He stares at the front of the room, listening to his heart pound in his ears, across his body, in every joint and every inch of his skin. Had he ever realized he had so much of it? Ever cared to even notice? Why is it now, even more, when Victor wasn't here, wasn't touching him? Why doesn't he know whether the sudden, violent startle of his heart is painful or pleasant when the door finally clicks, then shoves open, and it's simultaneously like he can and cannot breathe at the same time.
Like he's blinking up and looking for something to be different?
Something that ... isn't Victor standing there, brandishing an ice bucket, looking just a little untidy but still like he could be holding a miscellaneous trophy and asking for the applause of seconds for getting it, like any other day, any normal day, before beginning to rummage in his bag like it is any other day, and for a second, a very drastic, very sudden, very flooded moment, of blinking, Yuri wonders if he did imagine it all. If he blinked and imagined it all after laying down on the bed after getting back from his award ceremony and that's all it was.
A fever dream from two days of no sleep and so much stress.
The stress of the Grand Prix breaking him all over again. Already.
The request is sensible about enough, normal enough, and Yuri toes off tennis shoes first with some effort, letting them fall off the end of the bed, and lays down, finally stealing one of the pillows, finally clenching the fingers under said pillow slightly like it might somehow become more than featherweight and help him stay on the ground. Have even the smallest clue. How. What. Why. Whether. Is this. Did it, or not. Watching Victor across the room, and settling his head on it, unsteadily.
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Date: 2017-04-16 02:48 am (UTC)Like he's blinking up and looking for something to be different?
Something that ... isn't Victor standing there, brandishing an ice bucket, looking just a little untidy but still like he could be holding a miscellaneous trophy and asking for the applause of seconds for getting it, like any other day, any normal day, before beginning to rummage in his bag like it is any other day, and for a second, a very drastic, very sudden, very flooded moment, of blinking, Yuri wonders if he did imagine it all. If he blinked and imagined it all after laying down on the bed after getting back from his award ceremony and that's all it was.
A fever dream from two days of no sleep and so much stress.
The stress of the Grand Prix breaking him all over again. Already.
The request is sensible about enough, normal enough, and Yuri toes off tennis shoes first with some effort, letting them fall off the end of the bed, and lays down, finally stealing one of the pillows, finally clenching the fingers under said pillow slightly like it might somehow become more than featherweight and help him stay on the ground. Have even the smallest clue. How. What. Why. Whether. Is this. Did it, or not. Watching Victor across the room, and settling his head on it, unsteadily.