Or, more accurately, he hears Yuri, but the words go in one ear and straight out the other, like water spilling through loose fingers that only barely, belatedly, try to catch at it.
The things Celestino dislikes him for. His red face, and shaking voice, and his hand fisted in Yuri's shirt, and then at Yuri's chest, blocking him from Victor. Hauling Yuri away, out of the ballroom, while Yuri called out. "You should have come back."
After Celestino took him away.
(non te ne andare)
They're going to a hotel room. It's Sochi, and all Victor can taste is champagne and all he can see is diffused golden light. It's Shanghai, and all he can taste is rice wine, and all he can feel is an icy breeze kissing his cheeks and tugging his hair, and he has to look down to make sure Yuri's still there, because he can't feel him there under Victor's arm, anymore, and he doesn't understand. It's been two years, and it's been eight months, and he still doesn't understand, and it's frustrating, because being frustrated is better than being hurt. Even if that's there, too.
Alone in the hotel room. Humiliating himself with the wait. Every petty, sore feeling that he put into the story of Eros, riding right alongside the seduction and the passion: the fickleness of the playboy, how easily he casts his conquest aside.
He doesn't understand it. It isn't Yuri. But it is. Was. It happened, even if Yuri's been pretending it didn't. "I waited for you."
It's still sore. He hadn't thought it was. Had thought he'd gotten over it: the disappointment, the embarrassment, the longing, the frustrated inability to understand.
Thoughts running like water, connecting and breaking apart again, and he doesn't remember how he got started on this, or what he's said already, but it just keeps spilling. "I didn't change my mind."
Which is a little desperate, because it's the only thing he can think of. The only reason Yuri didn't. He didn't call, and he didn't come right away, but he didn't change his mind, and Yuri should know.
no subject
Or, more accurately, he hears Yuri, but the words go in one ear and straight out the other, like water spilling through loose fingers that only barely, belatedly, try to catch at it.
The things Celestino dislikes him for. His red face, and shaking voice, and his hand fisted in Yuri's shirt, and then at Yuri's chest, blocking him from Victor. Hauling Yuri away, out of the ballroom, while Yuri called out. "You should have come back."
After Celestino took him away.
They're going to a hotel room. It's Sochi, and all Victor can taste is champagne and all he can see is diffused golden light. It's Shanghai, and all he can taste is rice wine, and all he can feel is an icy breeze kissing his cheeks and tugging his hair, and he has to look down to make sure Yuri's still there, because he can't feel him there under Victor's arm, anymore, and he doesn't understand. It's been two years, and it's been eight months, and he still doesn't understand, and it's frustrating, because being frustrated is better than being hurt. Even if that's there, too.
Alone in the hotel room. Humiliating himself with the wait. Every petty, sore feeling that he put into the story of Eros, riding right alongside the seduction and the passion: the fickleness of the playboy, how easily he casts his conquest aside.
He doesn't understand it. It isn't Yuri. But it is. Was. It happened, even if Yuri's been pretending it didn't. "I waited for you."
It's still sore. He hadn't thought it was. Had thought he'd gotten over it: the disappointment, the embarrassment, the longing, the frustrated inability to understand.
Thoughts running like water, connecting and breaking apart again, and he doesn't remember how he got started on this, or what he's said already, but it just keeps spilling. "I didn't change my mind."
Which is a little desperate, because it's the only thing he can think of. The only reason Yuri didn't. He didn't call, and he didn't come right away, but he didn't change his mind, and Yuri should know.