathe. Victor’s voice repeated in this head.
Try again.
He liked Victor.
He loved Victor.
He’d kissed, and, or, made out with Victor.
Right here. On this bed. Because.
He wanted Victor.
And Victor wanted him.
What did that even mean?
Aside from that he might be relieved ice was taking a minute.
(At least as much as he was terribly desperate to hear the door click already.)