It's a small simple word, that first one, but Victor face is still clear. No, it's more than that. He seems almost ... pleased?
Which is nothing that makes sense, when he's opened the door and spilled his fears, like a stick thick sauce, everywhere, and yet something stranger yet happens, too. Something in him warms, trailing ribbons of that warmth, behind his ribs, careful and slow, slipping in like that light through the blinds at dawn. But backwards, but ... warm.
As Victor holds a hand out. Not coming toward him. Not a riot of movement and ownership of Yuri's space, Yuri's body, Yuri's action that Yuri thinks he's maybe never lived a day of his life, that wasn't spent in the movement of his skates, faster and faster, until his feet are wind, and ice, and music, and his body can't help but follow in their song. Just that hand held out between them. Like.
Like Victor is willing to meet him in the middle. Meet him where he is. Even here. A little lost still. To let him choose to back up his words, decree, with action on his own merit.
And it brims over at his ribs.
Like. It's own thing, peering out from those bars, and he wants it. He wants to. He watches his own hand come into his vision. Slip into Victor's hand. Slip into Victor's words.
That he won't go easy. Maybe anymore. Maybe at all. The definitive of when doesn't matter against him in the light. Against everything pressing out of him, shy and uncertain, but yearning for that. That unnamable in Victor's face. "Okay."
The same word. Small and simple. But he doesn't look away from Victor this time, and he doesn't pull his hand back to himself.
no subject
Which is nothing that makes sense, when he's opened the door and spilled his fears, like a stick thick sauce, everywhere, and yet something stranger yet happens, too. Something in him warms, trailing ribbons of that warmth, behind his ribs, careful and slow, slipping in like that light through the blinds at dawn. But backwards, but ... warm.
As Victor holds a hand out. Not coming toward him. Not a riot of movement and ownership of Yuri's space, Yuri's body, Yuri's action that Yuri thinks he's maybe never lived a day of his life, that wasn't spent in the movement of his skates, faster and faster, until his feet are wind, and ice, and music, and his body can't help but follow in their song. Just that hand held out between them. Like.
Like Victor is willing to meet him in the middle. Meet him where he is. Even here. A little lost still.
To let him choose to back up his words, decree, with action on his own merit.
And it brims over at his ribs.
Like. It's own thing, peering out from those bars, and he wants it. He wants to.
He watches his own hand come into his vision. Slip into Victor's hand. Slip into Victor's words.
That he won't go easy. Maybe anymore. Maybe at all. The definitive of when doesn't matter against him in the light.
Against everything pressing out of him, shy and uncertain, but yearning for that. That unnamable in Victor's face. "Okay."
The same word. Small and simple. But he doesn't look away from Victor this time, and he doesn't pull his hand back to himself.