theglassheart | { The China Cup GPF Qualifier, FS } November 7-8, 2014

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{ The China Cup GPF Qualifier, FS } November 7-8, 2014 - Shanghai, China

If Yuri thought the night before this one never ended, he was wrong. It's this newest night that feels like it never ends. Oppressive, pressing, darkness, digging into his eyes, his mouth, his nose, his ears, while Victor breathed heavy and easy in the adjoining bed. Yuri had tried to sleep. Turning this way, turning that way, staring at the backs of his eyelids toward the ceiling, pressing his face into his pillow. He tried and tried and tried (and most of all found himself trying not to let his breathing race so fast it might wake Victor).

The evening had been bearable, if not entirely enjoyable or unenjoyable. Less stressful than the one before it, if only marginally, while Phichit and Victor drug him from place to place. Too late for museums or anything with middaytime, there had been rather quick tours through the Yu Garden, the Oriental Pearl Tower, and the Jade Buddha Temple, and in the cases of closed doors, pictures with their iconic buildings. As well as everything else that looked interesting between them.

It took forever, and then it was just over.

He'd enjoyed some of it, but none of it stuck for long.
Not even the late calls from his family and Yuu-san had.

Not with the Free Skate looming. Not with every single person he was skating with gunning for where he was standing, and every person watching wondering if he could somehow pull out o f himself the miraculous performance that had seemed to come from almost nowhere. Like it hadn't even belonged to him. How many times had he performed Eros and it'd never been that?

How badly would it be when (if - when) tomorrow couldn't match it?
What would they say about him, then? What would they say about Victor, then?

Yuri would fall asleep only to startle awake what could only have been seconds later, nerves sharpening with each new jolt, until it felt like ice was splintering more and stabbing up harder through every part of his veins, until each second asleep seemed to only contain the certainty he would fall, he would fail, he would forget. He could never reach whatever he'd touched for that brief two minutes and eighteen seconds.

It'd been a fluke. He'd only dreamed it. He couldn't explain it. He couldn't sleep.
Every minute in that dark reaching, but, also, clutching his pillow.
Eyelids clenched tight, or eyes open, staring at the other bed.

Over and over, he counted his breaths down.
Over and over, he repeated that he had and he could.
Over and over, he told himself this was all in his head.

Over and over, he slipped right back as soon as it finished.

That morning comes at all only changes the color of the sky.

Breakfast is a blur, piling food into himself, like maybe it would give him any solidness. Weigh him to the seat, to the ground, to reality. It should be impossible, but his head feels even heavier than his body. Hot water had shaken some tension from his skin, but none at all from his mind. It hadn't mattered whether he was in the bed, in the shower, in a booth, at a table.

His foot tapped under the table, all the way up to his knee and thigh, and in the moments he could make himself stop, his fingers drum against the side of his thigh or the seat instead. Desperate to try and keep it from Victor's sight, when Victor won't stop looking at him, smiling like that, talking about how Eros was perfect, and what he should do as soon as they arrived at practice.

How would he look when he realized Yuri couldn't reproduce what he done. Couldn't even look at the things that compounded to get him there. Words Victor'd said, but entirely in a different way than he'd said them. That Yuri'd blown them out of proportion and reality out there, during Eros. What would he do if Yuri couldn't place at all?

What would he do when everyone no longer was cheering his name as the reason Yuri had done so well? When there would only be that gut-wrenching pity on every face and Victor's name was smeared with his failures the same as his already was? Why was he even going to put himself through that? Why was Yuri?

Practice is a comedy of uncertainty.
He doesn't even want to return to the wall and Victor during it.

His feet hardly feel like they belong to his body, and thinking about love doesn't produce his love, his family, Hasetsu, or Victor, it brings up more and more knots in his guts. It tears up the ice under him with images of last year, of every fall, of every day spent in his bed, avoid being awake, avoiding the rink, Celestino, Phichit. The flip of what that could -- will -- look like again.

Except at home. Except with his parents, and Minako, and Yuu-san, and his family.

Their sad faces, their disappointment, as Victor's back went vanishing away in the background of his loss.

Even the ease of his long earned and long loved turns seems to be slipping from him when his focus won't pull itself together. At full speed it makes it a fumble of something he hasn't fumbled in half his life, even if he doesn't fall. It's better the next time, and gone the third, but it still there. He can do this. He can. He's done it how many hundreds and thousands of times.

It makes him sloppy. It makes him reckless. It makes him stubborn. It makes him hesitate.

It ends all too soon. The alarm sounding for them to come in, and he trails in.

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His heart rate escalates when Victor's hand curls around his. Even without the rush that's been getting everywhere, sticky and snapping with lightning, each time before now. For a moment he swears it's just furiously trying to escape him. That if he looked down at his hand -- at Victor's hand over his hand -- he'd catch the vibration of his so suddenly very real, very hard, heartbeat making the cloth of his shirt move even.

"We have different words for it." Words that were, also, other words, but had nuances and were this, too. "They're--"
Except he doesn't want to say that anymore, even when his mouth is saying it. Because he's not sure it matters.

