With the straightforward logic of the very drunk, because he is. Yuri never said anything about Victor not bringing him to bed, too.
(Even if it's not ...
like...
that.)
Even like this, he knows he should let Yuri go. That he should be responsible, and less selfish, and release Yuri to go do whatever it is Yuri wants to go do, but his eyelids are growing heavy, and when he bends his head, he finds the back of Yuri's neck, soft tender skin and warmth, and a faint pulse that's thudding at a much higher pace than Victor's own. "I just want you."
English is getting harder and harder, making him have to amend more and more. Even if it's true, it's not ––
Yuri doesn't have to worry. He knows. What isn't wanted. "Here."
Where are all of his words? He's known English for as long as he's known the ice, and almost as well, but none of it seems to mean what he wants it to mean. What he wants to say. What Yuri needs to understand.
That Victor wants him, here, in the circle of his arms, in this bed.
And Victor never wants to leave him, or the ice they share.
And Victor doesn't know how to say what Yuri means, or why, when all of his words are landing like lead on his tongue and the only refuge he can find is speaking them low into the nape of Yuri's neck. Trying to pick out the meanings, like the princess in the old fairy tales trying to pluck beans and peas from a pile of ashes. "Just you."
Only Yuri. Yuri is ... singular. Yuri is ... Yuri. Yuri is ...
"You're ..."
Everything Victor can't have. Everything he wants. The one who called him out here to begin with. The one who put the idea of coaching into his head in the first place. The one who demanded his attention and wouldn't let go.
no subject
With the straightforward logic of the very drunk, because he is. Yuri never said anything about Victor not bringing him to bed, too.
(Even if it's not ...
Even like this, he knows he should let Yuri go. That he should be responsible, and less selfish, and release Yuri to go do whatever it is Yuri wants to go do, but his eyelids are growing heavy, and when he bends his head, he finds the back of Yuri's neck, soft tender skin and warmth, and a faint pulse that's thudding at a much higher pace than Victor's own. "I just want you."
English is getting harder and harder, making him have to amend more and more. Even if it's true, it's not ––
Yuri doesn't have to worry. He knows. What isn't wanted. "Here."
Where are all of his words? He's known English for as long as he's known the ice, and almost as well, but none of it seems to mean what he wants it to mean. What he wants to say. What Yuri needs to understand.
That Victor wants him, here, in the circle of his arms, in this bed.
And Victor never wants to leave him, or the ice they share.
And Victor doesn't know how to say what Yuri means, or why, when all of his words are landing like lead on his tongue and the only refuge he can find is speaking them low into the nape of Yuri's neck. Trying to pick out the meanings, like the princess in the old fairy tales trying to pluck beans and peas from a pile of ashes. "Just you."
Only Yuri. Yuri is ... singular. Yuri is ... Yuri. Yuri is ...
"You're ..."
Everything Victor can't have. Everything he wants. The one who called him out here to begin with. The one who put the idea of coaching into his head in the first place. The one who demanded his attention and wouldn't let go.
"The only one."