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

[theglassheart]

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.

Comments

[fivetimechamp]

This is worse than the time he and Chris snuck a full bottle of vodka past Yakov and Josef at Worlds and wound up wandering the streets of Calgary while Victor tried to teach Chris Russian folk songs and Chris wound up stripping for an extremely appreciative hen party. It's worse than any rowdy after-party he's ever been to, worse than even just two nights ago, that rice wine-flavored haze that keeps dancing just out of reach of his memory. He's never felt drunk like this, when he hasn't had a drop of alcohol in almost two days.

All because of Yuri, and Yuri's cute blush over there, and Yuri's awkward tilt in towards him, and the joy on Yuri's face when he'd skated towards the gate in the full knowledge that he'd been excellent, outstanding. Even now that he seems to have forgotten how to talk, this giddy incoherence soaking Victor's brain and turning him into a useless fool isn't going anywhere. Nothing like how Yuri wasn't talking to him earlier today, although he has to wonder if he's going to get shouted and cried at again tonight.

That's all right. It all is, would be, as long as Yuri hasn't changed his mind. Victor can handle being yelled at, as long as he can hold onto Yuri for it. For now, Yuri can be silent if he wants, but that can only last so long: Victor has questions to ask and admissions to make and there's so much he wants to know. Why his flip? Why tonight? Was it because of what Yuri said downstairs in the garage, that he was afraid of his failures reflecting on Victor? Did it go all the back to I've always looked up to you from that morning on the beach when everything finally began to fit together? How long has it been? How long has Victor been wrong?

His pocket is buzzing, but he ignores it: texts from friends, possibly from Minako (he'll get an earful from her tomorrow for stealing Yuri away, he's sure, especially since she wasn't planning on going to Moscow with them), notifications as he's tagged in social media posts. All of it can wait, as they're walking up towards the hotel and he holds open the glass door for Yuri to head in.

[theglassheart]

The silence drags on, and Yuri doesn't know if that's good or bad. Doesn't have any clue the longer it goes on, except why? Why and why and why. It bounces around his head, confused and dizzy. He can feel his steps more as he takes them, more as everything isn't dissolving. The pain in his side is greater than everything else, but there still is an everything else. There is still all the pain and soreness of competition skate. Pulling his bones and muscles down heavy and sore, full of complaints about speed, weight, time. Mixing with that iron leaded exhaustion clinging to the bottom of his spine.

He hasn't slept in more than a day, not for lack of his or Victor's trying, which makes his glance flick to Victor.
How much more sensible would this be as a dream? If he'd just passed out somewhere, in a chair, by a wall.

(How much does that ache, confusedly, in a retort to the idea. Of not real, not Victor. Not him.)



The door gets opened and he steps through, even though his eyes drag a little on his bag, still at Victor's side, in Victor's hand, and the person behind the counter, and he goes pink, like all the world knows. Can see all of this on him. When they aren't even touching. Aren't even near each other. When for all he knows, which amounts to nothing, it might be over. He hasn't the faintest clue. But that makes his heart stumble hard into a wall, too, while he's mumbling a polite arigato for the door holding.

He's not entirely incapable of using his mouth, apparently.

But they are. At the hotel. Where the lights in the lobby are bright and butter yellow, and they are going back to their room. A thought that catches up with Yuri against the back of his teeth. A thought he's been having, without really having for the last five or ten minutes of quiet walking, and occasional glances to his side. Just at the edge of his vision, trying not to even turn his head too much.

It's so very few steps to cross the lobby and be waiting in front of the elevator, and he thinks he might be starting to have a heart attack. Again. Because they are. Going back to their room. And what does that mean? Does it mean anything? Is this over. Is it not. Now that Victor has finally subsided to his side of the sidewalk, the doorway, teasing him, enough quiet to think. Not that everything could be. He has to skate, and Victor's going to teach him his flip now. But.

But. Anything - everything - else. Wherever - whatever - this. This is. If it even is an is and isn't already past.

[fivetimechamp]

He hasn't been a real believer in years, but the elevator arriving right now seems like the hand of God itself reaching down to help him out, because Yuri has only mumbled one word at him in the last five minutes, and it was in Japanese, and it was just to be polite about him keeping to door open, and really the last thing he wants right now is for Yuri to curl up into himself like a confused and sulky hedgehog.

Not that he looks sulky. Or confused, even. But there is a distinct air as of invisible bricks going up between them, and that's probably Victor's fault for kissing him in public –– twice –– and not quite knowing what to say about it without giving in to the desire to just flirt. (But who could really blame him, when Yuri is just so! Cute! anyway?)

