Yuri watches him quietly, not all that surprised his question doesn't seem to register.
It's not that it will change the need for it or that he doesn't have anything else to say, even if that might have been true most of a year ago, when he had a million thought but none of them added up to words. Now he has words that collect and try to escape. Thoughts that get tangled up in his breathing, and in the way Victor is leaning against the wall in the hallway and then the wall in the elevator.
The soft fringe of hair over his eye, brushing his cheek, and his closed eyes.
There'd been two words, but they are the least surprising of words. Even if the context is maddeningly lost on those closed eyes, those liquid shoulders, and however many bottles of miju Victor drank and drowned his own brain with. It's hard not to stare, and as much as he's over that -- not so much what or who he's staring at, or what that does to him sometimes, but more the staring itself, and how he doesn't have to stare at his shoes and walls all the time when he catches himself -- it's still not past feeling too much.
Victor has been skating perfect fairytales, always new and different, since before Yuri even knew the English words for the idea.
It never seems to bother him that he isn't now, even if Yuri is still afraid to ask about that. To shatter the thinnest of blown bubbles, that impossible comparison between himself and Victor, between the promise of any season Victor was in and his own about to start. It's filling his throat, chest, mouth for a moment. But it's not a question his stomach is ready for even now, especially not now.
Not with the Cup tomorrow, and not with Victor's face (the shiver to it, when he opens his eyes and Yuri holds still, as those eyes find him and then, soft as silence, close right back up, again) seeming paler than normal, Victor probably incapable of answering it anyway. The elevator ding is quiet, but it sounds too loud against his thoughts.
Still Yuri clears his throat, and shifts over by him, to slide a hand and his arm between Victor and the elevator wall, "Just one last hallway."
One hallway and one locked door, but somewhere on Victor would be the card. But maybe he'd try that, again, at the actual room door, when there weren't still steps between where they were and there that Victor still had to make it through.
no subject
It's not that it will change the need for it or that he doesn't have anything else to say, even if that might have been true most of a year ago, when he had a million thought but none of them added up to words. Now he has words that collect and try to escape. Thoughts that get tangled up in his breathing, and in the way Victor is leaning against the wall in the hallway and then the wall in the elevator.
The soft fringe of hair over his eye, brushing his cheek, and his closed eyes.
There'd been two words, but they are the least surprising of words. Even if the context is maddeningly lost on those closed eyes, those liquid shoulders, and however many bottles of miju Victor drank and drowned his own brain with. It's hard not to stare, and as much as he's over that -- not so much what or who he's staring at, or what that does to him sometimes, but more the staring itself, and how he doesn't have to stare at his shoes and walls all the time when he catches himself -- it's still not past feeling too much.
Victor has been skating perfect fairytales, always new and different, since before Yuri even knew the English words for the idea.
It never seems to bother him that he isn't now, even if Yuri is still afraid to ask about that. To shatter the thinnest of blown bubbles, that impossible comparison between himself and Victor, between the promise of any season Victor was in and his own about to start. It's filling his throat, chest, mouth for a moment. But it's not a question his stomach is ready for even now, especially not now.
Not with the Cup tomorrow, and not with Victor's face (the shiver to it, when he opens his eyes and Yuri holds still, as those eyes find him and then, soft as silence, close right back up, again) seeming paler than normal, Victor probably incapable of answering it anyway. The elevator ding is quiet, but it sounds too loud against his thoughts.
Still Yuri clears his throat, and shifts over by him, to slide a hand and his arm between Victor and the elevator wall, "Just one last hallway."
One hallway and one locked door, but somewhere on Victor would be the card. But maybe he'd try that, again, at the actual room door, when there weren't still steps between where they were and there that Victor still had to make it through.