theglassheart: By Laura (He's got no conscience (none)
勝生 勇利, Katsuki Yūri ([personal profile] theglassheart) wrote in [personal profile] fivetimechamp 2017-03-08 09:40 pm (UTC)

As fast as Victor had suddenly pulled him forward and up, he's let go. Finding the bottom of his chair, uncertain when he'd come off it, that he had, and the back of his chair with his back, and none of his body wants to work. It should feel like a relief. But it feels like going from one sense of drowned screaming to another one.

When suddenly Victor is looking at him. He knows it's Victor. Somewhere too far away, where the air isn't coming into his lungs, where his arms are weightless without the weight and force of Victor's. He knows it. Somewhere. In there. Where the air isn't. The way Victor's eyes are suddenly wide and startled open. Like he hadn't known. What he was doing.

Because he hadn't. He's drunk.

(Why does that hurt, too?

His cheeks still red and his eyes suddenly painfully dry.
)



As Victor apologizes. That first sound like he couldn't even make words work, and Yuri can feel his heart hitting the bottom rungs of his ribs. He can hear the sudden silence pressing on him after Victor finishes the second, that isn't just Victor, but three or four different pairs of eyes, when he nods. Because he knows. He does. Even when his cheeks aren't getting any paler and he feels like an idiot. For. He can't. Because. He does. He always does.

Why did there have to be so many people?

(Who in this world pushed Victor Nikiforov, even drunk, away?
There's a crinkle in his expression for the slip.


But not for the truth of it.)



But then Victor says it. Again. Even though no one's said anything. Even though he nodded. He said it again while leaning down and if Yuri tenses a little, even not meaning to, Victor doesn't touch him. Victor just picks up his pants, and Yuri can't help feeling both that he should say something and that nothing in the world exists that can be said. Not right. Not in English. Not in Japanese. Not with his own mouth.

It's all. He swallows, watching Victor pull out money and put it down, making it clear they are done now, and Yuri has to say something. He can't just not say anything. Not after two apologies and a whole table of people staring at them, like no one has any clue if the earlier part of this or now is the part to be more engrossed in.

"It's okay." Except it's not. It's not on his tongue. But it is. Has to be. Because Victor looks stricken, and he's an idiot -- even a drunk idiot, this is who he is, too, even if it's not something he's ever done near or with Yuri around -- but he didn't do anything. Not actually. Didn't end up doing anything.

The younger of the two at the end of the table catching Yuri's attention, holding out the shirt that Yuri never had figured out where went. He tried to offer something that looked like a grateful smile, but it felt more like the muscles in his face distorted themselves. Worn and sore under a constant state of heat.

He held the shirt out to Victor, picking up Victor's jacket from the back of his chair, it all still feeling unfinished. Like he couldn't stop yet. Hadn't said enough. Still. Somehow. Even when nothing was sticking and air was only starting to find him. So maybe something else, something more ... true, real, honest? "We should go back to the hotel."

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