So the soft ding of the arriving elevator is a relief, and when no one else rushes to get on and ruin everything, it seems like a sign from the heavens above. It's not the room, locked and private, but it'll do for now, for Victor to lean Yuri's bag against the wall, and reach for Yuri's hand to tug him gently across that space he doesn't want growing between them. Not anymore. Not after everything. Space is the last thing he needs or wants. "Yuri, come here."

It's not the full body tackle onto the ice, or pushing Yuri gently but irrevocably into a door, or even getting in his way on the sidewalk: it's coaxing, a question and not a command. Free hand lifting to smooth back a piece of Yuri's bangs that fell into his face once the sweat of performing melted the gel away. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

A little. He doesn't care what people see or know, but Yuri has never been as comfortable with attention as he is, tends to shrink away under it like a mouse faced with a flashlight. "I just didn't want to wait any more."

The very concept is impossible, inconceivable. How could he, why would he, who could possibly have resisted the temptation?

But Yuri is sensitive, and Yuri is shy, and Yuri has never had the relationship with the world and the public that he has, so he probably shouldn't have teased so much. It's just difficult to remember, when suddenly everything is possible that was never supposed to happen to begin with.

Anyway, his smile is as appealing and winsome as he knows how to be. "Can you forgive me?"

[theglassheart]

This. This is more normal. Even if Yuri's heart gives a disturbing leap into the bars of his ribs. Painfully panicked and disturbingly relieved. But it is. It is more normal. That Victor just takes his hand, and pulls him somewhere, even while asking, like he isn't already moving Yuri wherever he wants Yuri. The fingers that raise to brush away his hair, probably everywhere. Again.

Distracting him briefly with the dark color, passing before his eyes, brushing his skin.

But then Victor apologizes, and Yuri's heart stutters. Stops.

It feels like those words barrel straight through it, lips still pressed as Victor keeps adding words to it. For embarrassing him. For not. Asking for forgiveness, and something hurts, confused, befuddled, not able to believe seconds ago, not wanting to now. When suddenly. He was. He was ... right?

While Victor is smiling, all apologetically pretty, and asking his forgiveness -- "For kissing me?"

He doesn't understand. He doesn't understand anything at all.
Definitely why it's suddenly starting to hurt everywhere.

[fivetimechamp]

Not the reaction he was expecting.

And not the clarifying question he was expecting, either, inasmuch as he was expecting one at all, and not just Yuri's exasperation at Victor's inability to remember that the world is populated with anyone other than them, and that those people were on the street with them only moments ago. "What? No."

It's a kneejerk negation, but even as it's blinking out of him, he takes a harder look at Yuri's face, how his lips press hard enough to turn the skin around them white, and thinks he's been reading this all wrong. "Yuri!"

Nearly gasped, but he can't help it, it knifes straight to his heart. The assumption. The possibility. How wrong. How desperately he needs to clear this up before he says or does absolutely anything else, because he might be sorry for embarrassing Yuri, a little, and he might be sorry for surprising Yuri, a little, and if Yuri has changed his mind then he certainly is ––

But not for that. Never for that.

He is only sorry he didn't start kissing Yuri two years ago, so that he would never have had to stop. Both hands going to Yuri's face, while he's trying to make Yuri understand through the sheer intensity of his gaze. He would never. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not as long as Yuri wants him to keep doing it. "Of course not. I'm not sorry for that."

The thought can't even take root in his mind, is rejected out of hand. "Don't you know how long I've wanted you?"

Their floor is coming up –– if he could will the elevator to slow down, he would. All he can do is hope Yuri can see the sincerity in his face, and that isn't enough, he has to show him, so even as the elevator slows and comes to the slight jounce of a halt, he leans in to prove it. That Yuri's read this wrong.

That there's nothing Victor's sorry for, except not doing this sooner.

[theglassheart]

Oh. Yes. It's absolutely certain now. He doesn't understand anything.

When Victor's eyes widen, startled, no, maybe it's shocked even, and then he's suddenly closer. Dropping Yuri's hand, and cradling the full sides of his face in those gloved fingers, staring at him with such stricken intensity Yuri doesn't even know how he's supposed to remember to breathe, or whether to start apologizing now. For anything. For everything.

After Victor has shouted his name, in this small space of theirs. Is holding his face.
Saying. Saying no. Saying he's not apologizing for kissing Yuri.


Saying.

Saying.

Saying.

Saying . . . he's been waiting to do that?
He ... wants him? Victor wants him?

He wanted to kiss Yuri before now? He.


Yuri is blinking. He doesn't even know if he's breathed in, and his eyes aren't closed this time, they go wider, but Victor is kissing him again. So close everything blots out but the pale of his skin, the cut of his cheek bones, the shape around his eyes, and the shine of his hair, eyebrow, his eyelashes, and Yuri is trembling before he can stop himself.

