The first thing he does is sift through his luggage, searching for and eventually pulling out a soft black v-neck t-shirt, of the sort he's been wearing regularly around Yu-topia and the Ice Palace, between practice and the warm weather and absolutely no need to be fashionable or sharply dressed or anything other than comfortable. Anything other than just him.
Just Victor. What Yuri said he wanted all those months ago. (And now ... ?)
Followed by a well-worn and equally soft pair of sweatpants, pale-gray and light enough to wear as pyjamas, which is probably for the best, tonight.
Clothes found and tossed onto the top of the bed, he takes down a hangar from the closet, unbuttons his way out of the suit's waistcoat, undoes his cufflinks, the tie slithering out of his collar. Trousers, once off, carefully aligned on the wire, followed by shirt and waistcoat and the jacket he'd tossed aside and immediately forgotten about, and he pauses for a moment as he hangs the suit up, looks at himself in the full length mirror on the inside of the door. Black shirt, gray sweatpants, bare feet. His hair gone rumpled from where he'd brushed it neatly back earlier, all those pressed lines (first crisp, later ruined –– by Yuri, by Yuri, Yuri's hands on his shoulders, Yuri's breath on his neck, Yuri's fingers knotting into his shirt and his suit) looking a little sadly dulled.
But he feels more comfortable. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, maybe there is no right thing, today, maybe there is only varying levels of screwing things up, but he hopes Yuri won't take it the wrong way, read too much into it. What else could he do, aside from ask for a separate hotel room so he could be out of Yuri's space completely?
So this will have to do, and since Yuri's still in the shower and the food hasn't yet arrived, he finishes hanging up his suit and tugs out of the dry cleaning bags the hotel staff had left for them there to lay it out on the other bed while he collects Yuri's costumes: Yuri on Ice, from Yuri's equipment bag, and Eros, from the closet.
Which he maybe spends a little time looking over, fingers tracing the cut-outs, the lines of mesh and spandex, the jeweled decoration.
It's been so long since he wore it. A lifetime ago. A century ago.
(When did he start feeling old?)
But the water shuts off, so he busies himself with slipping both costumes into the bag, and sits on the edge of the mattress to write instructions for their care to the hotel.
Love changes a lot of things, but it doesn't, apparently, change the need for laundry.
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Just Victor. What Yuri said he wanted all those months ago. (And now ... ?)
Followed by a well-worn and equally soft pair of sweatpants, pale-gray and light enough to wear as pyjamas, which is probably for the best, tonight.
Clothes found and tossed onto the top of the bed, he takes down a hangar from the closet, unbuttons his way out of the suit's waistcoat, undoes his cufflinks, the tie slithering out of his collar. Trousers, once off, carefully aligned on the wire, followed by shirt and waistcoat and the jacket he'd tossed aside and immediately forgotten about, and he pauses for a moment as he hangs the suit up, looks at himself in the full length mirror on the inside of the door. Black shirt, gray sweatpants, bare feet. His hair gone rumpled from where he'd brushed it neatly back earlier, all those pressed lines (first crisp, later ruined –– by Yuri, by Yuri, Yuri's hands on his shoulders, Yuri's breath on his neck, Yuri's fingers knotting into his shirt and his suit) looking a little sadly dulled.
But he feels more comfortable. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, maybe there is no right thing, today, maybe there is only varying levels of screwing things up, but he hopes Yuri won't take it the wrong way, read too much into it. What else could he do, aside from ask for a separate hotel room so he could be out of Yuri's space completely?
So this will have to do, and since Yuri's still in the shower and the food hasn't yet arrived, he finishes hanging up his suit and tugs out of the dry cleaning bags the hotel staff had left for them there to lay it out on the other bed while he collects Yuri's costumes: Yuri on Ice, from Yuri's equipment bag, and Eros, from the closet.
Which he maybe spends a little time looking over, fingers tracing the cut-outs, the lines of mesh and spandex, the jeweled decoration.
It's been so long since he wore it. A lifetime ago. A century ago.
(When did he start feeling old?)
But the water shuts off, so he busies himself with slipping both costumes into the bag, and sits on the edge of the mattress to write instructions for their care to the hotel.
Love changes a lot of things, but it doesn't, apparently, change the need for laundry.