He is actually and very actively, at most times of every day, insanely aware of this.
Most especially during the times when he is feeling like his brain has gone as far into crazy as it can go without actually snapping and it's dragged him the whole way there, with it, even kicking and screaming and fighting as hard as he possibly can. Like when he tried to explain that earlier today before he skated, and all it came out as was shouting I know raw and insensible at the top of his lungs, like a desperate declaration of the fact he wasn't, in fact, crazy ... while sounding, entirely ... crazy.
It's the same right now. Right now, when his breath feels microscopic and his lungs paper thin, when he's taking the pills and swallowing them and then the rest of the water, before holding out the empty cup for Victor. He's already adding those 'sane things' up on his fingertips even without moving them, without looking at them.
Victor's hair, when he's sat down on the end of the bed, was still far more mussed than it ever is even artfully. Victor's shirt, when he takes off his jacket and tosses it away, is still unbuttoned at the top, and his collar is still a little rumpled, and his tie is still hanging loose under that rumpled collar but with the knot down an inch or so, leaving the hollow of his neck framed, right around the skin that's fluttering with his pulse.
When some part of Yuri does toss out the question about the jacket, with mannequin hands stroking the strings on his ribs and his stomach, when it goes sailing away, whether he was supposed to care about the jacket, wants to panic about the jacket, and he's too busy being minutely relieved by the most minor of things, to want to panic about that one yet. Or, maybe, at all.
(Or is it, yet?)
(It's not like he went for his shirt right after?)
(And if he did? It's not like Yuri hasn't seen -- )
But the next breath his face becomes a grimace and his shoulders tighten, even as half of his body tries to curl in, while the rest knows if he doesn't move, stays still, it'll be fine in a few more seconds, at the pressure suddenly applied to his hip without an overwhelming distraction over it. Which it is. It ebbs. Back. Adjusting to the new weight of the towel wrapped ice, and even Victor's hand holding it steady there. Making sure it won't fall.
Victor, who has curled up close. Closer than he ever would have before. It's not like he's never been on a bed with Victor. Discounting the example of two nights ago, and it's other extenuating circumstances. Other times. At home. When he'd ended up laying on one side of Victor's bed or his floor, exhausted from the day. From drills, from laps, from ballet, and jumps, and worn completely through by a soak in the water. When it was just talking to Victor. About the day. His life. His home, history, culture, himself.
It still wasn't ... like this.
It was just as carefully respectful as Phichit would have been years ago.
It wasn't Victor's dragging his pillow over this close, or Victor's forehead so very close it was almost touching his. His eyes all lit up the way they are when he's devised some new insane plan or found some new excitable thing. Even though he's ... just looking at Yuri. Just apologizing for taking so long to get the ice bag. (Long enough ... he could have fallen asleep and had a wild dream? A dream that clarified he wanted the same things, the same person, everyone else on the planet wanted? He pushes at it, trying not to frown in the process.)
Which is right when Victor's fingers press his bangs away, and his eyes almost close. When he should say something and Victor had asked him questions, hadn't he? About eating? And really the answer is kind of surprising when thinking about his stomach, not as a sudden volcano.
He even has a slightly baffled note to his voice, "I am kind of hungry."
Caustically, not quite sure he's joking, or can yet. "I feel like I haven't eaten anything in days."
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Date: 2017-04-16 04:28 am (UTC)He is actually and very actively, at most times of every day, insanely aware of this.
Most especially during the times when he is feeling like his brain has gone as far into crazy as it can go without actually snapping and it's dragged him the whole way there, with it, even kicking and screaming and fighting as hard as he possibly can. Like when he tried to explain that earlier today before he skated, and all it came out as was shouting I know raw and insensible at the top of his lungs, like a desperate declaration of the fact he wasn't, in fact, crazy ... while sounding, entirely ... crazy.
It's the same right now. Right now, when his breath feels microscopic and his lungs paper thin, when he's taking the pills and swallowing them and then the rest of the water, before holding out the empty cup for Victor. He's already adding those 'sane things' up on his fingertips even without moving them, without looking at them.
Victor's hair, when he's sat down on the end of the bed, was still far more mussed than it ever is even artfully. Victor's shirt, when he takes off his jacket and tosses it away, is still unbuttoned at the top, and his collar is still a little rumpled, and his tie is still hanging loose under that rumpled collar but with the knot down an inch or so, leaving the hollow of his neck framed, right around the skin that's fluttering with his pulse.
When some part of Yuri does toss out the question about the jacket, with mannequin hands stroking the strings on his ribs and his stomach, when it goes sailing away, whether he was supposed to care about the jacket, wants to panic about the jacket, and he's too busy being minutely relieved by the most minor of things, to want to panic about that one yet. Or, maybe, at all.
(Or is it, yet?)
(It's not like he went for his shirt right after?)
(And if he did? It's not like Yuri hasn't seen -- )
But the next breath his face becomes a grimace and his shoulders tighten, even as half of his body tries to curl in, while the rest knows if he doesn't move, stays still, it'll be fine in a few more seconds, at the pressure suddenly applied to his hip without an overwhelming distraction over it. Which it is. It ebbs. Back. Adjusting to the new weight of the towel wrapped ice, and even Victor's hand holding it steady there. Making sure it won't fall.
Victor, who has curled up close. Closer than he ever would have before. It's not like he's never been on a bed with Victor. Discounting the example of two nights ago, and it's other extenuating circumstances. Other times. At home. When he'd ended up laying on one side of Victor's bed or his floor, exhausted from the day. From drills, from laps, from ballet, and jumps, and worn completely through by a soak in the water. When it was just talking to Victor. About the day. His life. His home, history, culture, himself.
It still wasn't ... like this.
It was just as carefully respectful as Phichit would have been years ago.
It wasn't Victor's dragging his pillow over this close, or Victor's forehead so very close it was almost touching his. His eyes all lit up the way they are when he's devised some new insane plan or found some new excitable thing. Even though he's ... just looking at Yuri. Just apologizing for taking so long to get the ice bag. (Long enough ... he could have fallen asleep and had a wild dream? A dream that clarified he wanted the same things, the same person, everyone else on the planet wanted? He pushes at it, trying not to frown in the process.)
Which is right when Victor's fingers press his bangs away, and his eyes almost close.
When he should say something and Victor had asked him questions, hadn't he? About eating?
And really the answer is kind of surprising when thinking about his stomach, not as a sudden volcano.
He even has a slightly baffled note to his voice, "I am kind of hungry."
Caustically, not quite sure he's joking, or can yet. "I feel like I haven't eaten anything in days."