He's certain only after that fact that his fingers are nearly rigged, almost fisted on the cloth of Victor's pockets, when he can think. When the first wave of confusion at the bump of foreheads becomes a scalding line of a finger tracing down his jaw, and the wrap of cool fingers around along all of his throat on the one side, and at the same time he's swallowing, he's certain his throat may have stopped working altogether.
Not because of that finger (but because of it, too), but because looking up in first startled surprise of Victor moving at all.
Reacting in a way that wasn't brushing his hands away or suddenly startling and realizing what Yuri was doing. Had him looking up into Victor's eyes. So close. Too close. And they are. Gone glassy. He wants to say blown dark, but it's wrong. Unless there's a way for something to be blown dark only by getting brighter. More luminous. Inescapably beautiful, piercing, light in those colors. Even unfocused. There's no poster, no picture, that captured this.
The way it feels like just looking up is capturing him. Again, all over again. Like every poster. Every picture. But real. Breath on his lips, near brush of his nose.
(Even if there's every chance Victor is not looking at him, looking through him)
Telling him not to apologize as those eyes half close again. Still smiling. About what Yuri can't even guess. He has to focus. He has to. The keycard. The hotel room. Getting Victor in bed. Into his own bed.
It muddles, hard to swallow still, almost so desperate for a word he nearly apologizes about apologizing and instead bite's his lip, looking down instead as Victor other arm completes the bars of some new Victor-shaped cage around him. Not the same as walking. (He pushes his hands into Victor's front pockets.) Not the same as Victor leaning on him. (Trying not to think about all the places his fingers or the backs of his hands are brushing Victor.) Not the same as him leaning on the wall, or elevator, or wall. (Failing. Failing entirely.)
(It doesn't even matter that he's seen all of Victor. Countless times. Tonight most recently even. It's not a thing Victor thinks about.
But. Yuri's never done this. Never touched him then.
Not more than rarely. Well above the belt.
Almost only at no choice but to.
Not like Victor who pulled Yuri bodily out of a bath, And moved all of Yuri's bare body with his hands, At his own convenience. Carelessly.)
There's nothing. (Except Victor's laughing breath on his cheek, and Victor's arm on his shoulders, head on his forehead, hand around his neck.) He has to take a breath in, even if it won't go far, because there is only one other place then. (When he's getting his hands back there, he finally stumbles on just what this would look like if someone were to walk into the hallway. What it would look like they were ... doing.)
Which maybe means when his fingers land on both of Victor's back pockets (and Victor's...), and one of them is the obvious rise of his wallet (and one of them ... definitely isn't), his hands move a little faster suddenly. Startlingly fast. Maybe like he burned himself. To pull it back to him. Cheeks a pained flame, shoulders curling, even when collapsing inward would do him no good, because Victor would just sink down on top of him then.
His head is ducked and he's opening it, in the bare space left between their bodies (Invasive, but so much less than he's already--), saying, "You better have it in here somewhere," while starting to flick through things with nimble (but either numb or burnt fingers) dexterity, even as his mind supplies all too helpfully the possibility it got dropped on the floor of the hot pot restaurant. He'd seen the wallet then, but never looked for the card.
no subject
Not because of that finger (but because of it, too), but because looking up in first startled surprise of Victor moving at all.
Reacting in a way that wasn't brushing his hands away or suddenly startling and realizing what Yuri was doing. Had him looking up into Victor's eyes. So close. Too close. And they are. Gone glassy. He wants to say blown dark, but it's wrong. Unless there's a way for something to be blown dark only by getting brighter. More luminous. Inescapably beautiful, piercing, light in those colors. Even unfocused. There's no poster, no picture, that captured this.
The way it feels like just looking up is capturing him. Again, all over again.
Like every poster. Every picture. But real. Breath on his lips, near brush of his nose.
(Even if there's every chance Victor is not looking at him, looking through him)
Telling him not to apologize as those eyes half close again. Still smiling. About what Yuri can't even guess.
He has to focus. He has to. The keycard. The hotel room. Getting Victor in bed. Into his own bed.
It muddles, hard to swallow still, almost so desperate for a word he nearly apologizes about apologizing and instead bite's his lip, looking down instead as Victor other arm completes the bars of some new Victor-shaped cage around him. Not the same as walking. (He pushes his hands into Victor's front pockets.) Not the same as Victor leaning on him. (Trying not to think about all the places his fingers or the backs of his hands are brushing Victor.) Not the same as him leaning on the wall, or elevator, or wall. (Failing. Failing entirely.)
(It doesn't even matter that he's seen all of Victor.
Countless times. Tonight most recently even.
It's not a thing Victor thinks about.
Never touched him then.
Not more than rarely.
Well above the belt.
Almost only at no choice but to.
Not like Victor who pulled Yuri bodily out of a bath,
And moved all of Yuri's bare body with his hands,
At his own convenience. Carelessly.)
There's nothing. (Except Victor's laughing breath on his cheek, and Victor's arm on his shoulders, head on his forehead, hand around his neck.) He has to take a breath in, even if it won't go far, because there is only one other place then. (When he's getting his hands back there, he finally stumbles on just what this would look like if someone were to walk into the hallway. What it would look like they were ... doing.)
Which maybe means when his fingers land on both of Victor's back pockets (and Victor's...), and one of them is the obvious rise of his wallet (and one of them ... definitely isn't), his hands move a little faster suddenly. Startlingly fast. Maybe like he burned himself. To pull it back to him. Cheeks a pained flame, shoulders curling, even when collapsing inward would do him no good, because Victor would just sink down on top of him then.
His head is ducked and he's opening it, in the bare space left between their bodies (Invasive, but so much less than he's already--), saying, "You better have it in here somewhere," while starting to flick through things with nimble (but either numb or burnt fingers) dexterity, even as his mind supplies all too helpfully the possibility it got dropped on the floor of the hot pot restaurant. He'd seen the wallet then, but never looked for the card.