Victor should be saying something back, but Victor is staring at him.
Those blue-green eyes, so different from everything in his life, so completely a color that is just Victor's, only Victors, that comparisons only pale beside or bring him back to the color and depth of, are just staring at him. Or maybe through him, a sly, unhelpful thought whispers. But he doesn't think he is. He's collected a lot of the way Victor has looked at him, most of them translatable. Most of them familiar.
(Save one. That happened so often.
Too often to still now know it.)
It's uncomfortably clunky uncertainty when he's about to ask Victor the question he almost asked a second ago -- How much have you had?, except this time with something almost patiently amused, that feeling flickering in his stomach, trying to toy with the edge of his own mouth -- because this time Victor, who never forgets what he's saying, seems to have forgotten he started this conversation. With actual words, and not just staring at him.
But before that smile can break like a wave on him or any of the playful tone that he's not sure where is pushing up from, suddenly there's a scuffle for things on the table, that makes his hands jump to hold their side of the table. Celestino's glass has lost its grip and sounds like it's fallen, hitting the ground, but Yuri can only barely hear that because Celestino takes a dive for the table right the next second, like the cup was his last standing support, and Pcichit is yelping something, asking if Celestino is okay, leaning in, waving a hand. Both. Frantically.
Yuri's eyes wide, against the shock, about to look to Victor and suggest that this dinner is o--
Except his eyes track to one side -- to reach Victor -- and Victor's shirt is flying over Victor's head and the shock he felt a second ago is nothing like the one smacking into him now, as the shirt goes flying and Victor (all far too familiar, pale skin stretched taut over muscles) looks so relievedly pleased with himself. Like this isn't a restaurant. Like they don't have company. And none of those make words, nothing holds for the slam of it, it just comes out -- "V-v-victor?"
Panicked floating question, shocked demand, embarrassed recrimination, broken notes and all.
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Those blue-green eyes, so different from everything in his life, so completely a color that is just Victor's, only Victors, that comparisons only pale beside or bring him back to the color and depth of, are just staring at him. Or maybe through him, a sly, unhelpful thought whispers. But he doesn't think he is. He's collected a lot of the way Victor has looked at him, most of them translatable. Most of them familiar.
That happened so often.
Too often to still now know it.)
It's uncomfortably clunky uncertainty when he's about to ask Victor the question he almost asked a second ago -- How much have you had?, except this time with something almost patiently amused, that feeling flickering in his stomach, trying to toy with the edge of his own mouth -- because this time Victor, who never forgets what he's saying, seems to have forgotten he started this conversation. With actual words, and not just staring at him.
But before that smile can break like a wave on him or any of the playful tone that he's not sure where is pushing up from, suddenly there's a scuffle for things on the table, that makes his hands jump to hold their side of the table. Celestino's glass has lost its grip and sounds like it's fallen, hitting the ground, but Yuri can only barely hear that because Celestino takes a dive for the table right the next second, like the cup was his last standing support, and Pcichit is yelping something, asking if Celestino is okay, leaning in, waving a hand. Both. Frantically.
Yuri's eyes wide, against the shock, about to look to Victor and suggest that this dinner is o--
Except his eyes track to one side -- to reach Victor -- and Victor's shirt is flying over Victor's head and the shock he felt a second ago is nothing like the one smacking into him now, as the shirt goes flying and Victor (all far too familiar, pale skin stretched taut over muscles) looks so relievedly pleased with himself. Like this isn't a restaurant. Like they don't have company. And none of those make words, nothing holds for the slam of it, it just comes out -- "V-v-victor?"
Panicked floating question, shocked demand, embarrassed recrimination, broken notes and all.