Even as something relaxes in his chest at the sight of Victor there, and even as Victor is turning to him, grey-silver hair swinging, eyes all brilliance, saying the one word he's said most in these months -- his name, and his mind knows the second one, is just as trained to it.
(Seduce me.)
But the bubble of the thought, and the vein it cuts itself from, is broken back into the cracks it tried to burble through while Victor is suddenly smiling up at him, calling his name more loudly than needed. Nothing like the momentary image of the man on the ice, the lips at his ear. It's just this. Victor:
Bright, glass-cut, eyes, lighter than the sea, and maybe even a little glassy. Mouth stretched in a smile, like he somehow didn't see Yuri four minutes ago.
Hasn't seen him every day, all day, for most of the last year. It's over the top. It's very Victor, too.
That wavering hand, that seems confused by the air, or movement, finally finds Yuri's hand, to drag him back into his chair, as though there was somewhere else he might have ended up, and he's halfway to thinking Victor might be a little -- before a brick falls through his stomach and crashes on his feet with Victor's words.
Looking from Victor to Celestino and back suddenly, the ability for dread to creep so fast, collapse in so vast, impossible even when it's happening. When his cheeks color, and every wobble, every fall, every time he never spoke, how slow he can be in comparison.
How many minutes had they left them alone? How much could they have covered, and agreed upon, already?
It's absolutely unsteady, barely a second later, warbled uncertainty, surprise, dread. "O-oh?"
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Even as something relaxes in his chest at the sight of Victor there, and even as Victor is turning to him, grey-silver hair swinging, eyes all brilliance, saying the one word he's said most in these months -- his name, and his mind knows the second one, is just as trained to it.
But the bubble of the thought, and the vein it cuts itself from, is broken back into the cracks it tried to burble through while Victor is suddenly smiling up at him, calling his name more loudly than needed. Nothing like the momentary image of the man on the ice, the lips at his ear. It's just this. Victor:
Bright, glass-cut, eyes, lighter than the sea, and maybe even a little glassy.
Mouth stretched in a smile, like he somehow didn't see Yuri four minutes ago.
Hasn't seen him every day, all day, for most of the last year. It's over the top. It's very Victor, too.
That wavering hand, that seems confused by the air, or movement, finally finds Yuri's hand, to drag him back into his chair, as though there was somewhere else he might have ended up, and he's halfway to thinking Victor might be a little -- before a brick falls through his stomach and crashes on his feet with Victor's words.
Looking from Victor to Celestino and back suddenly, the ability for dread to creep so fast, collapse in so vast, impossible even when it's happening. When his cheeks color, and every wobble, every fall, every time he never spoke, how slow he can be in comparison.
How many minutes had they left them alone? How much could they have covered, and agreed upon, already?
It's absolutely unsteady, barely a second later, warbled uncertainty, surprise, dread. "O-oh?"