Yuri freezes at the first no, both hearing the tone that makes it mean what it isn't saying and caught thrown for a loop by that same word. A denial of his request, like he couldn't be forgiven his trespass of not thinking, not being able to do anything but hold on to Victor because of Victor.
Which catches with a strange sudden tense of muscles, only pulling his arm back even more, before he realizes that shock that makes his body reflexively jerk back slightly is just cold. Is just Victor's hand, lifted from the ice and lacing itself, his fingers, with the offending hand he'd had been clutched to Yuri's chest and saying three words that make so little sense his eyes just snap up.
Snap to Victor's face as he keeps speaking, and the next words make even less sense, leave him staring confused and harder. Feel free ... to rip his shirt? It would die a ... what. Yuri gets, humiliatingly enough, over and over, since Victor kissed him (keeps kissing him; he keeps kissing Victor, somehow) that the divide here is more epic than he has any words to even explain.
But he can feel it. In every bewildering throb of his skin. Every passing second staring at Victor right now.
A painful, sheering separateness. An endless, dwarfing ocean.
Not like. Not like.
When his eyes even dropping down to Victor's chest in that clutch of confusion, cold spreading up the back of his hand, from it's back, from between his fingers, across his palm, up across his wrist, it's still doesn't. Nothing does. Absolutely nothing. It feels like that spread of cold is seeping suddenly from his breastbone outward. It's dumbfounding, and his brows are knitting. When it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.
Not what Victor is saying.
Not that his hands were on any part of Victor's clothing altogether.
A second ago. Before he left the room, when he, he had to have been, his hands had. Victor's suit. Victor's clothes that were always a cut apart from everything. Everyone. Anyone in a room with him. Made for television, and full spread pages. Worn with the ease like it was nothing. Like he was king. Even now. Without his jacket, shirt undone, collar anything but straight, tie hanging loose. Part of his shirt obviously rumpled, out over the edge of his vest, where Yuri's hand had just been.
A camera would have loved it. The world would have. Anyone who wasn't Yuri might have done something, anything, more. The more that didn't miss each of these comments, because he didn't. He wasn't. But more. Anyone else would have done more, he was sure. More than suddenly feel it had been profane to have even touched it any of those times. Catching up with him like he'd slipped on ice, and was only now feeling himself slam down.
When he doesn't even know, he doesn't even know where he is, and what he's thinking, been thinking, by the time his eyes get back to Victor.
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Date: 2017-04-17 08:00 pm (UTC)Which catches with a strange sudden tense of muscles, only pulling his arm back even more, before he realizes that shock that makes his body reflexively jerk back slightly is just cold. Is just Victor's hand, lifted from the ice and lacing itself, his fingers, with the offending hand he'd had been clutched to Yuri's chest and saying three words that make so little sense his eyes just snap up.
Snap to Victor's face as he keeps speaking, and the next words make even less sense, leave him staring confused and harder. Feel free ... to rip his shirt? It would die a ... what. Yuri gets, humiliatingly enough, over and over, since Victor kissed him (keeps kissing him; he keeps kissing Victor, somehow) that the divide here is more epic than he has any words to even explain.
But he can feel it. In every bewildering throb of his skin.
Every passing second staring at Victor right now.
A painful, sheering separateness.
An endless, dwarfing ocean.
Not like. Not like.
When his eyes even dropping down to Victor's chest in that clutch of confusion, cold spreading up the back of his hand, from it's back, from between his fingers, across his palm, up across his wrist, it's still doesn't. Nothing does. Absolutely nothing. It feels like that spread of cold is seeping suddenly from his breastbone outward. It's dumbfounding, and his brows are knitting. When it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.
Not what Victor is saying.
Not that his hands were on any part of Victor's clothing altogether.
A second ago. Before he left the room, when he, he had to have been, his hands had. Victor's suit. Victor's clothes that were always a cut apart from everything. Everyone. Anyone in a room with him. Made for television, and full spread pages. Worn with the ease like it was nothing. Like he was king. Even now. Without his jacket, shirt undone, collar anything but straight, tie hanging loose. Part of his shirt obviously rumpled, out over the edge of his vest, where Yuri's hand had just been.
A camera would have loved it. The world would have. Anyone who wasn't Yuri might have done something, anything, more. The more that didn't miss each of these comments, because he didn't. He wasn't. But more. Anyone else would have done more, he was sure. More than suddenly feel it had been profane to have even touched it any of those times. Catching up with him like he'd slipped on ice, and was only now feeling himself slam down.
When he doesn't even know, he doesn't even know where he is,
and what he's thinking, been thinking, by the time his eyes get back to Victor.