Only. Like he needs the reminding. That it is nothing. That he's incapable of something, dwarfed and overcome and not enough, for something that amounts to precisely nothing. To the world. To Victor who has dragged his hand across these few inches, that Yuri can't remember if were more when he first laid down here and scooted over. If it became closer, again, when he'd -- they'd -- when --
But Victor's voice intrudes on that thought, with a soft set of words, that Yuri can't tell if is worse or better. Victor apologizing, or something like it. Like Victor had stepped over some invisible line in how Yuri had to be 'handled.' Even now. Even with all of ... this. Which is wrong. Victor hasn't isn't the--But Yuri's heart gives a confused little mewl in his chest and his head has tipped into the warm touch against his jaw before he's even entirely registered that it's happening.
But Victor keeps talking, and these words, they aren't any less confusing, and something, somewhere, always waiting for just the right moment to strike, holding all the cards. The ones he doesn't hasn't wanted to look at, sets them out neatly, like cards, like cones on the ice, like columns, that might as well be bars, slamming down into place, cold and hard and solid, even when they have no weight.
Don't you know how long I've wanted you?
I have for a ... a long time
I thought it was impossible.
As though anything could be impossible for Victor. Anyone. Who could have had anyone. Who could have had anything, or anyone for anything, at anytime. Just snapped his fingers. As though he hadn't shown up and taken over Yuri's whole life, without any in-depth explanation, and Yuri had given it all to him. Eventually. As thoughts, neatly lined up, dashed down like running steps, none of those words of Victor's made sense, even in a line. Even as they form a single line of protracted conversation almost.
Except. Except. Except. Unless they weren't, and then they probably did. If this really was just a dream, maybe all of it made sense, sheerly because it didn't have to then. But, if it was, he thought, helpless not to, even now, eyes stuck on this image of his smaller hand, tucked so securely into Victor's long, delicate fingers, right there against Victor's chest, if it was, he still didn't quite want to end just yet. Not just yet.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zaluzianskya and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
skylark_photos
no subject
Date: 2017-04-18 12:17 am (UTC)But Victor's voice intrudes on that thought, with a soft set of words, that Yuri can't tell if is worse or better. Victor apologizing, or something like it. Like Victor had stepped over some invisible line in how Yuri had to be 'handled.' Even now. Even with all of ... this. Which is wrong. Victor hasn't isn't the--But Yuri's heart gives a confused little mewl in his chest and his head has tipped into the warm touch against his jaw before he's even entirely registered that it's happening.
But Victor keeps talking, and these words, they aren't any less confusing, and something, somewhere, always waiting for just the right moment to strike, holding all the cards. The ones he doesn't hasn't wanted to look at, sets them out neatly, like cards, like cones on the ice, like columns, that might as well be bars, slamming down into place, cold and hard and solid, even when they have no weight.
Don't you know how long I've wanted you?
As though anything could be impossible for Victor. Anyone. Who could have had anyone. Who could have had anything, or anyone for anything, at anytime. Just snapped his fingers. As though he hadn't shown up and taken over Yuri's whole life, without any in-depth explanation, and Yuri had given it all to him. Eventually. As thoughts, neatly lined up, dashed down like running steps, none of those words of Victor's made sense, even in a line. Even as they form a single line of protracted conversation almost.
Except. Except. Except. Unless they weren't, and then they probably did. If this really was just a dream, maybe all of it made sense, sheerly because it didn't have to then. But, if it was, he thought, helpless not to, even now, eyes stuck on this image of his smaller hand, tucked so securely into Victor's long, delicate fingers, right there against Victor's chest, if it was, he still didn't quite want to end just yet. Not just yet.