Not when Victor's fingers are wrapped around his hand, and Victor is tapping his chest light, but like a small brand, like Yuri's shirt and Yuri's hand are maybe not even there. Skipping steps, and translations, and explanations. Making his heart race with something that is fear and more, so much more, so many other bigger things. Pulling his words out of his hands, just by Victor putting his hand on him.

When his fingers curved under to try and wrap around Victor's fingertips, and the urge to pull him in, pull him closer makes no sense. There is no closer than the centimeters to his chest. There is no closer than how close they are already sitting. Victor's already so close, and too close, and not close enough all at once, when Yuri nods, caught in the urge that says closer still.

Because he had meant this. At the beginning, and then, again, at the end.

Because he still meant every part of it he hadn't gotten to say, because it was wrong inspecific.

Yuri's fingers wrap around his hand and he nods, without finishing his sentence, and Victor still thinks they might be having two different conversations, but he's not sure they aren't heading towards the same conclusion.

Either way, his smile turns gentle, palm warm and steady over the back of Yuri's hand, the both of them protective over Yuri's heart. "Different, but not different?"

That's not how it worked for him. There was nothing, and then there was everything, and his whole world turned on an instant and on a single touch, a single glance, a single hour. One of thousands. Millions. And even though things have changed since then, since this spring, he's not sure it would count as feeling the same, but different, regardless of how he references himself.

But maybe not. There's a slight wistful tinge to the corners of his smile, even as his fingers tuck themselves under Yuri's, and his thumb runs along the back of Yuri's wrist. "I don't know if I completely understand."

He doesn't. But. "But I know this."

Tapping on Yuri's chest again, because he can't lean down to place a kiss there, over the I that Yuri meant, that doesn't fit into English and probably wouldn't into Russian, either. To him, the self is all once complicated organism, inner and outer, superficial and complex, mundane and sublime. He's always found his feelings as friends, or sometimes as hurtful enemies, but always recognizable, always familiar.

(Even if he hasn't always wanted to accept it right away.)

But he knows the sensation. The feeling of a separate self, a wayward idealist living in his chest and masquerading as his heart. And he knows the words are difficult to find, even in the tongue he grew up with.

"No," It's soft, but certain, at the newest tap to his sternum. Something like a whisper, but it isn't a whisper. Soft. Quiet-soft, but certain, too. Maybe that part is the part that's most uncertain. The certainty of the certainty. The fact the fear isn't in that single word, or the way his head shakes just as sure as it had nodded a second.

His fingers tighten, the same way it feels like his ribs do, because he could just agree. He could roll along. He could say nothing and follow Victor. Follow the soft expression on his face, and the soft brush of one of Victor's fingers having found his wrist. Brushing back and forth, so soft and distracting, over his pulse.

"This part doesn't feel different." Not just the words, and not him unchanged, but not new.

How he felt about Victor. That it wasn't some magical shift and switch. Every touch was new. Every reaction. But. Under it. He still wanted to make Victor proud, to show Victor he'd been worth all his sacrifices. He could feel the way he still found Victor exasperating, surprising, impatient, annoying, beyond the highest bar of inspiring, incomparable, beautiful and smart as he was forgetful and arrogant, affectionate, safe, trustable, over-excitable. "It -- I still feels like I did."

"Before." Before this room. Before Victor kissed him. Before this morning and two days ago.

He's not sure how far before reaches to. Which day, where, it started.
How long he's possibly been pushing it back. Drowning it.

He knows when it wasn't, back when he couldn't let Victor in, couldn't dream Victor would ever want to see the real him, but he's here, now, and it's everywhere all around him, in every thought, every feeling, like it's always been right there, all around him, inside of him, for so long it's like it's just been waiting for him to catch up and open his eyes.

No, Yuri says, and it takes a second before the impact of that single word fully registers. No, this hasn't changed. No, this part doesn't feel different.

So Yuri's felt like this ... here, in the center of himself ... for how long?

Since the start? Victor's not sure he believes that, entirely, given what did and didn't happen over that first year and a half, or even when he first came to Hasetsu. Yuri hadn't looked like his heart was giving him any trouble then, except in the sense that it might have been dismayed by the amount of physical labor it suddenly had to do.

Even if there were some times when Victor caught him looking over, a strange and uncertain look on his face. Something that went along with I've always looked up to you and I didn't want you to see my shortcomings, but not this. Not the way Yuri was just pushed against him, or how he's settled on Victor now, or how his cheeks keep going pink but his eyes are shining, the way they sometimes do when he can't find the words but is filled with something, an idea he can't describe or wants to keep close to himself.

But he's saying it isn't different. This. And Victor's trying to understand, because Yuri is trying to tell him something. Answer that question that feels unimportant now, even if it felt so all-consuming only moments ago, and probably will again later, when Yuri isn't right here, physical proof that things have changed. "What does?"

If this isn't different. But he'd said something was, too.

