Yuri is going to die right here. Not yet. But soon. He can feel it coming.
Somewhere between the shock that won't stay frozen and the fear, it's only going to get worse, and then, because Victor can't remain predictable in even the smallest part -- he starts talking in Russian. Simple words, and singular. First looking like Yuri understands him, finally. Before, he pauses, looking up, trying to figure something out.
All of it words Yuri doesn't know in the slightest,
except that he can recognize certain pieces of syllables ... or more aptly how Victor says them.
He usually likes the sound of it, foreign and smooth, mysterious like smoke, with sudden surprising hard edges and then unexpected perfect fluidity, reminding him of exactly how Victor skated, even as it crawled down his skin, prickling it like a late winter breeze. Usually. Right now, he just doesn't have any room for it. It's just another sign that Victor is so far gone not only is he naked, he's indecipherable, and still has the gal to look happy about being both.
Until he doesn't.
Until someone is pushing the clothes back on them, with so much haste you'd think they were scared they might get caught up in the middle of this, too, if their hands weren't away as soon as the clothes dropped. (And, he's pretty sure, none of the phones have stopped. This is it, too. This is how his appearance at the Grand Prix starts. Not with just shooting his mouth off, but with Victor naked and drunk at the hot pot.)
He's holding on to Victor's pants while Victor pulls his briefs back on, looking, for all the world like a confused chastised child, a puppy that got left outside, even when he's all -- Yuri can't even drop his gaze below the work of the muscles in Victor's shoulders and the way his expression is almost ... blearily crestfallen? How he can be the most unfair person on the planet is beyond Yuri, but he manages it.
Every day, in new ways. Unfair. Absolutely unfair. And Yuri's heart stumbles about even more. He can't even swallow, and he needs to focus on the one thing he needs Victor to focus on, so he forces his voice to work. "Good. Good." Numb words, "Thank you."
When he's waiting for the first to get done, and judging it by posture, and when Victor is back to more upright, because he doesn't want to look directly down, he doesn't. Even the thought just makes his cheeks and the muscles across his ribs sore. His face might never stop straining, or being stained at this point. He just holds out the pants. "These now."
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Somewhere between the shock that won't stay frozen and the fear, it's only going to get worse, and then, because Victor can't remain predictable in even the smallest part -- he starts talking in Russian. Simple words, and singular. First looking like Yuri understands him, finally. Before, he pauses, looking up, trying to figure something out.
All of it words Yuri doesn't know in the slightest,
except that he can recognize certain pieces of syllables ... or more aptly how Victor says them.
He usually likes the sound of it, foreign and smooth, mysterious like smoke, with sudden surprising hard edges and then unexpected perfect fluidity, reminding him of exactly how Victor skated, even as it crawled down his skin, prickling it like a late winter breeze. Usually. Right now, he just doesn't have any room for it. It's just another sign that Victor is so far gone not only is he naked, he's indecipherable, and still has the gal to look happy about being both.
Until he doesn't.
Until someone is pushing the clothes back on them, with so much haste you'd think they were scared they might get caught up in the middle of this, too, if their hands weren't away as soon as the clothes dropped. (And, he's pretty sure, none of the phones have stopped. This is it, too. This is how his appearance at the Grand Prix starts. Not with just shooting his mouth off, but with Victor naked and drunk at the hot pot.)
He's holding on to Victor's pants while Victor pulls his briefs back on, looking, for all the world like a confused chastised child, a puppy that got left outside, even when he's all -- Yuri can't even drop his gaze below the work of the muscles in Victor's shoulders and the way his expression is almost ... blearily crestfallen? How he can be the most unfair person on the planet is beyond Yuri, but he manages it.
Every day, in new ways. Unfair. Absolutely unfair. And Yuri's heart stumbles about even more. He can't even swallow, and he needs to focus on the one thing he needs Victor to focus on, so he forces his voice to work. "Good. Good." Numb words, "Thank you."
When he's waiting for the first to get done, and judging it by posture, and when Victor is back to more upright, because he doesn't want to look directly down, he doesn't. Even the thought just makes his cheeks and the muscles across his ribs sore. His face might never stop straining, or being stained at this point. He just holds out the pants. "These now."