First his body, then his hair, even though it keeps dripping down the nape of his neck, while he stands there wrapped in the towel. Stares in the mirror, and he looks ... like himself. He's not sure he feels at all like himself, but he looks it. He looks like he always looks after his shower. Flushed and like a wet rag.

He stares long enough to think he looks tired, maybe troubled. Maybe just so exhausted. Long enough to scrub at his eyes, and find his glasses from where they'd been left on the counter next to his sleep clothes. They are softer, even in his hands, than his practice clothes. Softer on him, too, even if that, also, makes them feel a little less ... substantial, too.

The worn pants and t-shirt that looked soft and shabby to him.
Like his skin isn't pressed to his muscles and bones as certainly.
Which is stupid given he's had nothing on for the whole shower.

Yuri ran his fingers through his hair, wet and limp now, but free of any residual hardness. Even if it was just laying there. He made a faint face at it and wiped the wetness from his hair off on his pants. Before turning back to the door, gathered clothes in his hands, with a breath pressing out his mouth he's not certain he was aware was even building in his chest.

It's still just me.
(Just Victor who he kissed.)


It's still just me.
(Just Victor who kissed him.)



Yuri took a breath back in, fingers a little slick on the doorknob, and opened the door, making himself repeat that faint whisper a time or two. Which, oddly, enough, when he finds Victor. Sitting at the end of the bed. In different clothes, too, now. Writing something. Looking ... like himself. Like it was any other night, here or home.