The question distracts him from his mission of undoing the button at the top of his trousers, and he blinks at Yuri, sitting there in the dark, before his eyes close and he rolls his head in a half-shrug, half-stretch. "Mm."

Did he?

His mouth feels a little fresher, so he thinks he did, but it doesn't really matter, anyway, because there's the bed, and there's Yuri, and Victor just sits on the mattress, aiming to search for a pillow to clutch underneath his pounding head, eyes closing, but it wouldn't quite feel right.

(Even if it would, soft and perfect and clean and crisp against his cheek, the air already cooling the flushed bare skin of his arms and back and chest and stomach.)

Before his eyes slit open, like the suspicious glare of a sleeping dragon, because Yuri had said, earlier. About the water. Being bossy. In a tone that makes Victor suspect he might try to get up, and get a glass, and force Victor to drink it, and that is such a terribly vexing idea that he leans over to just loop an arm around Yuri's waist, and haul him up the mattress with him, huffing out a huge sigh, like Maccachin flopping to the floor after a run, when he finds the top of the bed and the pillows there with his cheek and his other arm.

Because he really does want that pillow, but he wants Yuri there with him, more.