Everything, everything hurts and swells and falls sideways, pained, shot through with sliced need, desperate from asking, desperate from that single thought, cheeks warming, chest singing with sudden tension, even when he can't stop himself, terrified and falling and relieved, but only painfully, can't stop anything, can't stop. The way his eyes snap closed. The way he presses into Victor. Victor's lips. The way his face tips up in those hands for more, for this unnamed, confusing, absolute unknown that everything in him slams toward, more important than air or words or sense.

Right as the elevator dings behind them.

[fivetimechamp]

He couldn't have been more surprised if Yuri had hit him, but maybe he shouldn't be. Hadn't he said, back then ––

Have you ever thought about love?

–– and Yuri had just shook his head. Said he'd never had a sweetheart before. No girlfriends, no lovers. Had never even thought about it.

At the time, Victor had assumed that was only confirmation of Yuri's brush-off the night of the banquet: that it was just a game for him, and he'd never thought about taking it anywhere off the dancefloor or outside the ballroom. He's less sure now, when what he'd meant as light teasing had instead made Yuri think ––

As if he could ever ––

But Yuri pushes back into him now, mouth pressing up against Victor's in a way that's both unpracticed and intoxicating, a little clumsy, a lot needy, making a surprised and delighted sound come tugging out of the back of Victor's throat that almost makes him forget about the sound of the door opening behind him. (Not entirely, though. Isn't that what he just was apologizing for? Kissing Yuri in public?)

Pulling back, but not before placing another kiss on Yuri's mouth like a signature or a stamp on a letter, one hand dropping to take Yuri's, and the other reaching for the bag handle to pull it along as he directs them both towards the open door and the empty hallway.

Shaking his head, still at a loss. "Why would you think that?"

He wants to know. Has to know. Needs to be able to make sure that thought never crosses Yuri's mind again, as long as Yuri is only worried that Victor might regret kissing him, and not that Victor is kissing him without Yuri's permission or enthusiastic participation.

But he'd thought he made his own inclinations towards kissing Yuri pretty clear, so if they haven't been, he's bound and determined to get them ironed out right now, if not right here (the room is only feet away, after all) before any more mistakes can be made.

[theglassheart]

He doesn't want this to end. Doesn't want to listen. Not even when something, some -- a sound, amused? -- comes from Victor, and Yuri can feel his cheeks getting hotter. Any sound shattering the silence of the elevator suddenly self-conscious and wrong. Maybe all wrong. Maybe he should pull back. If Victor is laughing at him?

Which still, still doesn't change that there's almost something helplessly, embarrassing, shamefully, like a whine or a whimper vibrating against the top of his chest, the bottom of his throat, when Victor pulls away, then kisses him again, fast as a breath, and the pulls away again. Hand taking his and leading him from the elevator, back to the elegant and empty hallway of endless doors, where people could emerge at any second.

Where Yuri has no choice but to follow.

His feet doing it before his head can even catch up to.

His hand feels. Like it isn't his. Warm. Too warm. Pressed in that glove.

Victor asking that question, and Yuri can't even help but fumble. The way he's looking down more than up, and he doesn't even know how. How to press his lips back together. How his own mouth works. Like he's been carrying it every day for years and never knew anything about it. "You just said you were sorry."

Before kissing Yuri. Again. Twice. Leaving him. He doesn't even know.

Drifting. Barely connected to his feet, his skin, the world, anything that made sense.

[fivetimechamp]

This is like and not like trying to talk to Yuri in the garage –– was that only a little over an hour ago? how is that possible? –– but while he wants to get to the bottom of it, he has to tread more carefully.

Maybe he had to shatter the tension in the garage, and break Yuri's heart to fix Yuri's head, but cracking any part of this delicate eggshell he's balancing is the last thing he wants to do right now. If he hurts Yuri now, even by accident, even with the best of intentions, even if it's only by miscommunication and misunderstanding, he'd never forgive himself.

So he watches Yuri glance down at the floor and struggle with his thoughts, looking like he wants to push his fingers together and never meet Victor's eyes again, and he weighs his response in his head as he lets go of Yuri's hand to fish for the key card in his pocket and unlock the door. "I was only sorry if I embarrassed you on the street, Yuri."

There's a satisfying click and the light turns green, and Victor wishes he could navigate this as easily. Well, maybe he can: this misconception is one he can clear up quickly and without confusion.

He hopes.

The handle turns easily under his hand, and he pushes the door open for Yuri, waits to follow him in. The room is dark and quiet and as the door clicks softly closed behind him, he feels something else click open in his chest to breathe and unfurl, even as he's leaning Yuri's bag near the closet, slipping off his gloves, shrugging off his coat to hang it. "I know you aren't as comfortable in public as I am."