Maddeningly, having reached what he wanted to, it feels like the understanding of it is murky and mired at the best. Nonexistent at worst. Like it holds for all of a second before Victor asks another question, a different one, to the opposite of it, like maybe that wasn't the answer, and certainly not with the same feeling or expression from seconds ago.

It's almost disorienting how fast it all can become frustration. Disappointment.
(But at least he's well versed in that shift? Those feelings. Their weight.)

That he'd gotten there, back there, and it seemed almost right, except that now it looked like it'd gotten lost on the way there, too. Or maybe it never made sense when he did finally try to say it. Or maybe it made as little sense to say as it was to try and question the inside of his head, his feelings, as though someone else was ever going to find the questions and echo back a clear answer up for him.

He wants to sigh. He's not sure there is another way, if he arleady managed to bungle this one up, and the first one, when it was freshest and most direct, and least understood. Language is clumsy, and it feels like the answer is all over him, in his skin as well as on top of it, and somehow he still didn't get it right.

Different, but not different. (Obviously.) But the wrong question. (Just as obviously.) Yuri looking the way Yuri looks when he's hit the ice for the fifth time instead of landing clean on the correct edge to circle back and away in a graceful arc. Yuri looking the way Yuri looks when he's as annoyed at himself, or more, for failing to deliver than at Victor for pushing him.

But they aren't on the ice now, even if this all might be easier to interpret if they were. Easier to say, easier to understand. He's not sure it's only the fault of English: he's not sure he has words in any language that perfectly detail what he's felt, what he feels, what this is and has been. Love and loss and longing and lust, infatuation, anger. Frustration. Everything that fed into Stay Close to Me and Eros and even Agape, but was never fully realized or defined through any of them.

Closer, though. Perhaps.

So his fingers let go of Yuri's, only to trace down over the back of his hand, and slip up underneath his palm, to take their place directly over Yuri's steadily beating heart, while Victor's smile turns soft, face tipping up. "Show me."

Different, nut not different. Something without words to say. How Yuri's felt, how he feels, how it's changed since before. Since Victor kissed him, or since Victor dragged him onto his lap, or since the quad flip, or since whenever it shifted and became this, instead of that.

Easier to show than to tell, and he's already waited long enough. "Kiss me."

There's an all too clear moment of panic -- not wild, but desolate.

When the last thing he feels is worthy of touching Victor, trying to convey this thing he's already messed up more than he should, and how could it be any different, how could he ever be allowed anything more if he cannot even manage less. While at the same time, some part of his brain, even awash in those feelings, recognize the words as a directive. Not exactly command, but not the same as

You can touch me if you want.
But you don't have to.
It's on his lips to argue, to say something, he doesn't even know. Something that had been determined and found itself instead despairing. Even if it only ends up being one or two words. Except. Except Victor is staring at him so close, and so clear. Victor who has pushed his hand under Yuri's, as though he could reach it through Yuri's skin instead of Yuri's words. Like he might curl his hand, not around Yuri's fingers, but Yuri's feelings.

All those feelings that were already his, without ever letting Yuri know. That they were this, too. That somewhere along the way this happened, too. All of them caught up in Victor's eyes, and Victor's decree, and Victor's fingers against his chest. Already failed and still not forsaken. Victor who he shouldn't be allowed to touch, and everything about Victor saying he stole Victor's heart, he seduced Victor, Victor loves him, like this ... makes no sense. It feels impossible. All of it, again.

Just as impossible as how it all presses up just as strongly. Every feeling under that hand, straining toward Victor's fingers, Victor's eyes, and his mouth, when Yuri's drop even further to them. Like it's all louder for the failure of not coming out at all right. Like it's wilder for that sadness, stronger for being trapped inside of him even now.

When he raises his other hand and his fingertips touch Victor's cheek so very gently, hold them just pressed there a second, before smoothing back, letting more and more of the whole of his fingers slide back and settle across Victor's cheek. Not allowed, and somehow allowed. Not different at all, and absolutely different.

The Victor everyone reveres,
for his grace and genius and gorgeousness,
perfect features pale under his so small hand.

The Victor, beyond that image, every image, that Yuri hasn't had to share with anyone, in the same way, this whole year, everything that is everything, that makes him laugh and cry and try, had made him terrified to fail, and, also, need to bury himself against.

These things he can't imagine how he'll mke it past letting go of him so very soon, not after realizing this, too. But even that is too far away to think of more than a pained list of his heart because he doesn't know how he ever didn't do it the first second. Any more than he couldn't help it minutes ago. He leans down and places his lips soft, soft as his fingers had been on his cheek, against Victor's.

For a moment, he thinks it's the wrong thing –– too much of a push, too much of a request –– and that he should have let Yuri come to him again on his own time, but he's not sure he believes it. Not when Yuri looks so lost in his own head, frustrated and defeated. Not when this is the first time Yuri's ever had to try and explain this, a feeling that defies explanation or qualification. Not when Yuri needs to know that it's okay, that he can, that Victor wants him to, wants his touch and his kiss and every stumbling word and every attempt at answering that question.

