Yuri's pushing pants at him, but Victor's still just considering him, through slitted eyes. Thinking. Even if it's treacly and slow.
A golden night. The taste of champagne. The music. The dance floor. Yuri's hand against his cheek.
"You never answered my question."
it comes out a little too thick, a little to Russian. Like the joke of an accent in old spy movies, and not the one he's cultivated through years of traveling through Europe, learning languages and perfecting his English and French. It sounds a little more Boris and Natasha, and he can feel it trying to escape in Russian, instead:
(Ты не ответил на мой вопрос)
But he hauls it down, forces the English instead, even if it's without the smattering of Japanese that he's been using for the last four or five months.
It's important that Yuri understand him. That Yuri know he's still waiting. That in two years, and in eight months, he still hasn't answered a simple question. A yes or a no. After Victor had let him do what no one ever did. Touch him. Reach for him. Shatter him.
Yuri's holding out the pants, and Victor's gaze drops to them for a moment, before his hand shoots out: not for the pants, but for Yuri's wrist, to tug him sharply close, even as his fingers let go so his arms can come up around Yuri's neck again. One hand sinking into black, silky hair, the other flat against a shoulderblade, and he should have. Should have. Should have.
Should have demanded an answer.
Should have pulled him out the door when Chris wasn't looking.
Should have dragged him away before Celestino could.
Should have flown to Japan the next day.
He should have kissed Katsuki Yuri when he had the chance.
no subject
A golden night. The taste of champagne. The music. The dance floor. Yuri's hand against his cheek.
"You never answered my question."
it comes out a little too thick, a little to Russian. Like the joke of an accent in old spy movies, and not the one he's cultivated through years of traveling through Europe, learning languages and perfecting his English and French. It sounds a little more Boris and Natasha, and he can feel it trying to escape in Russian, instead:
But he hauls it down, forces the English instead, even if it's without the smattering of Japanese that he's been using for the last four or five months.
It's important that Yuri understand him. That Yuri know he's still waiting. That in two years, and in eight months, he still hasn't answered a simple question. A yes or a no. After Victor had let him do what no one ever did. Touch him. Reach for him. Shatter him.
Yuri's holding out the pants, and Victor's gaze drops to them for a moment, before his hand shoots out: not for the pants, but for Yuri's wrist, to tug him sharply close, even as his fingers let go so his arms can come up around Yuri's neck again. One hand sinking into black, silky hair, the other flat against a shoulderblade, and he should have. Should have. Should have.
Should have demanded an answer.
Should have pulled him out the door when Chris wasn't looking.
Should have dragged him away before Celestino could.
Should have flown to Japan the next day.
He should have kissed Katsuki Yuri when he had the chance.
But he's not going to miss it again.