He should change out of his suit, or at least slip off his shoes, but what he does is go to take Yuri's hand –– finally able to feel his fingers and palm and the soft skin right at the wrist –– and lead him gently over to sit on the edge of the bed, Victor's near leg tucked up so he can face Yuri. "I don't care who sees or what they think. I'm not ashamed of how I feel."

The whole world could know and comment, and it probably will, and he still wouldn't care about anything but the way Yuri looks at him with trust, and how fiercely he wants to protect that. "But I was sorry if I made you uncomfortable. And if you changed your mind, I'll be sorry if I kissed you without permission. But if you haven't..."

Now he does smile, a little, drawing all his lifetime experience of charm and appeal to the forefront. "You should know I plan to keep doing it."

[theglassheart]

They are here. Here. Here.

Victor has his card. The door clicks. The light pops. Victor opens it.

Yuri can feel every single millimeter of the air he pulls in through his nose and fills his lungs. It's cold and still, and everything Victor isn't, even though Victor's not touching him anymore. When his feet are taking tentative steps and he can't remember if he ever felt this way the first time he stepped into the first hotel they had to share.

Like he doesn't remember how to go past the first fifteen steps, or that his stuff is everywhere in this room, too. He stands there listening to Victor explain, speak, words getting slowly more and more drowned by his heartbeat turning back to too fast. Watching


And Yuri does stop. He's stops still, Victor's hand still in his, but he doesn't cross those last two feet, not even at the tug of that hand in his, and he's not even sure his brain can function past this image. Of Victor holding his hand. Victor sitting on the bed, sliding his leg under himself. The bed as every part of his vision behind and around Victor.

Except that it becomes a sling shot the next second. Flinging everything in every direction, from everywhere exploding. With Chris' skate this evening, and his slinky, bright catsuit. With Victor's lips at his ear, at the back of his neck. With seduce me with everything you have and you seduced me, and every childish, suddenly sharply, hardly comparable, thought he'd had during Eros, that wasn't even this.

Victor. Victor sitting there.

Victor. Perfect. Beautiful. Gorgeous.

That face, and that body, and everything Yuri has not thought about, or tried not, and done well enough with not. Except for those seldom seconds, and sometimes the words he chose, his favorite training and performance phrase, and the occasional hazy, stupid dream. That didn't change who he was. That he was. Him.

Everyone in the world died for, wanted, Victor Nikiforov.
Everyone in the world for jump at the chance to be asked by.

Trying to tug him down. On to a bed. Saying he didn't plan to stop.

While everything in him freezing into place, while it feels like it's screaming at the same second, because he can't look away from Victor's face. Victor's face that is so open, and so warm. This charming and disarming smile that he wants to fall into. That any other day he'd follow, heartbeat hesitation-less, absolutely certain, ready to talk about the day, and maybe fall on his bed, steal a pillow, curl around it and complain about everything he got wrong, every ache in his feet, find the way to let it show how proud of everything he got right, too, somewhere in there.

But it's not that. This. This. None of this is that.

Victor's fingers on his hand feeling completely different. His smile.
It makes everything feel lost, and not enough, so very suddenly. He isn't. Enough.

It's sour and his throat is sticking and for the first time in his whole life he wishes it wasn't true, he wasn't himself, that maybe he's never wanted something to be suddenly so untrue, or ever wanted so badly, just Victor, suddenly Victor, and his voice has a shake to it, when he can't stop it, and it's not even at a normal volume. "I can't -- I haven't -- I've never --"

It wouldn't even be enough to sink through the carpet at the last word.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri allows himself to be tugged, which Victor takes as a small victory, but his expression is still troubled enough that Victor's not sure he's hearing anything Victor is trying to say at all, and he doesn't come to sit. If anything, he seems even more tense now that they're alone, which doesn't seem right, if he'd wanted to get away from people ...

But trying to guess is only going to land Victor in hot water, so he hauls his assumptions back from the teetering brink and sets them back down on a relatively sturdy surface. Even if his hand tightens in Yuri's a little, reflexively, at the words I can't.

Followed by stammered haven't and never, and he'll have to clear up what exactly Yuri's referencing here, but first, he needs Yuri to stop looking around like the shadows in the room are going to come to life and leap at him over Victor's shoulder. Even more, he needs to determine what exactly it is Yuri can't do. If it's allowing himself to be kissed again ––

(Cold rocks settling in Victor's stomach at the thought, threatening to seal a frozen stone wall across his throat.)

–– or ... something else. Whatever else it could be. "You can't what?"