But Yuri holds still for a moment, so for that moment he thinks maybe it was the wrong thing, but then Yuri's hand lifts, and fingertips ghost carefully across his cheek, making his heart hitch and his breath shake, eyes intent on Yuri's face.

(Yuri, touching him. Even by request. Yuri touching him of his own accord. His own choice. Because he wants to.

How is he supposed to be able to survive this?)

His own hand tightening on Yuri's chest, fingers knotting in that simple, soft shirt, while his breath has gone shallow and his heart has started racing, and by the time Yuri leans to place a kiss against his mouth, he's dizzy with it, can't stop the small sound that feels like it tears a short wound somewhere behind his ribs. Can't stop his fingers fisting in Yuri's shirt, can't stop the vibration trembling through his body trying to keep himself stable, steady, trying to keep this kiss gentle when all he wants is to blow the hinges off and allow the white-out that's threatening at the edge of his thoughts to wash in and sweep him away.

But he shouldn't. Shouldn't. Shouldn't, he tells himself, firm. Needs to let this be Yuri, for Yuri, about Yuri, should let Yuri direct this kiss that he asked for and that Yuri gifted.

His fingers and his heart don't seem to get the message, or the arm that he has around Yuri's waist that tightens reflexively, or the air he can't seem to get enough of to think clearly, but he can try. To kiss him soft and slow, to haul himself back from the brink. Hasn't he already done enough, tonight, without pushing this too far, too?

There's a small sound that comes up, and Victor is kissing him back the second his lips touch Victor's, like maybe Victor's only been waiting for that, had only managed to not start without him, and it gets lodged somewhere in Yuri's head. A question that doesn't form enough to be a question, that holds on to that sound, and even without begin asked, repeats, like an answer in everything else.

The sudden way his shirt gets tight, as Victor's fingers ball toward a fist under his hand, with his shirt in them. Victor arm around his waist pulling them closer, pressing against sore muscles, while erasing any of the inches and centimeters and shadows that had come between them since Victor decided they should move from their knees. Pushing them back flush together, all but from the arms between, and that hand gripping his shirt.

Victor who is shivering under his fingers, under his lips, and how is that even possible. Even in an ocean of impossible things. Except that he is. Except that somehow, beyond all sense Yuri has, it makes something in his chest groan, the unsticking of a rusty, unused door, shoving at everything else, everything that is just in the way between itself and Victor. Fingers tightening against Victor's cheek, and jaw, pulling his closer, kissing him more.

Impossible, impossible, impossible, he can't even explain anything, and all he wants is more of this. Victor.

To get lost right here in the sudden tension of his shirt, and that sound Victor made, and the words that are hooked in his skin as much as Victor is, because he doesn't. He doesn't want more of a second ago, and he doesn't want to make sense. It feels like it was all in his arms second ago, and he doesn't care about any of it. Putting it in order. Language. Talking. Breathing.

Anything that isn't kissing Victor suddenly, surely, wanting to press him into that hand, into that shake, into his mouth.
Hand leaving the back of Victor's, of himself, needing more, wrapping around Victor's neck, the bottom of his head.
Because it's not close enough. Nothing is, and nothing matters like pressing into that need and Victor.

All of his best intentions keep getting thrown out the window, and he might care more about that if Yuri's hand wasn't tightening against his cheek and jaw, and if Yuri wasn't lifting the other to grip at the back of his head and pull him closer, kiss him harder, but they are. It is. He is.

Turning that sound into something more like a whimper when he gives up, fingers uncurling from Yuri's shirt to circle both arms around his ribcage and push forward, up, as much as he can, even if his back is sore and his core is complaining, unused to being forced to hold even just himself upright without something to lean against.

So he leans into Yuri, instead, shifting underneath him, hands sliding up his back, his right hand curling over the back of Yuri's right shoulder, fingers at the crook of his neck, left spread wide over his ribs, and he can't actually wrap himself all the way around Yuri, but he wants to, wants to try. Wants to solidify this somehow, ink it into reality, brand it on himself so he can never even imagine it didn't happen, if it ever goes away. If Yuri ever changes his mind.

Not that it seems likely right now, when Yuri's melting into him and he's just trying to soak it up as much as he can, trying to return it without letting go of this deathgrip he has on his self-control that's weakening a little further with every new time Yuri touches him.

He never was very good at denying himself.

Victor makes a sound like a whimper, a faint whine against Yuri's lips that sinks into his chest like sharp light, but he doesn't stop. Victor doesn't stop. The next second there are arms pushing around him, hands pushing at the so much softer, much thinner, worn fabric of his sleep shirt, that rises, drags, pushes across his skin with Victor's hands. Making him aware, with a jolt in his stomach, of something about it being so much less stationary, solidly on him, staying, even when Victor's hands are anything but insubstantial through it.

Pushing into his skin, while Victor leans into his body, and Yuri only realizes when a small groan escapes his mouth that it's half Victor and half a surprising stab of pain at his hip, radiating out, because he'd curled around Victor like it wasn't even a thought. Arm tightening, ankles having crossed, and then shins, tightening around Victor without even thinking about it, pressuring all the muscles and his thighs and hips in another new way apparently when he'd tightened them all inward.

