Shaking his head, and lifting his hand from the towel-covered ice to slip his fingers around those that Yuri is trying to clutch, like he might be able to forcibly stop himself from grabbing Victor, like he has to forcibly stop himself from grabbing Victor. As if Victor could ever want him to stop.
His fingers are probably cold, but Yuri's are warm, and even if he doesn't put them back on his chest, his shoulder, his clothes, his self, he laces his through them loosely and pries them gently from Yuri's chest to tuck the back of that hand against his own. "Please feel free."
It's only a shirt. Only a suit. (If a nice one. Bespoke. The sort of expensive you can feel in the near invisible stitches of the seams, the particular heft and weight and gloss that is the hallmark of rich fabric.)
There are other suits in the world, and he has no illusions about how easy it would be to replace, between sponsors and his own means. "At least it would die happy."
Ecstatic, really. Thrilled. After all, a shirt's only purpose in life is to be put on and taken off and to look good while doing so, and if it has somehow made him more attractive to Yuri (and how is that a thought he gets to have, suddenly, today, after considering it a lost cause?) then he will have considered its duty done.
Besides.
Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you to want to rip my shirt off floats around his head in a haze of smoke, but he shakes it away, opts instead for: "I care more about you than about any shirt."
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Date: 2017-04-17 06:56 pm (UTC)Shaking his head, and lifting his hand from the towel-covered ice to slip his fingers around those that Yuri is trying to clutch, like he might be able to forcibly stop himself from grabbing Victor, like he has to forcibly stop himself from grabbing Victor. As if Victor could ever want him to stop.
His fingers are probably cold, but Yuri's are warm, and even if he doesn't put them back on his chest, his shoulder, his clothes, his self, he laces his through them loosely and pries them gently from Yuri's chest to tuck the back of that hand against his own. "Please feel free."
It's only a shirt. Only a suit. (If a nice one. Bespoke. The sort of expensive you can feel in the near invisible stitches of the seams, the particular heft and weight and gloss that is the hallmark of rich fabric.)
There are other suits in the world, and he has no illusions about how easy it would be to replace, between sponsors and his own means. "At least it would die happy."
Ecstatic, really. Thrilled. After all, a shirt's only purpose in life is to be put on and taken off and to look good while doing so, and if it has somehow made him more attractive to Yuri (and how is that a thought he gets to have, suddenly, today, after considering it a lost cause?) then he will have considered its duty done.
Besides.
Do you have any idea how long I've wanted you to want to rip my shirt off floats around his head in a haze of smoke, but he shakes it away, opts instead for: "I care more about you than about any shirt."