Yuri's still talking, and making those faces, and Victor should probably be listening, but he's finding it difficult to focus on anything other than Yuri's face.
How cute he is. How close he is. A faint smile touching his mouth, at the way Yuri's hair falls every which way after fingers scrub through it, and he's about to reach up to run his own into that silky dark mess, when there's weight in his pockets, that makes him pause, and look down.
To where Yuri's hands are in his jacket pockets, and Victor blinks at them, before looking up, and ––
Yuri is so much closer now. Suddenly. Face only inches away, even if there's a look there like he's trying to ease a stick out of a trap without having it shut its jaws on his hand, gritting his teeth like this, whatever he's doing, requires surgical precision and caution, and Victor looks down again, trying to determine what's happening, and only coming up with:
Yuri's hands are in his pockets. And that means Yuri is close enough –– almost –– to be pressed up against him, squeaking apologies that only make Victor's smile flash, brilliant and affectionate.
It's charming. He's charming. And Victor just keeps being charmed by him, day in and day out, on the ice, in the bath, all day, every night. By his bashfulness. His grit and determination. His skill. His shy sense of humor. The times when he laughs, unexpected and absolutely pure.
He's so naive. It's difficult to parse Yuri's purity with the demonic force of pure eros that yanked Victor's beating heart out of his chest and refused to give it back, but somehow, they both exist. And when Yuri's this close, reminding him, he can't remember why he's been trying to hard to hold back.
Disappointed when the weight leaves his jacket pockets, and he almost says something, but then Yuri's even closer, closer enough Victor can feel nervous puffs of breath against his mouth, when he tips his head down, and find's Yuri's forehead with his own, one hand going to Yuri's neck, the thumb tracking slow along his jaw, and then there are fingers beginning to work their way into his pockets and he snorts a faint, sly laugh.
Yuri's hands all over him. (But not. Not the way he wants. Not the way they should.) Victor's lips curling into a smile, eyes gone half-lidded and heavy, as much from that touch as from the alcohol.
"Don't apologize."
It's a little blurry, but it's fine. It's fine. Yuri doesn't need to apologize for touching him. He never needs to apologize for touching him. Touching Victor shouldn't be a thing he should need to be sorry about.
His free arm coming up to Yuri's shoulders to go around them, and keep him here. Close. If not as close as he wants. When it would be so easy ––
But all he does is shift to make it easier for Yuri's hands to slide into those pockets, and watch him.
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How cute he is. How close he is. A faint smile touching his mouth, at the way Yuri's hair falls every which way after fingers scrub through it, and he's about to reach up to run his own into that silky dark mess, when there's weight in his pockets, that makes him pause, and look down.
To where Yuri's hands are in his jacket pockets, and Victor blinks at them, before looking up, and ––
Yuri is so much closer now. Suddenly. Face only inches away, even if there's a look there like he's trying to ease a stick out of a trap without having it shut its jaws on his hand, gritting his teeth like this, whatever he's doing, requires surgical precision and caution, and Victor looks down again, trying to determine what's happening, and only coming up with:
Yuri's hands are in his pockets. And that means Yuri is close enough –– almost –– to be pressed up against him, squeaking apologies that only make Victor's smile flash, brilliant and affectionate.
It's charming. He's charming. And Victor just keeps being charmed by him, day in and day out, on the ice, in the bath, all day, every night. By his bashfulness. His grit and determination. His skill. His shy sense of humor. The times when he laughs, unexpected and absolutely pure.
He's so naive. It's difficult to parse Yuri's purity with the demonic force of pure eros that yanked Victor's beating heart out of his chest and refused to give it back, but somehow, they both exist. And when Yuri's this close, reminding him, he can't remember why he's been trying to hard to hold back.
Disappointed when the weight leaves his jacket pockets, and he almost says something, but then Yuri's even closer, closer enough Victor can feel nervous puffs of breath against his mouth, when he tips his head down, and find's Yuri's forehead with his own, one hand going to Yuri's neck, the thumb tracking slow along his jaw, and then there are fingers beginning to work their way into his pockets and he snorts a faint, sly laugh.
Yuri's hands all over him. (But not. Not the way he wants. Not the way they should.) Victor's lips curling into a smile, eyes gone half-lidded and heavy, as much from that touch as from the alcohol.
"Don't apologize."
It's a little blurry, but it's fine. It's fine. Yuri doesn't need to apologize for touching him. He never needs to apologize for touching him. Touching Victor shouldn't be a thing he should need to be sorry about.
His free arm coming up to Yuri's shoulders to go around them, and keep him here. Close. If not as close as he wants. When it would be so easy ––
But all he does is shift to make it easier for Yuri's hands to slide into those pockets, and watch him.
Unable to even think of doing anything else.