He's spent eight months coaching and coaxing Yuri, and he's learned that Yuri can't always respond well to orders, that sometimes Yuri needs to be led along carefully, like a young horse just being broken to tack.

But he also can't allow any room for misinterpretation, here. If this goes wrong, Yuri won't be the only one who breaks. "Kiss me?"

[theglassheart]

The look he gives Victor is slightly sick and almost defeated, because, or, and, but that isn't exactly the point. He's kissed Victor. He had. He'd already kissed Victor. He can't ever undo that. Unfeel it. It's feels branded on to his skin, burned into his mind.




Even if maybe it is, too. Hadn't Victor laughed?


Even if Victor just said he didn't plan to stop either.
Victor, whose face had grown suddenly so very serious.

Victor, whose hand had tightened on his, where it stretched between them still.

[fivetimechamp]

His smile curves, pauses, falters, and begins to fade. A thin line draws itself between his eyebrows, and those rocks in his belly begin tumbling over one another, freezing portions of his stomach lining and making it suddenly difficult to breathe.







"Did you change your mind?"

[theglassheart]

He doesn't understand why that question makes his chest hurt. He's not sure he's made a single decision in the last hour. Not on purpose. Not thought about anything and done it, except this absolute necessity to fold himself into Victor, to kiss him back once he'd even figured out what was happened. Too slow and too stupid, even in that,

When had he made any decision to ever take one back.

The idea of even making one is what has him stuck, has everything snapping.

"That isn't the point." It's not. It's not. It's not. It doesn't matter what he wants -- if he wants this -- wants Victor, and even that is insane, insane, insane. "You're --" Victor. He's Victor Nikiforov. "-- you -- and everything you've already --"

And, oh, he doesn't swear, but he almost wishes he could. Swear, and scream, and bury his head into a pillow. Because it hits him viciously. How many time Victor probably has. How many people. Even selectively. Even not for long. No one else who would be standing here, like an idiot, frozen, arguing, like Yuri. Who doesn't deserve any of this, or understand in the slightest. All of it is wrong, and all of it hurts.

Victor, who has no issues with any of this. Victor, who has skated things like this. Wrote made Eros and gave it to Yuri.

"-- and I've never even --" Kissed someone until minutes ago, and he's trying to pull his hand back.
He just wants to wrap his arms around himself. Curl his fists by his sides. Vanish. Hide. Stop existing.

[fivetimechamp]

Victor is blinking at him.

(Sometimes Victor thinks his entire life has come down to blinking at Yuri. How could one, small, shy Japanese skater surprise him so much and so often?)

Blinking, and listening, and trying to put the ends of the sentences Yuri isn't finishing together, along with this look of frustration and the way he pulls his hand out of Victor's, which should be a sign that Victor was right and the answer is no, but somehow doesn't feel that way.

Not with that isn't the point, with which Victor would beg to disagree, he consider it to be the main point, perhaps the only point. Not with you're ... you, which makes even less sense.

But there's that I never again, but this time there's that last word after it, and there's a brief silence as Victor's hand floats, empty, in the space between them, and he can almost hear in the silence of the room the copper clink of the penny dropping.

"Yuri..."

It's not that he's surprised. Or, well, he is. But. He should have thought of it. Nearly had, a few moments ago, without putting much weight behind the thought, but he hadn't thought –– not never ––

"Was that your first kiss?"

[theglassheart]

Then. Suddenly. It's out there.



It's in the air. In Victor's voice, and Yuri's heart is in his shoes.
The floor isn't nice enough to suck him down and envelop him.

Everything hurts, and the truth is brutal. It's always been brutal. Shameful. That's not new, is it? And yet nothing compares. It doesn't matter if there's a medal somewhere behind him, or a good portion of his body that hates him, standing here, standing still. That win, that pain. They don't exist next to those words in the air. His shoulders just crumple as his face gets so much hotter, no place to run, no place to hide, just that truth between him and Victor, like every other divide.

"Gomen," falls out of his mouth, incapable of being anything other than it's lost itself.

The level of how much he could make a fool of himself, in his life, defying new limits.

[fivetimechamp]

Barely a step away, Yuri crumples, and the answer is stamped across his face even before it appears as that mumbled apology, but Victor can't really parse it at all, because something in the back of his head just went puttt and he has lost the ability to think. Relief flooding like stepping into the hot spring, warm water everywhere, chasing goosebumps up his skin and shoving him up off the bed in a quick motion that barely even registers.

Is that it? Is that all?

He was. And Yuri hadn't. First. First. The only one to ever.

