Yuri doesn't know what to do with any of the words after Victor agrees. After saying this time, tonight, here, now, things he hadn't earlier. Not that Yuri thinks there would have been a good way for that to go. That anything put into his hands at that point wouldn't have shattered on impact, too much needing an outlet. But. That was his problem. Not Victors.
Kind of like these. When he feels tired, every part of him, also, so tired, so much more tired than he realized, even if the laying down is helping with the pain. Marginally. Likely the painkillers, too. But maybe not those yet. It's still only been a few minutes. Mostly, he thinks. Uncertain. Not wanting to turn and look at the clock anymore than pick up and turn over the last thing Victor says.
At least the first two are vaguely, he's not even sure, something like ... distantly comforting.
Something like ... at least not requiring further personal mortification (and that maybe make his heart give a small squeeze).
He doesn't want to comment on the last one or pull it apart. (The sticky fingers, prying up edges, in his head don't care, but he can try to push them before he makes that a very terminal statement, the kind that could be said to anyone on a given night. But it does, anyway, too.) He's not certain he even wants to comment on what he, himself, just said, about thinking about Victor, here and now, as a dream. But he can try not to look away, even if it flickers his gaze, before returning it to Victor's face, and try to find something else, which he does without too much turning over of cups.
Instead, he offers something that's phrased almost as an apology, "We were supposed to be ordering dinner."
Before they got distracted, again. This time not as amusing as last time. Had he actually laughed at Victor then?
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Date: 2017-04-18 03:21 am (UTC)Kind of like these. When he feels tired, every part of him, also, so tired, so much more tired than he realized, even if the laying down is helping with the pain. Marginally. Likely the painkillers, too. But maybe not those yet. It's still only been a few minutes. Mostly, he thinks. Uncertain. Not wanting to turn and look at the clock anymore than pick up and turn over the last thing Victor says.
At least the first two are vaguely, he's not even sure, something like ... distantly comforting.
Something like ... at least not requiring further personal mortification
(and that maybe make his heart give a small squeeze).
He doesn't want to comment on the last one or pull it apart. (The sticky fingers, prying up edges, in his head don't care, but he can try to push them before he makes that a very terminal statement, the kind that could be said to anyone on a given night. But it does, anyway, too.) He's not certain he even wants to comment on what he, himself, just said, about thinking about Victor, here and now, as a dream. But he can try not to look away, even if it flickers his gaze, before returning it to Victor's face, and try to find something else, which he does without too much turning over of cups.
Instead, he offers something that's phrased almost as an apology, "We were supposed to be ordering dinner."
Before they got distracted, again. This time not as amusing as last time. Had he actually laughed at Victor then?