Yuri has no idea which question Victor could even be trying to reference, why or how, or even when. Victor badgers him for the answer to questions from the moment he wakes up until he sleeps, and he almost always gives up whatever the answer is, even if he's ashamed of it. He hasn't avoided anything serious since at least before dinner, and he tries not to let it dig fingers in.
Even if it does. Even if he's still hearing that absolutely unfamiliar thick Russian on the words in his ears, when he shakes the pants. It's better than words it's more important than anything he could come up with to say. There was no question, and he needs to get dressed, and they need to leave.
There's the blink of a moment's relief -- when Victor's hand shoots out -- before everything explodes.
Fingers curling his wrist, slim and strong and so hot, to jerk him forward. Hard into Victor's body.
The pants slipping from his hand, then hands, because his eyes shoot up and widen with something akin to horror. When he can't stop himself from pushing back, except there is no back, because the chair back is gone, and Victor's arms are sliding around his neck, Victor's finger are in his hair, just as capable, just as steady and strong, and demanding as ever, somehow.
There's a noise that's almost entirely unintelligible, bordering and then bursting through shock flares (Victor is so drunk Victor is trying to kiss him) slams, like hitting that wall without expecting, but it's not like possibly breaking his nose, it's like tearing off the first level on his bones. It only tosses him into freezing, panicked, desperation. The word no is everywhere in his head, in his skin, but not his mouth. He doesn't want this -- even if something sour and sharp, shackled to his shoe, and the ice and dark night, says that's wrong.
(That he doesn't want it
like this.)
His glasses are shoving up his cheeks and into his forehead (Victor's hair against his skin, silvering his red vision, the way it tickled and now .. the way feels like getting hit), and his heart has become faster than seems possible, painful at the bottom his throat, worse than choking, and the smell of the miju is back, so sweet he swears he can taste it on his tongue already and the one name about to be screamed from his mouth, before the world actually dies, changes in a single second, in the only moment he's trying to find someone --anyone -- to help him -- it becomes
"PHICHIT!" And it's worse. It's all of that shock and horror and something more like impossible betrayal added to it.
(Because his friend is turned around backward,
lining up a selfie, through his camera, on what's happening over here.)
no subject
Even if it does. Even if he's still hearing that absolutely unfamiliar thick Russian on the words in his ears, when he shakes the pants. It's better than words it's more important than anything he could come up with to say. There was no question, and he needs to get dressed, and they need to leave.
There's the blink of a moment's relief -- when Victor's hand shoots out -- before everything explodes.
Fingers curling his wrist, slim and strong and so hot, to jerk him forward. Hard into Victor's body.
The pants slipping from his hand, then hands, because his eyes shoot up and widen with something akin to horror. When he can't stop himself from pushing back, except there is no back, because the chair back is gone, and Victor's arms are sliding around his neck, Victor's finger are in his hair, just as capable, just as steady and strong, and demanding as ever, somehow.
There's a noise that's almost entirely unintelligible, bordering and then bursting through shock flares (Victor is so drunk Victor is trying to kiss him) slams, like hitting that wall without expecting, but it's not like possibly breaking his nose, it's like tearing off the first level on his bones. It only tosses him into freezing, panicked, desperation. The word no is everywhere in his head, in his skin, but not his mouth. He doesn't want this -- even if something sour and sharp, shackled to his shoe, and the ice and dark night, says that's wrong.
like this.)
His glasses are shoving up his cheeks and into his forehead (Victor's hair against his skin, silvering his red vision, the way it tickled and now .. the way feels like getting hit), and his heart has become faster than seems possible, painful at the bottom his throat, worse than choking, and the smell of the miju is back, so sweet he swears he can taste it on his tongue already and the one name about to be screamed from his mouth, before the world actually dies, changes in a single second, in the only moment he's trying to find someone --anyone -- to help him -- it becomes
"PHICHIT!" And it's worse. It's all of that shock and horror and something more like impossible betrayal added to it.
(Because his friend is turned around backward,
lining up a selfie, through his camera, on what's happening over here.)