Not to mention the sudden burst of realization he's basically wrapped himself around Victor, to get closer or to hold on to Victor trying to do that, or both. All of it. When he doesn't want to care about it hurting, pushes at it, with all the no focus he even has on it, he's done so much more than this after a full day of only falling over and over and over again, if never this, and he's flushing against any want or want not to at the recklessness of himself in even ending up like this.

Of the way, he still doesn't want to let go, even in the shock of it. Or the realization on top of it. When he kisses Victor, again, like maybe he could hide it there, on Victor's mouth, in Victor, and like it's not just asking for more of this madness.

Edited 2017-04-26 16:27 (UTC)

He's fairly sure Yuri isn't having the same argument with himself that he is. Instead of holding back, Yuri is wrapping himself further around him, thighs tight at his hips and calves pressed against his back in a way that Victor finds deeply unfair, knows is going to be burned into his memory for the middle of the night, for all those fantasies he'd set aside since April and that he'd tried to avoid for so long beforehand.

Yuri, coiled around him. Yuri's legs around his waist and Yuri's arms around his neck and Yuri's mouth hard against his, and Victor is only one man, only human, and whatever he'd tried to emulate in Agape, he'd always known it would be out of his reach.

It's all Eros. Yuri's hands tracing over his hair and the back of his neck instead of through the air, the flush on his cheeks from the heat they're generating, not from exertion, the rasp of his breath from Victor, Victor's kisses and touches, not from tossing himself into the air like gravity was a thing that happened to other people. It makes him groan, a hand dropping to Yuri's side, and then hip, as he's shoving up onto the shin of one leg, the other pushing out to brace himself, and it would be easy. It would be better. So simple, to lever them both up and over, to dump Yuri onto the comforter and follow him down, chase that sound all the way to its source.

When he knows he shouldn't. When Yuri is still only a few dozen kisses away from his very first one, and does he even know what he's doing? What he's doing to Victor?

Who has no thought left after that stern reprimand to himself but to chase his mouth over the corner of Yuri's lip, his jaw, his throat. Trying not to crush him, and forgetting, and tightening his arms all over again before he remembers. Trying to keep these kisses light, and forgetting, and running the edge of his teeth along the cord of muscle and pulling at the skin that flutters with his pulse.

Trying to keep his head, and forgetting, and losing himself over and over again, a little longer every time.

Victor starts moving under him, and Yuri's only first reaction is to hold on even tighter, every part of him tightening around Victor. Confused for a cold stab of a second, that he's about to let go, about to leave, except that Victor isn't letting go, isn't moving away from him. His hand still against Yuri's back, settling like a brace over his hip, and something in his chest, in his heart, just tips and sloshes everywhere, like somehow those fingers could make everything better, are trying.

Except as soon as that comes, it's falling away, too, as Victor's mouth shifts away, too. But not away-away. It's the corner of his mouth, and the edge of his jaw, ribs tightening, under it, down against his throat, while Yuri just holds on, because Yuri's air is vanishing.

Is gone. Just gone, when Victor's teeth suddenly drag down his throat, sharp pressure, chasing a chain of lightning through him, and then suddenly it's not that. It's hotter, warmer. Victor is. Victor is. His heart thundering in his chest, spiking into in his ears when his arms are tightening, hands scrabbling for purchase, one set of fingers pushing into Victor's hair, and the other gripping his opposite shoulder. His voice a sudden, hoarse, straining, sound catching in his own ears, with, "Victor."

Yuri doesn't know how he ever didn't realize this was here, inside himself, or ever thought he didn't care. Like this. Couldn't. Shouldn't. Wasn't. That there was anything, anywhere that wasn't already Victor and Victor's. Especially him.

Victor hears only three things.

The first: His own breath, scraping in and out of his lungs, accompanying the thunder of his pulse in his ears, so loud it nearly drowns out both of the only other sounds in this room. Even if it doesn't, everything feels delayed, all his reactions slower than usual, like he's existing underwater.

The second: Yuri's voice, gasping out his name, and his own rusted-out laugh hearing it. It sounds half scandalized and half turned on and goes directly to his gut, burning a smoking path along the way, and he doesn't care. Can't. Not with Yuri saying his name like that. Not with Yuri's fingers sinking into his hair, and his arm and legs tightening around him, but it's when he's shifting to tip them both over that he hears that third, final sound.

The faint clatter of plates and silverware that have been disturbed.

It makes him freeze, mouth leaving Yuri's throat to glance foggily over his shoulder to see the tray that's still there, somehow, because the universe hasn't been kind enough to remove it from that spot on the bed between them and the pillows. Just there. In his way. Looking, he thinks, a little more primly judgmental than is strictly necessary for a few porcelain bowls and tea cups.

Which makes him draw his head back to find Yuri's face and try to catch his breath, ears ringing and chest burning, and this is a problem, because he can't do anything without moving the tray, and he can't move the tray without letting go of Yuri.

He wonders, briefly, how badly this would all go if he just opted for the floor, instead.

