Yuri's there, and then, when Victor looks again, he's gone, sending a spark of panic deep into his roiling stomach, freezing his chest and breath, until –
"You're going to need this."
From behind him, and to one side. Making Victor look at the thing he's holding – the jacket, open and ready – before glancing back up at the face above it, while everything to the side swims. The spotlight on Yuri. Where it always is.
So maybe Yuri's not afraid of him. Maybe Yuri isn't going to recoil from him every time.
Maybe, maybe. While he slips his arm into the jacket, and then the other, and Yuri is helping him shrug it on, before Victor turns to face him, and say, he doesn't know. Something. Anything. Apologize again. Say he'd never purposely do anything to hurt or scare Yuri, because Yuri is the only thing he's ever wanted that wasn't at the top of a podium, or behind the flash of cameras, or the sound of his blades on ice.
Leaving him staring down, wordless, and reaching before he even knows it. Towards Yuri's cheek, fingers careful and wary, like Yuri might bolt at any second, a rabbit sprinting for its hole. Wanting to run his thumb along the line of his jaw. Some sort of promise, or apology, or comfort.
(But he can't risk it. Even if he's not leaning in. Even if it's just a touch, the kind they've shared dozens, hundreds of times, once Yuri grew more comfortable with him.
It's for him. It shouldn't be. It has to be for Yuri.)
His fingers curl back before they touch skin, and he pulls his hand away, feeling chagrined and stupid and like the floor might buck him off any second. "Are we going?"
Except that's not quite right. It's not what he wants to ask, what he needs to know.
Like that question. The one Yuri never answered.
Except not that one, either. He gave up that right. The one where Yuri should come with him. Or would want to.
He tries again, searching. Maybe a little more wistful than he has any right to be right now. "Can I come with you?"
no subject
"You're going to need this."
From behind him, and to one side. Making Victor look at the thing he's holding – the jacket, open and ready – before glancing back up at the face above it, while everything to the side swims. The spotlight on Yuri. Where it always is.
So maybe Yuri's not afraid of him. Maybe Yuri isn't going to recoil from him every time.
Maybe, maybe. While he slips his arm into the jacket, and then the other, and Yuri is helping him shrug it on, before Victor turns to face him, and say, he doesn't know. Something. Anything. Apologize again. Say he'd never purposely do anything to hurt or scare Yuri, because Yuri is the only thing he's ever wanted that wasn't at the top of a podium, or behind the flash of cameras, or the sound of his blades on ice.
Leaving him staring down, wordless, and reaching before he even knows it. Towards Yuri's cheek, fingers careful and wary, like Yuri might bolt at any second, a rabbit sprinting for its hole. Wanting to run his thumb along the line of his jaw. Some sort of promise, or apology, or comfort.
(But he can't risk it. Even if he's not leaning in. Even if it's just a touch, the kind they've shared dozens, hundreds of times, once Yuri grew more comfortable with him.
It's for him. It shouldn't be. It has to be for Yuri.)
His fingers curl back before they touch skin, and he pulls his hand away, feeling chagrined and stupid and like the floor might buck him off any second. "Are we going?"
Except that's not quite right. It's not what he wants to ask, what he needs to know.
Like that question. The one Yuri never answered.
Except not that one, either. He gave up that right. The one where Yuri should come with him. Or would want to.
He tries again, searching. Maybe a little more wistful than he has any right to be right now. "Can I come with you?"