A vicious snakebite of a thought. Fuck up. And more. The worst things he can throw at himself, as he's accepting the shirt Yuri's handing to him, while careful not to make contact with Yuri, himself. To soil oneself. That seems right.
Yuri's saying it's okay, but it isn't. He's. Все испортить. Spoiled everything. Maybe. Probably. Possibly.
Everything they'd moved towards, grown towards, everything he'd coaxed out in eight months. Ruined because he couldn't restrain himself, because he was feeling too good to stop, because he'd had much too much to drink.
Sending the floor tipping out from under him when he stands, even if it looks like Celestino has it worse. Phichit is hauling his coach up with a laugh that's only a little strained, and one of the boys from the end of the table is helping, which is good, probably. Victor can at least walk, he thinks, even if it won't be in a very straight line.
Even if he feels like a kicked dog, and just wants to slink under the table to curl into a ball and try to forget what he just did.
Shoes back on, somehow, and when he looks, Yuri has the jacket Victor had left on the back of that chair, which is good, because Victor forgot it was there. Like he forgot where they were.
(Where are they?)
Trying to parse what Yuri's saying, but it feels like the words are landing somewhere just out of reach, and he has to keep his distance, even if it's wobbly. "Okay."
Nodding along with whatever it is, because he'll jut do whatever Yuri says to do right now, okay. As long as Yuri talks to him. Is still here.
And even now, he doesn't know how to not be swamped by it: this need to reach out, and just be closer. How he feels when he sees that face. The faces he'd wanted to see, and not the one he got. That he still remembers, crystal clear, even when everything else is a haze. He remembers. He didn't forget. Yuri told him not to and he didn't, he didn't.
But Yuri's moving, and watching Victor like Victor's supposed to be doing something, too, so Victor follows, bumping his hip into the table and steadying himself, for a second, on the wall, until he's free from the booth, and Phichit, with Celestino's arm thrown over his shoulder, and the other over the shoulder of the taller boy that Victor doesn't know, is smiling at them like this was the best night he's ever had.
So Victor smiles back, and waves, even if it's a little loose and a little pale, before – where's Yuri? Is he still here?
Looking around, until he catches sight of him, and relaxing, even when he shouldn't.
It's okay. It's not okay. But he'll make it better. He has to.
no subject
A vicious snakebite of a thought. Fuck up. And more. The worst things he can throw at himself, as he's accepting the shirt Yuri's handing to him, while careful not to make contact with Yuri, himself. To soil oneself. That seems right.
Yuri's saying it's okay, but it isn't. He's. Все испортить. Spoiled everything. Maybe. Probably. Possibly.
Everything they'd moved towards, grown towards, everything he'd coaxed out in eight months. Ruined because he couldn't restrain himself, because he was feeling too good to stop, because he'd had much too much to drink.
Sending the floor tipping out from under him when he stands, even if it looks like Celestino has it worse. Phichit is hauling his coach up with a laugh that's only a little strained, and one of the boys from the end of the table is helping, which is good, probably. Victor can at least walk, he thinks, even if it won't be in a very straight line.
Even if he feels like a kicked dog, and just wants to slink under the table to curl into a ball and try to forget what he just did.
Shoes back on, somehow, and when he looks, Yuri has the jacket Victor had left on the back of that chair, which is good, because Victor forgot it was there. Like he forgot where they were.
(Where are they?)
Trying to parse what Yuri's saying, but it feels like the words are landing somewhere just out of reach, and he has to keep his distance, even if it's wobbly. "Okay."
Nodding along with whatever it is, because he'll jut do whatever Yuri says to do right now, okay. As long as Yuri talks to him. Is still here.
And even now, he doesn't know how to not be swamped by it: this need to reach out, and just be closer. How he feels when he sees that face. The faces he'd wanted to see, and not the one he got. That he still remembers, crystal clear, even when everything else is a haze. He remembers. He didn't forget. Yuri told him not to and he didn't, he didn't.
But Yuri's moving, and watching Victor like Victor's supposed to be doing something, too, so Victor follows, bumping his hip into the table and steadying himself, for a second, on the wall, until he's free from the booth, and Phichit, with Celestino's arm thrown over his shoulder, and the other over the shoulder of the taller boy that Victor doesn't know, is smiling at them like this was the best night he's ever had.
So Victor smiles back, and waves, even if it's a little loose and a little pale, before – where's Yuri? Is he still here?
Looking around, until he catches sight of him, and relaxing, even when he shouldn't.
It's okay. It's not okay. But he'll make it better. He has to.