Edited 2017-04-26 21:04 (UTC)

Victor laughs, and it vibrates through his skin, ripples in the explosion of heat that has become his neck, under Victor's mouth. Victor's mouth that is sucking at the skin there, and Yuri never even had the time to question whether this one was, also, odd, because everything turned upside down. Everything was only heat, and his body shuddering against Victor, only that lightning of the faint scrape of teeth, exploding suddenly, when his head, and his skin, and his mouth had only had Victor's name left.

Victor's name that Victor was now laughing at. Laughing into his skin, getting even that muddy, and mingled, and Yuri can't tell if he's embarrassed, because everything is racing. His fingers clutching a little more at that sound, at the faint uncertainty even on fire, if that was wrong. What was or wasn't, when he can't even keep it firmly enough in his fingers, it's like it's slippery and bouncing, keeps having to be caught, failing under Victor.

At least until Victor suddenly freezes. Making Yuri's heart lurch.

Making Yuri's eyes blink a dazed open, unfocused, like he'd been staring at the sun, and not either the back of his eyes or unseeing at some other point in front of him. Nothing feels like it's coming together -- his heart rocketing, still? again?, his breaths heavy and fast, his whole body still trembling -- nothing enough to be helpful, except another wave of that spiked dread. Especially when Victor is looking behind him, and all Yuri can feel is breathless.

All Yuri can feel is the sudden whining squeal of a thought that says it's unfair Victor can think -- and even more can think about something more than him, when nothing nothing else is Victor, and the world feels smaller in his skin, in his own head, in his own thoughts, in this room, coming down from nothing but Victor -- when he shifted from Victor looking over his shoulder to looking over Victor's shoulder, as well.

Not enough time to give into the bubble trying to push up his chest, before Victor looks back at him, and Yuri feels dwarfed again. His fingers aren't anywhere near Victor's cheeks now, but he wants to run a finger over the skin that looks flushed at the very tops of his cheek, the faint moisture shining on his lips, and all of that is only the half-second that takes him to Victor's eyes.

How had he ever thought he knew how bright Victor's eyes got before now? How had he ever been sure?

There was nothing like this. So bright, and glassy, like Victor's a little unfocused (and maybe a little is better than none?) but that thing is still pushing up his windpipe and there's a strange kind of smile coasting the corners of his mouth among his still too fast breaths and the heat everywhere (and the disturbing want to close his eyes and just still be back there, before remembeing), making it all a little too floated for severity. "We forgot again."

Edited 2017-04-27 00:17 (UTC)

Yuri's breathless and there's a grin tugging at his mouth, but Victor just gives a beleaguered sigh, and leans to set his forehead against Yuri's collarbone, his hand sliding up from Yuri's hip to his chest, sulking. "Why won't it just go away?"

It's a stupid thing to complain about, he knows, petty and ridiculous, but he feels petty, and there's nothing so ridiculous about being annoyed with the fact that there continues to be something in his way. The tray, of course, but, more than that, some semblance of responsibility. He's still the coach here, after all, and that means he has to make sure Yuri is taking care of himself, or take care of Yuri for himself if he forgets to or simply opts not to, and he could be wrong, but he's pretty certain what he's been doing for the last few minutes is likely frowned upon.

(He's going to have to work at this balance a lot more than he initially thought, probably.)

He should have made sure Yuri ate enough. That the painkillers are kicking in. Gotten more ice, if it's needed. Set out the food cart and the dry-cleaning, and given strict orders to go to bed early tonight and get rest, since he hadn't slept today, or last night, either.

He probably shouldn't be still wanting, when he pulls back to look up into Yuri's face, to flip them both over, and damn the tray, and damn the responsibilities, because Yuri's face is pink and his eyes are bright and his hair has dried in a soft, rumpled mess that Victor wants to run his fingers through. "I should take care of that."

The tray. Which would, at least, give them the whole bed, and not just this bottom half of it, and that's an appealing thought, but his hands still tighten on Yuri as if they're against the entire idea, and he can't blame them.

The breath he puffs out is an annoyed one. Everything is going so well: why do they keep hitting these stumbling blocks? Why can't the real world be as perfectly choreographed as their programs?

Not to mention the very real danger of Yuri coming to his senses if Victor lets him go, if there's too much space, too much time, too many minutes without Victor being able to kiss him or drag him in or make him yell because he's been hauled onto Victor's lap.

(Again.)

"But I don't want to let you go."

Victor does nearly the exact same thing he'd done before. He doesn't kiss Yuri, but sags against him, buries his head into Yuri's shoulder, while Yuri is still blinking at the world and Victor, and the tray beyond, and trying to parse the tone of his own voice just used. Until Victor is whining softly into his shoulder, a beleaguered childish sound that is so familiar Yuri's can place it to a million times and days before now.

Except ... not too, right? Not when Victor is pulling back and his eyes are sweeping across Yuri's face, seeing, what, Yuri can't begin to guess anymore than he can really begin to fathom how any of this is real, is happening, while it's happening. That it's somehow been happening inside of Victor ( ... for ... awhile?). Or himself. For however long that is, and, or true it is.

