He doesn't know why he isn't expecting it, when nothing is remotely stationary, except the ground, in the last ten, or twenty, or however long it's been or hasn't been. When he's both certain he heard that wrong -- and even before his gaze swings up, he's already certain he didn't, and that somehow that doesn't make it better.
Because he did. And it is. And Victor ... is smiling down at him now. Flighty hope and starting light, where that space had been empty.
And Victor is drunk.
Which makes Yuri's gaze go back down the next second. Because that's what it is. What all of this is. Even if Yuri almost wants to roll his eyes at it, and the familiarity of it. Almost near to a hundred other things he'd say, somewhere that isn't here, isn't part of all of this, so close it makes the hairs on the back of his neck itch a little.
He's -- he doesn't know. Why it matters now. Why it hits harder at this second. That normal, every day, in and out, mischievous, teasing intensity of Victor's that keeps him on his toes, keeps him chasing the wind, every spin, every jump, every start, every ending, every second in-between. (But ... he does. ... doesn't he. It's too close. Everything is still so close. Victor is; and he can't let go of him.) Maybe it's what puts the extra of touch of willfulness in his voice, and makes his steps out of this place just a little faster.
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Because he did. And it is. And Victor ... is smiling down at him now.
Flighty hope and starting light, where that space had been empty.
Which makes Yuri's gaze go back down the next second. Because that's what it is. What all of this is. Even if Yuri almost wants to roll his eyes at it, and the familiarity of it. Almost near to a hundred other things he'd say, somewhere that isn't here, isn't part of all of this, so close it makes the hairs on the back of his neck itch a little.
He's -- he doesn't know. Why it matters now. Why it hits harder at this second. That normal, every day, in and out, mischievous, teasing intensity of Victor's that keeps him on his toes, keeps him chasing the wind, every spin, every jump, every start, every ending, every second in-between. (But ... he does. ... doesn't he. It's too close. Everything is still so close. Victor is; and he can't let go of him.) Maybe it's what puts the extra of touch of willfulness in his voice, and makes his steps out of this place just a little faster.
"You're still going to drink the water."