That breathless things that isn't a real complaint.
There's too much wind and lightness, breathless surprise, getting spangled inside Yuri's chest, as he laughs at Victor's words, and then Victor running after Maccachin into the wavelets, all regard for any other life flown away with the wind blowing his silver-grey hair back behind him and then all around him. All joyful abandon even at the first brush, more than Yuri thinks he's felt about things he's known he's loved forever.
Yuri's is not quite sure when he ended with his ankles all the way in the water already, cold sliding between his toes and into his bones. Like the ice, the water is, but kinder. No sharp feeling of burns scratching through his skin at its kiss. It's up inside his chest and his arms, cold snaps, that feel like they are blighting out the clouds that were left in his head, and he hears those words again, watching Victor and Maccachin splash at each other.
Different doesn't mean bad.
Different from all he'd expected, when looking at Victor was still partially like looking at the sun. Not like looking at him through the corona of the podium light (or maybe just a little bit, he's trying, to not see it, or see past it, past himself, past the boxes and roles they could give or take). It's still like the sun, itself, made every effort to catch itself in his hair, and corners of his mouth, as he laughed. Still just as gorgeous as the rest of the world had known, still reported on now ... but maybe even more. Here, now, in this absolute simplicity.
Maybe they are both are -- maybe all of this is.
Different, but not bad, when Maccachin comes half bounding half swimming back toward him, half attack and half retreat from Victor, all flopping and flying water, and Yuri leans down to splash him back, before realizing, only as his hand comes up with the arc of a swing (getting half his sweatshirt sleeve wet) that it's aimed at Maccaachin, but it's going to hit Victor full on, too, coming up behind him.
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That breathless things that isn't a real complaint.
There's too much wind and lightness, breathless surprise, getting spangled inside Yuri's chest, as he laughs at Victor's words, and then Victor running after Maccachin into the wavelets, all regard for any other life flown away with the wind blowing his silver-grey hair back behind him and then all around him. All joyful abandon even at the first brush, more than Yuri thinks he's felt about things he's known he's loved forever.
Yuri's is not quite sure when he ended with his ankles all the way in the water already, cold sliding between his toes and into his bones. Like the ice, the water is, but kinder. No sharp feeling of burns scratching through his skin at its kiss. It's up inside his chest and his arms, cold snaps, that feel like they are blighting out the clouds that were left in his head, and he hears those words again, watching Victor and Maccachin splash at each other.
Different doesn't mean bad.
Different from all he'd expected, when looking at Victor was still partially like looking at the sun. Not like looking at him through the corona of the podium light (or maybe just a little bit, he's trying, to not see it, or see past it, past himself, past the boxes and roles they could give or take). It's still like the sun, itself, made every effort to catch itself in his hair, and corners of his mouth, as he laughed. Still just as gorgeous as the rest of the world had known, still reported on now ... but maybe even more. Here, now, in this absolute simplicity.
Maybe they are both are -- maybe all of this is.
Different, but not bad, when Maccachin comes half bounding half swimming back toward him, half attack and half retreat from Victor, all flopping and flying water, and Yuri leans down to splash him back, before realizing, only as his hand comes up with the arc of a swing (getting half his sweatshirt sleeve wet) that it's aimed at Maccaachin, but it's going to hit Victor full on, too, coming up behind him.