The last words are, again, too. The same. New, but the same as earlier. Catching under Yuri's breastbone like a patch of silly ice, when those ribs are still preoccupied doing the job of catching his falling-floating heart trying to unwind, again. None of it really holding, because Victor is curling around him, closer, more ... tighter?, and he doesn't quite remember when his fingers ended up burried in Victor's hair, but it's so soft and he doesn't, but he's almost as tempted to laugh as he is to pat Victor's head. Or shoulder.

He's not sure he has a clue what's happening, or who he's become in the last ... while.

But between the whined complaint and the quiet reason, under the dizzy drunken bee buzzing that is cooling on his skin, still rumbling on in his skin, Yuri feels -- what is that? Amusement? Patient exasperation? Relief? Fondness? -- at Victor sounding like Victor, over something absolutely trivial. While tightening his arms around Yuri, like he's afraid Yuri will vanish. Or wants to be holding him more? The way that catches like a slippery patch, too, in clearing thoughts.

Yuri's mouth quirks, giving something easily logical, the way he might any other time like it, even if it isn't entirely in from out of breath still. "It's not that far away."

Yuri is being logical, and Victor doesn't like it, aware he's being laughed at, mouth and eyes both flattening. "You say that now."

All dire portentousness, in a tone that sounds like a wagging finger. "But it'll feel far away when you have to get off of me so I can put it back in the hallway."

Yuri will rue his easy common sense, is what he's saying.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing, though, to get a little space. He's realizing it when there's faint pressure against his skull, and it turns out Yuri's fingers are still woven in his hair, and Yuri's legs are still wrapped around him, and they're already probably pushing further past a first kiss than he should really allow for tonight. He wonders what happened to the bag of ice, which is probably melted by now, but which would still be a useful shock to his system if he were to pour it over himself or stick his head into it.

He has to cool down, he has to slow down. The thought that bubbles to the surface as he's laying his head back on Yuri's shoulder, nose nudging his neck, and then mouth placing a few soft kisses there, like reminders. "We should probably slow down, anyway."

He should. Should remember what he's dealing with, here, how fragile it all is, how new. What's a novelty for him is a brand new world for Yuri. Was he really just thinking about flipping Yuri onto his back, onto the bed? Did he imagine that would somehow be a good thing to do, that Yuri would simply go along with it the way Victor would expect someone who'd done all this before might?

But Yuri's fingers are in his hair, and he moves his head against them like he's searching for the right spots for them to touch, and Yuri's shirt is soft under his cheek, and Yuri's throat is right there, and he's having some real trouble thinking that anything even not that far away could ever beat already being this close.

Victor is still pouting, even with that slant and flattening of eyes, that looks so familiar. It is absolutely nothing like the stony distance that fills his face, his eyes, when Victor actually is disappointed in him. When his words become even more blunt than the bluntness that Yuri has had to get used to because of him, and the divide between them yawns frozen and clear.

The rest -- the rest is so confusing Yuri can feel himself hold still.

The words seeming to freeze in his chest, throat, mouth, even when his heart wobbles confused, suddenly softly pained even as Victor's leaning back into his shoulder. Nose brushing his skin. Soft kisses placed like stamps against his skin. Reinventing disorientation as a feeling. When Victor wants to slow down? To stop? While still not actually stopping touching him?

When Yuri has no clue what that means, and he's. Maybe he does. Maybe when his skin is still shivering, even if his body isn't. When his skin feels like it's aching against the softness of Victor's mouth, that wasn't anything like soft, right there, barely a minute back. When the memory of that makes a true shiver shift his shoulders.

Everything blister bright, chilling and shrinking in retrospect, and still there in every beat of his heart (every breath Victor looses against his shoulder, so easily permeating to his skin). Victor that he's crosslegged curled around, like, like. Like a tree limb. Like a dance pole. Victor, who keeps, and then he keeps -- Victor, who is -- and maybe Victor is right -- or maybe Victor just doesn't -- Except he's said -- and then just said.

Conflicted, bouncing, ricocheting, confusion filling his chest more with each new passing second. We should slow down. Stop. Victor not letting go, but starting to turn his head against Yuri's neck and shoulder, and fingers, maybe like he's having a slow motion, silent argument with all of them, while Yuri stares at the gleaming tray with its abandoned tea cups and plates and food.

Everything feeling suddenly precarious (and he hates that, he always hates that), suddenly disjointed and strings that felt warm, certain, unnoticed, snap by snap slipping, disconnecting. When the only thing that really makes sense is to uncross his legs, a little stiff for the pain he knows will come, and try to let go, pull his hand away.

At least do the things that Victor's first point and the tray needed: him to move.

Even though he knows it's needed, he doesn't want Yuri to move, so when Yuri stills against him, and then starts carefully moving his legs, fingers releasing from his hair, Victor only makes an unhappy noise and presses his forehead in closer, before looking back up at Yuri like he's been betrayed.

