Even though he's mostly certain Victor heard him the first time, saying it to the poodle, and it would sound like a grumble maybe if he wasn't smiling and shaking his head, eyes more down than up. But constantly shooting up, too. The sand is cold under his feet, but Victor isn't wrong about what he said when he put his feet on it first. It does feel good.
Tendrils of cool shooting up his skin, balm against soreness, even when it sends a small shiver up his back, as it hits his system, coming full circle. It crisp, that coolness. Not cold as snow, or ice, even if the water might be. More like a sudden tugging breeze blown up into his skin, like it would blow up into the leaves of the wisteria outside his bedroom window.
Maybe his last steps are a little faster than a walk, but not quite to a run to get to where Victor is now.
The sand getting denser and colder where the water was earlier, before the tide pulled out.
Stopping only a few feet from Victor and the frothing surf right beyond him.
(Thinking for for the briefest second of stopping here, like stopping, right at the edge of the rink, after skating Eros, right before Victor threw his arms around him, still all out of breath, surprised, at the hug, that he couldn't figure out what to do with arms or hands at all during, or the sudden proud compliments from Victor for winning, before he let go and proceeded to lecture him on whichever thing he'd messed up that time.)
no subject
Even though he's mostly certain Victor heard him the first time, saying it to the poodle, and it would sound like a grumble maybe if he wasn't smiling and shaking his head, eyes more down than up. But constantly shooting up, too. The sand is cold under his feet, but Victor isn't wrong about what he said when he put his feet on it first. It does feel good.
Tendrils of cool shooting up his skin, balm against soreness, even when it sends a small shiver up his back, as it hits his system, coming full circle. It crisp, that coolness. Not cold as snow, or ice, even if the water might be. More like a sudden tugging breeze blown up into his skin, like it would blow up into the leaves of the wisteria outside his bedroom window.
Maybe his last steps are a little faster than a walk, but not quite to a run to get to where Victor is now.
The sand getting denser and colder where the water was earlier, before the tide pulled out.
Stopping only a few feet from Victor and the frothing surf right beyond him.
(Thinking for for the briefest second of stopping here, like stopping, right at the edge of the rink, after skating Eros, right before Victor threw his arms around him, still all out of breath, surprised, at the hug, that he couldn't figure out what to do with arms or hands at all during, or the sudden proud compliments from Victor for winning, before he let go and proceeded to lecture him on whichever thing he'd messed up that time.)