Nothing -- nothing -- is good, when Victor is saying that quietly into Yuri's ear like that.
All warm and thoughtless, like he's done everything right, like there's nothing strange about this, nothing jangling hard enough to wind him in Yuri's blood stream when he swears Victor's mouth is brushing against his hair, the cut of air, of pointed scalding heat rising on the thin skin there, like they had almost brushed his ear, too, and nothing -- nothing -- is sticking together in his head. Nothing at all.
Nothing but the warmth of Victor's face catching on his skin, his must now be burning ear, the smell of the miju Victor has been drinking since they arrived. Fermented rice and something sweet. Something he nearly tilts his head toward, but it's right as Victor asks another unrelated question in this new game of tripping up Yuri's brain and he's leaning away, letting go. Suddenly not against Yuri's head. Suddenly not wrapped around his arm.
Leaving Yuri sure that the ground is no longer flat and his chair is no longer steady, and one of his arms collapses across his own lap, catching on his opposite hip, like he's seat belting himself to the world. Or the chair. Or the existence of his own skin. Air still uncertain it wants to come anywhere near his lungs. Stupid and startled and everything at edges, shivering like cold slammed him, not the hot Victor had asked about, while Victor cheerful offers food to Phichit like that was nothing.
(Because it was.)
(Nothing.)
Because Victor is drunk and gregarious. Because that's not even a new thing, if in a new country.
(With people Yuri knows differently.)
Phichit, on the other hand, seems to be taking the long way around to getting his eyebrows down, back anywhere on his face, and not so comically far up they are basically floating above his head and his only-just-not dropped wide mouth. Camera in his hands like something he both has forgotten and is clutching too tight, in some kind of inner battle.
Before he's nodding, too. Too fast. Excitedly fast. Hands not leaving his phone to pick up a plate to help. "Yes. That sounds good. Please."
His eyes shooting to Yuri with something vital Yuri can't make out, because Yuri is only finally beginning to parse his own blood in his own head.
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All warm and thoughtless, like he's done everything right, like there's nothing strange about this, nothing jangling hard enough to wind him in Yuri's blood stream when he swears Victor's mouth is brushing against his hair, the cut of air, of pointed scalding heat rising on the thin skin there, like they had almost brushed his ear, too, and nothing -- nothing -- is sticking together in his head. Nothing at all.
Nothing but the warmth of Victor's face catching on his skin, his must now be burning ear, the smell of the miju Victor has been drinking since they arrived. Fermented rice and something sweet. Something he nearly tilts his head toward, but it's right as Victor asks another unrelated question in this new game of tripping up Yuri's brain and he's leaning away, letting go. Suddenly not against Yuri's head. Suddenly not wrapped around his arm.
Leaving Yuri sure that the ground is no longer flat and his chair is no longer steady, and one of his arms collapses across his own lap, catching on his opposite hip, like he's seat belting himself to the world. Or the chair. Or the existence of his own skin. Air still uncertain it wants to come anywhere near his lungs. Stupid and startled and everything at edges, shivering like cold slammed him, not the hot Victor had asked about, while Victor cheerful offers food to Phichit like that was nothing.
(Because it was.)
Because that's not even a new thing, if in a new country.
(With people Yuri knows differently.)
Phichit, on the other hand, seems to be taking the long way around to getting his eyebrows down, back anywhere on his face, and not so comically far up they are basically floating above his head and his only-just-not dropped wide mouth. Camera in his hands like something he both has forgotten and is clutching too tight, in some kind of inner battle.
Before he's nodding, too. Too fast. Excitedly fast.
Hands not leaving his phone to pick up a plate to help. "Yes. That sounds good. Please."
His eyes shooting to Yuri with something vital Yuri can't make out, because Yuri is only finally beginning to parse his own blood in his own head.