Except Yuri's not smiling anymore, like he's amused and sort of exasperated by Victor's histrionics but finds them a little cute as well, and whatever teasing complaint Victor was about to lodge gets wiped out in a blink. "What's wrong?"

Because it looks wrong. Not annoyed at having to move, not rolling his eyes at Victor who can never understand why everything can't just always go his way. Wrong. Wrong like the way he looked in the elevator, when Victor teased him about kissing him on the street and Yuri thought he was apologizing for the part about the kissing itself, and not the one about being on the street.

In short: not what he wants to see when Yuri had previously just been wrapped around him and gasping out his name, or laughing at how glum he is at the very prospect of moving and letting go. He's not sure what prompted it, but whatever it was, it's become his new priority.

The tray can wait a few more minutes. "Yuri?"

Victor grumbles his displeasure and pushes in even more to Yuri's shoulder and neck, warmth pressing into tired muscles, and his hands have taken on that strange weightlessness again, moved from Victor's hair and Victor's shoulder. Almost like now that they'd found some purchase on Victor they were weightless and confused on just how to return to him, or where to, with Victor pressed to his front, in the way of his own lap.

But it vanishes entirely when Victor looks up and his expression shifts from that same beleaguered complaining to sudden, clear concern, and Yuri feels even worse in less than the second it takes that expression to flick on, before Victor is even asking the question that cements that something has gone wrong with Yuri's own face.

Which only makes everything ratchet in his head so much faster. He did this. Again. Without meaning. And he was just trying to. He had to move to accomplish what had to be, that they kept forgetting, that Victor was saying shouldn't be. That this is in the way. This needs to stop for that. He can't crawl under a bed already on the floor. With Victor and the tray on it.

He tries to reach for something in the sudden, all too familiar, tangle, and ends up with a raise and drop of his shoulders that is more a question than an answer, and so much less than either when it defaults. "You wanted to move the tray."

Edited 2017-04-27 16:17 (UTC)

That's why he moved, but not why his face looks like this. At least, Victor is pretty sure that's the case. "That's not what I mean."

The tray isn't going anywhere, and it hadn't seemed like Yuri was interested in going anywhere, either, and he had only been complaining about having to move, without actually doing it, and then something else happened, and now Yuri has this face.

"You look ..."

What is this, this expression, this face on Yuri's face? Worried? Unsettled? Unhappy? "...like you're thinking about something else."

Related? Unrelated? Something small enough that Victor didn't notice, but big enough that Yuri did.

Which could be anything, considering. Considering what he was just thinking, about how he's used to this, and Yuri isn't. Have there always been this many pitfalls? Or is it really just that Yuri wants him to let go so he can move?

He doesn't know, and the only way to find out is to ask. "Did I do something?"

"No!" it shoots out of him, horrified at hearing the question. "No, no, no, you didn't do anything."

Only just not flailing his hands like airplanes to stop that assumption.

As though Victor could, would. Victor, staring at him all canny and straight on, not looking away, and Yuri's heart is not helping. It's just stumbling into a run inside of him and making him want to look anywhere else. Why doesn't that ever stop? Why can't he?

Victor couldn't, wouldn't get any of this wrong. Isn't.

If anyone could manage to get any or all of this wrong it's only Yuri.

It's not that Victor doesn't believe him, mostly. He doesn't think Yuri would lie directly to his face, like this, right now, but it does feel a little like all the other times he's gotten something wrong: when he first arrived, on the beach, only a few hours ago in the garage.

He wonders if all of this will end with Yuri shouting at him again. That wouldn't be ideal, but at least Yuri was honest, finally said everything that had been bothering him.

(I've been wondering if you secretly want to quit!)

He should probably address that, too, at some point, but that isn't this problem, is it?

Is Yuri just stressed and tired from the day, too overwhelmed to be rational? Is he worried again that Victor will push him too far, or expect too much? There's a faint push at the corner of Victor's mouth that isn't a frown, but is shadowed by a faint line drawing itself between his brows. "Are you okay with all of this? Is it too much?"

If it is, would a break maybe be a good idea, for both of them?

Is he -- what? Is he okay with all of this? With this thing suddenly in his hands -- but not his hands-hands, that have finally found his lap, between his stomach and thighs, and the black of Victor's shirt, Victor under it -- that everyone else in the world would be appalled Victor could even be made to ask that by him. If Victor is okay, if Victor is too much.

Which of those answers, to the second question,

bouncing so fast and so hand on every floor and wall in his head, is even the worse answer.

That no, it's not too much, because it can't be, because it's Victor, and it doesn't make sense that it's happening, but he doesn't want to let go, even when he has already. Or yes, because shamefully he doesn't know how to do, be, say a single thing that is expected of him. Doesn't seem to be able to hold anything straight, aside from when he can't think at all.

Which is a little terrifying to acknowledge. Some absolute loss of control, of himself. Even if it was with Victor. Even if he trusted Victor. Trusting Victor wasn't the problem. (Even if maybe it was, too. How much of a fool is he?) His shoulders just settle low with a too long held breath quiet out his nose. "I'm okay. It's okay."

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