There are dull thudding explosions happening inside his chest, and he could be wrong, but he's pretty sure the lights of Shanghai have suddenly gone up in a blaze of fireworks, because all he sees around Yuri's face are hazy, sparkling flashes. If his eyes were replaced by huge and shining cartoon hearts, they couldn't be anymore of an open door into the way his heart is bursting. He was Yuri's first kiss. And Yuri is standing here looking ashamed of it, as if Victor could possibly care, as if it matters at all, as if that might be some sort of dealbreaker. "Oh, Yuri."

Standing there looking like he wants the floor to swallow him, and it is well past the legal limits of what should be considered adorable, but Victor doesn't care, can't, can only lift his hand to the spot on his chest under which his heart is cracking into a thousand glowing pieces. Relief turned him on his head, all the fears and worries and uncertainties of a moment ago washed away in the same flash flood that seems to have obliterated his sanity, as well. "I'm honored."

It's all he can say before he's pressing himself close and his hands have found Yuri's face again, thumbs tracking along the line of his jaw ––

(his skin is soft and warm and it sends a hard shake down along his arms, into his shoulders and back)

–– and kisses him again. And again.

And again.

[theglassheart]

Yuri doesn't want to look up. Doesn't want to hear Victor, when his name is all soft, and Yuri almost flinches. He doesn't want to be another honor on Victor's pile. Whatever it is, it doesn't even compare, and it means, when Victor's hands find his chin -- and he shudders hard at the contact -- the last thing he wants to do is to be made to look up, to be made to never forget whatever face Victor is making, and his hands are on the forearms of Victor's jacket --


-- by the time he realizes Victor is kissing him.

Making something bubble up stubborn and defeated and impossible and absolutely uncomprehending. Not able to tell what impulse it is (run, fight, push, pull) that tightens his hands on Victor's arms, fingers digging into expensive cloth, because it's all he has to hold on to, and even that is slipping. Because Victor hasn't stopped. Victor is kissing him. Again, and again, and again.

Stealing his thoughts. His words. Any certainty except a stinging, bubbling, surge of warmth expanding fast and hard through his center, shoving everything else out, that has him on his toes, before he knows he's there, too. Because there is no question, and no answer, and no fighting it. Victor kisses him, and all he has in him is to push into it. Wanting and absolutely confused, how and why and still, all of it floundering, drowning under the press of Victor's lips and wanting to be impossibly closer.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's fingers are gripping his forearms and Victor has lost his mind, relief and want and the need to wipe that expression off Yuri's face seeping deeper than bones, straight to his core. If it isn't that Yuri doesn't want this ––

And Yuri, for all his flushing and shamefaced glances away, is pushing back into this kiss like he's tossing himself into a jump he doesn't know but is determined to learn ––

That's all he needs to know. Unable to pull away even far enough to keep their noses from brushing so he can say "I don't care about that at all," before his hands are dropping from Yuri's face and throat to his ribs, sliding across the material of his jacket to his back so Victor can press flush against him, close enough, probably, for Yuri to feel the way his heart is sprinting even beneath the material of shirt and vest and tie.

First kisses are meant to be followed up. That's the whole point of first. And there's so much to learn and experience.

Which only makes him think of the panicked way Yuri's gaze had flicked behind his head a few moments ago, and Victor had thought he was just uncertain about whether or not he wanted this to continue, but if that was his first kiss –– and Victor had been sitting on the ––









(He wonders, idly, if there's room in the mini-fridge for him to fit his head between door and jamb and slam it a few times.)

Idioty. Him. That much is clear, but at least he's an idiot who can make sure that isn't something Yuri has to worry about. Until an hour ago, his expectations were non-existent.

Pulling back again, this time more than a little breathless, trying to blink the haze from his eyes and getting caught on how wide and dark Yuri's are, but he should say something, right? Reassure him, somehow. "Don't worry, Yuri."

Fond, as one hand lifts back up to smooth the pad of his thumb over Yuri's bottom lip. "It's still just me."

[theglassheart]

It's wreckless and wrecked and so damn confusing, that it feels like his lungs try to follow Victor even half an inch back. When Victor is everything that exists, and he doesn't even know how many kisses that was, or why they happened, he can't really think beyond the flecks of color in Victor's eyes, right in front of his, and the words about how it doesn't matter.

When all it does is matter. Wind Yuri to remember. Still breathless.

Not gaining any more air, even in the smallest to fast drags of air in, when Victor's hands move. Hands dropping from his face, brushing his throat, burning it, his ribs, his whole body still shaking, when Victor's hands find his back and pull him in tight, and he's hugged Victor.

He's hugged Victor more than he's ever hugged anyone who wasn't in his family, just in the last eight months, but it's not like this. It's not this desperate, dizzy, fiery whirl. That's left his hands up and pressed between them, not sure where to land. The front of his jacket, or just to lift up and wrap around his neck, like he was hugging Victor from any other day. Catching, speeding up, needing, needing to do something, feeling it in his skin, but clueless to what. Quite how.

