It's a quiet long pause, while Yuri feels that want slip and slip and slide and slide through him. Making him feel translucent. Making him feel weak, and confused, and certain all at once. About sanity, but, also, about this thing. This thing rattling around inside of him. One moment fire, and one moment fear, and one moment laughter, and one moment despair.
Like something wild trying to get out of his skin, and when quiet, when irrefutable to removal, like it has already sunk claws in and those throbbing places, they were like scars, too. This constant knowledge. Like everyone else, and not like everyone else. All at once. Thrown and semi-shattered, and still -- still? -- he didn't want to let go of this? Even if it wasn't?
The question when it comes is quiet and leading. Requesting him.
How many million times has Victor asked. Not usually like this. (Nothing is like this.) But at the end of long days, or random points when Yuri gets stumped. Not often. But present.
It makes his heart seize. He knows the answers, but does saying it shatter everything. The way letting a translucent, floating bubble land on your finger from the breeze pops it. What are you thinking? That he wants to place his hand against Victor's heart, to feel it, just one last time. What are you thinking? That he wants to kiss Victor and find himself dissolved and remade there, one last time. Before.
Yuri pressed his lips, a torn war between shreds of an ache that had no edges and the longing urge that was every part of his heart saying speak, speak, because Victor asked it of him, and Victor listened, and Victor was the one he spoke to. That reminding him of burying his head in Victor's shoulder. That reminded him of It's still just me, but in a different way.
The only way that it's really ever matters in the end. The way it had on the beach that day. He doesn't look up. He can't. But he unpresses his lips. They shift against each other for a breath.
He doesn't think he could make this admission to anyone who wasn't Victor, both because he does and doesn't understand.
"I'm trying to figure out if this is real. Or --" And he can't help the way his fingers tighten on Victors under his gaze. Not ready. Not ready in the slightest. Maybe he'll never be ready to let go of Victor, no matter what he's convinced himself about the year and December even. "--it's just another dream you're part of."
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Date: 2017-04-18 01:40 am (UTC)Like something wild trying to get out of his skin, and when quiet, when irrefutable to removal, like it has already sunk claws in and those throbbing places, they were like scars, too. This constant knowledge. Like everyone else, and not like everyone else. All at once. Thrown and semi-shattered, and still -- still? -- he didn't want to let go of this? Even if it wasn't?
The question when it comes is quiet and leading. Requesting him.
How many million times has Victor asked. Not usually like this. (Nothing is like this.)
But at the end of long days, or random points when Yuri gets stumped. Not often. But present.
It makes his heart seize. He knows the answers, but does saying it shatter everything. The way letting a translucent, floating bubble land on your finger from the breeze pops it. What are you thinking? That he wants to place his hand against Victor's heart, to feel it, just one last time. What are you thinking? That he wants to kiss Victor and find himself dissolved and remade there, one last time. Before.
Yuri pressed his lips, a torn war between shreds of an ache that had no edges and the longing urge that was every part of his heart saying speak, speak, because Victor asked it of him, and Victor listened, and Victor was the one he spoke to. That reminding him of burying his head in Victor's shoulder. That reminded him of It's still just me, but in a different way.
The only way that it's really ever matters in the end. The way it had on the beach that day.
He doesn't look up. He can't. But he unpresses his lips. They shift against each other for a breath.
He doesn't think he could make this admission to anyone who wasn't Victor, both because he does and doesn't understand.
"I'm trying to figure out if this is real. Or --" And he can't help the way his fingers tighten on Victors under his gaze. Not ready. Not ready in the slightest. Maybe he'll never be ready to let go of Victor, no matter what he's convinced himself about the year and December even. "--it's just another dream you're part of."