There's the rustle of fabric, and the thudding of his own heart, and Yuri's eyes going wide, and the room around them spinning, and then –
– And then Yuri's yelling something, and his eyes are off Victor's face, making Victor glance that way, too, eyes narrowing. He doesn't care about pictures. He doesn't care about the people who might see them. Everything he cares about, he has, right here. The ice, and the music, and the choreography, and everything he's been searching for, everything he's ignored for so long.
And Yuri.
Who is.
(He'd been leaning in again, but he stops, lips a bare breath from Yuri's skin, blinking. Feeling a little like someone's doused him with water, or like he's suddenly surfaced from an icy pool and gasped air for the first time in minutes. Because Yuri, he's –)
Terrified. Horrified? Insulted? Leaning away. Eyes wide and face pale. Hands up, held away from Victor's bare skin, like he can't even bear to touch Victor long enough to shove him away.
But drawing as far away as he can. Because. Because.
Because he told Victor. All those months ago. Be my coach. Just be Victor. And all the things he shouldn't be. All the no's that landed like darts, and that he's remembered every day since, until now, and why did he think, he didn't think, he was so sure.
That it wasn't just him. Blurred lines and too-long looks. Careful, and then casual, touches. Everything they are. Were. Have been. Could be.
Stabbing him in the chest with an icicle that doesn't melt, only freezes its way through his veins, as he lets go, pushing himself back as violently as he'd moved forward, eyes wide.
He feels sick. And it isn't from the wine, or the shrimp.
Sick. At the way Yuri looks. Sounds. Betrayed.
What was he thinking?
"I'm – "
Hands up, words feeling too clumsy. Too English. Too ... nothing's right. It was, and then it wasn't. Yuri's looking at him like that. Sounding like that. " – sorry."
Which doesn't cover it. The horror at himself. How he needs to go stick his head in that hot pot and let it boil away. How badly he behaved. How selfish.
He's been trying. He has. He has to be the best coach possible for Yuri. Coach. That's what Yuri wants. None of this is supposed to be about him. Not even if Yuri's been re-enacting that moment at the banquet every day now for months. Even if, somewhere, Yurio is skating the angel to Yuri's demon. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't want to accidentally touch Yuri, but he leans down to find those pants, feeling, for the first time, how drunk he actually is. How the world spins and dips, confusing him. Even as he's taking his wallet out and leaving cash that he thinks is enough for the meal, and more. Looking up too often, sneaking glances towards Yuri's face, to see if he's angry. Hurt.
Scared.
Thinking there isn't a hard enough to kick himself. He knew. And he did it anyway.
Even the pants, now on, buttoned and zipped, can't hide the flush of regret now climbing up his chest towards his throat.
no subject
– And then Yuri's yelling something, and his eyes are off Victor's face, making Victor glance that way, too, eyes narrowing. He doesn't care about pictures. He doesn't care about the people who might see them. Everything he cares about, he has, right here. The ice, and the music, and the choreography, and everything he's been searching for, everything he's ignored for so long.
And Yuri.
Who is.
(He'd been leaning in again, but he stops, lips a bare breath from Yuri's skin, blinking. Feeling a little like someone's doused him with water, or like he's suddenly surfaced from an icy pool and gasped air for the first time in minutes. Because Yuri, he's –)
Terrified. Horrified? Insulted? Leaning away. Eyes wide and face pale. Hands up, held away from Victor's bare skin, like he can't even bear to touch Victor long enough to shove him away.
But drawing as far away as he can. Because. Because.
Because he told Victor. All those months ago. Be my coach. Just be Victor. And all the things he shouldn't be. All the no's that landed like darts, and that he's remembered every day since, until now, and why did he think, he didn't think, he was so sure.
That it wasn't just him. Blurred lines and too-long looks. Careful, and then casual, touches. Everything they are. Were. Have been. Could be.
Stabbing him in the chest with an icicle that doesn't melt, only freezes its way through his veins, as he lets go, pushing himself back as violently as he'd moved forward, eyes wide.
He feels sick. And it isn't from the wine, or the shrimp.
Sick. At the way Yuri looks. Sounds. Betrayed.
What was he thinking?
"I'm – "
Hands up, words feeling too clumsy. Too English. Too ... nothing's right. It was, and then it wasn't. Yuri's looking at him like that. Sounding like that. " – sorry."
Which doesn't cover it. The horror at himself. How he needs to go stick his head in that hot pot and let it boil away. How badly he behaved. How selfish.
He's been trying. He has. He has to be the best coach possible for Yuri. Coach. That's what Yuri wants. None of this is supposed to be about him. Not even if Yuri's been re-enacting that moment at the banquet every day now for months. Even if, somewhere, Yurio is skating the angel to Yuri's demon. "I'm sorry."
He doesn't want to accidentally touch Yuri, but he leans down to find those pants, feeling, for the first time, how drunk he actually is. How the world spins and dips, confusing him. Even as he's taking his wallet out and leaving cash that he thinks is enough for the meal, and more. Looking up too often, sneaking glances towards Yuri's face, to see if he's angry. Hurt.
Scared.
Thinking there isn't a hard enough to kick himself. He knew. And he did it anyway.
Even the pants, now on, buttoned and zipped, can't hide the flush of regret now climbing up his chest towards his throat.