None of it as important as the impossible, overwhelming, obliterating of everything, that is Victor's mouth against his. The shift and slip of skin. The awareness of every single second of it. All of his body and being reorienting to that friction, the faintest movement, pressure. His hands on Yuri's back, his entire body pressed against Yuri's front, and the absolute disaster the is pretending he can focus, even with his glasses, when Victor leans back at all. The whole world feels tilted sideways and upside down, and Victor's face is beautiful.

Painfully, beautiful, perfect

more so than anything Yuri's ever seen,
and he doesn't want to remember how to think.

Which doesn't keep Victor from talking, from suddenly reaching back to his face again. From the fingers against his jaw, and the thumb on his lip, setting the top inside of Yuri's chest on fire. Even if the groan that come up is far more exasperation than anything anyone in the world, especially Yuri, would consider sexy. Which might be why Yuri colors up, even more than he already is, asking, "Is that supposed to help?"

Victor being Victor (Nikiforov) being Victor (his coach, his -- ?) was every single problem.

[fivetimechamp]

Oh, well ––

His eyebrows push up, curving and pressing together over wide and reproachful eyes, not at all unlike Maccachin's melting dismay when he's been caught sneaking snacks from the kitchen and scolded for it. It hurts, a little, distantly, even if he's aware it's only a bruise to his pride. "Of course it is!"

Everything he's done and said today has been an attempt to help. Well –– almost everything, anyway. The large majority of it. And Yuri was the one who said he wanted Victor to be just Victor, all those months ago. It's not as if he doesn't have worries and fears and doubts like any other person in the world, after all, and the point is, there's nothing Yuri needs to prove to him, and nothing Victor's going to push him towards without Yuri wanting it.

And even with that exasperated noise Yuri makes, and that eye-roll of a question, the fact is that Yuri is pressed all along him, even closer when Victor's hand drops back down to his side and then runs along to his back to tuck Yuri in a little tighter, and his cheeks are flushed and his mouth is slick and a little swollen. Love, apparently, is still wanting to kiss someone who has just called him unhelpful and looked put upon at Victor's attempt to put him more at ease.

(Tchaikovsky had led him to believe there were a deal more magic spells and dramatic confessions immediately before tragic murders, but this is probably better, in the long run, even if Victor feels a little put out.)

[theglassheart]

Yuri isn't positive he wants to play this game. Where Victor sounds a little stung with the offense.

Not angry. But a little offended. The flash bright reaction of it.

He's seen and heard things near enough to have some clue at Victor's actual disappointment and stormy annoyance. But this one he doesn't entirely believe. That there is a cent of him that believes Victor is less than fully aware of who Victor is, what he is, what he represents to the world. With his characteristic ease and the million hearts that broke anytime he so much as threw a wink at a crowd, or a camera.

Yuri doesn't, though, entirely have the time to focus on that, or, more aptly, just that, because Victor pulls him closer even while sounding stung. A hand running down his back, pulling him there. Momentum moving him a step in, shoe bumping Victor's and that catches, with no real preparation or thought and his hands still trapped, making him catch himself on his hands on Victor's chest. Which. Is. It's. It's a development. Leaving him blinking at his hands.

Before he realizes, with exquisite pressure against the back of his breastbone, that he can feel Victor's heart.
Just faintly. Through the lapel of his suit jacket and his shirt. Through everything. His cheeks are definitely warming.

But the look up after is something slower, something ... different.
Eyes caught on his hands, while things slot together like odd, suddenly checked boxes.

His hands are on Victor's chest. And he's in his room (their room) (they are). He's in Victor's arms. Pressed against Victor. Because they were kissing. Because Victor says he's not going to stop. And there's. It's. Really. It's all rather insane, still, but when he's looking back up to Victor's face, there's something soft plucking the edge of his mouth.

[fivetimechamp]

He's still a little stung when he pulls Yuri closer, but there's a sudden pressure against his chest that makes him look down to see Yuri's hands laid flat there, and whatever he was thinking, it's gone in a second.

In the lift of his chest as he breathes, and how that shifts the weight of Yuri's hands, the warm perfect flat of his palms and the delicate curve of his fingers, and it takes him the space of another breath and a few skipped heartbeats to realize that this is the first time Yuri's touched him so far. At least, that hasn't been Victor tugging him around, or pushing him into doors, or taking his hand, or kissing him. Even when Yuri was pushing back into that kiss a second ago, his hands had still been mid-air, like he wasn't sure what to do with them, and even now it's accidental, that's clear.

