Yuri's cheeks heat a faint pink, when the first thought isn't like Phichit's. It isn't about the plane. It isn't about the people who Victor talked cheerfully to, like he could make best friends everywhere, and like half of the people he talked to weren't absolutely bowled over, their eyes shining and half-focused, like he'd come down from the clouds, looking all proud and excited.

It wasn't that. What it came up as made his cheeks warm, but nothing compared to the spike in his chest.
It wasn't quite appropriate, was it? Remembering waking up to something tickling his cheek.

Realizing it was Victor's hair. Victor's head falling back near his, turned sideways, his back more against Yuri's own shoulder than the back of the airplane seat. The way he'd gone still. So still, so awake, so instantly. Confused. Surprised. Aware of the weight. Aware of being touched. Not even reaching up to rub at his cheek, or to move at all. Silver-bright still brushing his skin there, clouding his vision. Victor's forehead, and temple, and ear, visible right beyond.

Unable to take a breath in until Victor shifted in his seat, his head falling the other way. Still impossibly fast asleep, even after telling Yuri it would never happen. Not in the economy seats. Yuri closing his eyes, then, trying to get back to sleep, to breathing, to not replaying that in confusion, that absolutely nothing second, too aware suddenly, even more of his cheek. Of the weight on his shoulder. The tightness in his chest. Muscles.

"Right. Yes." It's a mumble. Too fast, too low, cheeks too warm. For no reason that he could defend as sense.
None except that eight months later, he still hadn't perfected Victor being entirely normal, being unaffected by the rest.