Victor rolls away and goes to the phone and Yuri's freed hand finds the ice pack, to make sure it's still settled, still balanced, even though Victor had never let it fall and he'd never moved enough to make it fall. Still it's solid under his fingers, like the bed is under him, when his eyes follow Victor.
Victor with his fingers in his hair. Victor talking politely on the phone. Victor beautiful in his waistcoat that hugs the top of his shoulders, and the sides of his chest, effortlessly, like it was made to breathe with him. Victor who has never not been gorgeous.
It's not that he ever forgot. Not that he hadn't .. been effected Victor. He's not sure anyone could ever said that with a straight face.
It's just. It's just that he'd tried to shove this out, too, hadn't he? After that day. After they agreed to take each other as they were, to work together, as themselves. That morning on the beach. And he'd done all he could. To try and not see Victor as everything Victor represented and to see Victor as he was.
Not just the untouchable world champion. Not just the heartthrob of that world renown wink and perfect face and body or graceful god of every competition of his million hidden posters. Not just ... not just any of those things. Victor, instead, or at least Victor, too. Just Victor. Just Victor who got over enthusiastic with delight about the most trivial things. Just Victor who could as easily devolve to pouting worse than the triplets. Just Victor who loved Maccachin and the ocean and their programs ... and even Yuri.
It worked a lot of the time. Even most of the time.
Only started and startled and broke from time to time when Victor had gotten too close, too fast, said something too audacious. But most of that had stopped after the beach, too, with the rest of the masks he asked about. Only sometimes happened when his body reacted the wrong way during training, during Eros, during seduce me with all you have, or his exhaustion gave way to strange dreams that muddled his skin and his heart.
He was only human, and he was mentally weaker than most. He'd done his best to shove it into his pillow, into the back of his mind.
Maybe it had never worked.
It didn't explain Victor. But it might have explained him.
Yuri's thoughts have to pause when Victor is hanging up and coming back to him, when he's taking in Victor's more worn expression while Victor crawls back on to the bed. To his side. But lays on his back, hands safely on his own body, and only turns to look at him. Victor who looks. What is this? Crestfallen? Almost sad? Disappointed? Again? Because of him? Whose first suggestion is that he should get up and go?
Which makes his heart stumble about surprised. Confused. Find itself aching for a touch that doesn't come, and when and where did that even come from. He'd always been ... uncomfortable with being touched too often. By anyone. Everyone. Had to adjust to even Victor's rare, but severely overabundant, displays of sudden affection. Had found himself loosening into it, tiny steps at a time, making it okay to touch Victor back.
A hand on his arm. A hug. Shoving at him in the middle of a pile.
Nothing like this. Never like this. Not this long all at once. Not with anyone. Maybe not since he was child curled in his mother's arms.
It's not even that it's not a sound suggestion. It is. He would have by now on any other day. He'd have showered. They'd have planned where to go for food. They'd be critiquing everything that had happened on the ice. It's a new pattern, only the fourth time that even fits, but it had a pattern. One decidedly broken on only it's fourth round.
Even if his heart and his stomach were confused, were complaining, were telling him no no no no, over and over, about the idea of getting up, the idea of leaving, of moving even further than this sudden, untouching divide, Victor wasn't wrong. His muscles were sore. His skin probably still sticky with dried sweat. His hair a mess from that and the gel.
It made even less sense, suddenly, that Victor had been touching him. At all, still, but especially if he was still an absolute mess amid it. There's a breath out his nose, before, pushing up toward sitting, "I probably should."
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Victor with his fingers in his hair. Victor talking politely on the phone. Victor beautiful in his waistcoat that hugs the top of his shoulders, and the sides of his chest, effortlessly, like it was made to breathe with him. Victor who has never not been gorgeous.
It's not that he ever forgot. Not that he hadn't .. been effected Victor.
He's not sure anyone could ever said that with a straight face.
It's just. It's just that he'd tried to shove this out, too, hadn't he? After that day. After they agreed to take each other as they were, to work together, as themselves. That morning on the beach. And he'd done all he could. To try and not see Victor as everything Victor represented and to see Victor as he was.
Not just the untouchable world champion. Not just the heartthrob of that world renown wink and perfect face and body or graceful god of every competition of his million hidden posters. Not just ... not just any of those things. Victor, instead, or at least Victor, too. Just Victor. Just Victor who got over enthusiastic with delight about the most trivial things. Just Victor who could as easily devolve to pouting worse than the triplets. Just Victor who loved Maccachin and the ocean and their programs ... and even Yuri.
It worked a lot of the time. Even most of the time.
Only started and startled and broke from time to time when Victor had gotten too close, too fast, said something too audacious. But most of that had stopped after the beach, too, with the rest of the masks he asked about. Only sometimes happened when his body reacted the wrong way during training, during Eros, during seduce me with all you have, or his exhaustion gave way to strange dreams that muddled his skin and his heart.
He was only human, and he was mentally weaker than most.
He'd done his best to shove it into his pillow, into the back of his mind.
Maybe it had never worked.
It didn't explain Victor. But it might have explained him.
Yuri's thoughts have to pause when Victor is hanging up and coming back to him, when he's taking in Victor's more worn expression while Victor crawls back on to the bed. To his side. But lays on his back, hands safely on his own body, and only turns to look at him. Victor who looks. What is this? Crestfallen? Almost sad? Disappointed? Again? Because of him? Whose first suggestion is that he should get up and go?
Which makes his heart stumble about surprised. Confused. Find itself aching for a touch that doesn't come, and when and where did that even come from. He'd always been ... uncomfortable with being touched too often. By anyone. Everyone. Had to adjust to even Victor's rare, but severely overabundant, displays of sudden affection. Had found himself loosening into it, tiny steps at a time, making it okay to touch Victor back.
A hand on his arm. A hug. Shoving at him in the middle of a pile.
Nothing like this. Never like this. Not this long all at once. Not with anyone.
Maybe not since he was child curled in his mother's arms.
It's not even that it's not a sound suggestion. It is. He would have by now on any other day. He'd have showered. They'd have planned where to go for food. They'd be critiquing everything that had happened on the ice. It's a new pattern, only the fourth time that even fits, but it had a pattern. One decidedly broken on only it's fourth round.
Even if his heart and his stomach were confused, were complaining, were telling him no no no no, over and over, about the idea of getting up, the idea of leaving, of moving even further than this sudden, untouching divide, Victor wasn't wrong. His muscles were sore. His skin probably still sticky with dried sweat. His hair a mess from that and the gel.
It made even less sense, suddenly, that Victor had been touching him. At all, still, but especially if he was still an absolute mess amid it. There's a breath out his nose, before, pushing up toward sitting, "I probably should."