Certainly from the way Yuri's staring at them, himself, like he'd forgotten he even had hands, or what they might be for, and even when he's touched Victor idly in the past, it's never been like this. Has always been a hug, or an arm around Victor's neck while holding his balance to wipe snow off his blade, or the occasional loose pile of limbs that could be Yuri's or Victor's or Maccachin's, and Victor isn't used to being touched with purpose by Yuri.

Or, at least, if it started as an accident, it's on purpose now because Yuri keeps them there, even as his eyes track back up to Victor's face, with something sweet and shy playing at the corners of his mouth that just manages to punt Victor straight back off the edge of this cliff he'd somehow managed to scale and cling to.

(Somewhere on the horizon, a very long way away, the tiny shimmering dot that was Victor's logical forebrain winks out in a brilliant twinkle.)

They can circle back to ... whatever that was. How just being Victor isn't helpful, or whatever Yuri meant to say, because all Victor can do in this moment, right now, with Yuri's hands over his chest, directly over where his heart is attempting to barrel out towards them, is kiss him again, soft and careful and as achingly sweet as this thing in his chest that he's never known how to express, except in ballet and the tight control of spins and the wide white sweep of the ice.

[theglassheart]

He's been close to Victor for months. Closer than really with anyone else. Even Phichit gave him an air of careful, respectful space during the years they lived together. But nothing like Victor, and even the comparison of Victor before the last hour, in the whole of the last eight months, is nothing like Victor this hour. Is nothing like watching his expression change this close to it.

The way the wrinkle of something that looked exasperating like it truly was going to become a bewildered pout almost. Except it smoothes away. He watches it. This shift in Victor's face. When he'd been looking down at the same thing Yuri had been -- Yuri's hands, which almost fidget in the urge to run, hide, be put somewhere, anywhere else with everyone's attention on them -- but Victor looks up and it's different.

There's something Yuri can't label. Something almost familiar about this look. When Victor's eyes only look to his, wander his face, in quick shots like he's not quite sure where to stay, how to take in all of it, and that's crazy, right? Victor can't feel nearly anywhere as overwhelmed as he does? It's that it's all new to him. All of it. Embarrassingly, and clear, to the whole world. Or at least the room. Everything.

Like the way, he swears, and swears himself down from insanity, the certainty,
that the speed of Victor's heart does not quicken, right before Victor kisses him again.

Which even that feels different, fingers pressing down faintly at the surprise and the ... and everything else the comes back.

At the way, this feels suddenly more fragile and suddenly more real than ever before. When there's still a corner of him ready for this to be a dream, and another that made of shadows of terror for things that haven't changed, he can still feel them both. And still there's this. There's the careful, sweet way Victor is kissing him, and the solidness of his arms. The aching slowness, like he wants Yuri to remember every second this time. To not get lost, to not leave him, or this second, and the next, and the next, and yet to shatter against him all at once.

[fivetimechamp]

It's only been a little over an hour, but it's been such a full and confused one that he hasn't really had time to feel it. This dramatic, comprehensive shift, that feels like the earth has started spinning the other direction all at once, and tomorrow morning the sun will rise in the west and not the east as it always has. That could hardly be as unbelievable as having Yuri in his arms, hands against his chest, kissing him back so soft and shy that every muscle in Victor's body starts shivering with the strain of holding back.

Not just crushing him to his chest, or against a wall. With anyone else, this would already be half over, clothes scattered on the floor and the sheets flung off the bed, but Yuri ––

Yuri, who has only just been kissed for the first time. When Victor should have made it like this, if he'd known: the perfect careful press of lips, even as it's starting to fall apart on its own, like the decay of a spin before it kicks off again. He can't help it, the way his breath hitches and his heart speeds, thudding so swiftly against his ribs he feels a little light-headed, drowning on dry land, here in this hotel room, on having Yuri in his arms.

One hand leaving Yuri's back to drift up between them and cover Yuri's, pressing them a little more firmly into his chest, but even that is almost too much, tugs a low, sore sound from the back of his throat, from the eight months he'd tried to convince himself to accept and adjust, from the year and a half before that when there was nothing, nothing, nothing. How is it that with Yuri here, finally, pressed warm and wanting up against him, he can be so suddenly flooded with the crystal clear ache of all those months, the overwhelming sense of loss and loneliness and bewildered heartache that he hated to call love? Why is now when all of that is resurfacing, when the last eight months have been so happy, and he's finally holding everything he wanted, the one person he has ever wanted, the only one he's ever loved?

He doesn't know, only knows that the press of Yuri's palm hurts and heals all at that same time, and that, more than Yuri melting in to him, he's pouring himself towards Yuri, led by this idioty heart of his that can't tell happiness from pain, or air from drowning.