He could smack himself for the words he said, making Victor's response so cheesily, drunkenly, obviously true. And if he could get his hands around anything he might consider the idea of trying to smack Victor with a pillow for it, too. Except he's not even fully through the thought, not even able to try and rebuke the thought of it, before the world tips sides entirely.
Victor is shifting and Yuri for the life of him, still stuck in fight-or-flight, even though he's been denied, he's lost but not given up, is trying figure out if Victor's arm or leg will loosen, and is not expecting Victor's entire face to press into the back of his neck suddenly. Everything popping with dramatic, painful clarity. The smoothness of his skin, breaking for a forehead head, a nose there. Cheekbones. The chill of either winter, or water from the bathroom on them. The suddenly, startling, scalding, heat of his breath.
Making Yuri's heart and his stomach do something explosive he can't describe, can only try to hold on for dear life through. Fingers digging into the sheet and blanket, and his own other shoulder, while it feels like everything in him goes impossibly hot, too big, too small, and too stuck. Unable to even process, behind startling pain and startling heat, because that is only one beat, and in the next one, Victor's lips are brushing his skin and Yuri must nearly bite through his lip when he shakes.
And.
And.
And.
He's gone insane. He has. Or Victor has. It's probably him. Victor is just drunk. He's the one who's gone insane. He always was mentally weak, and now. Now. Now. He's just snapped. The darkness of the room pressing into his suddenly wide open eyes, blurred brightness of twinkling Shanghai from when Victor last through the curtains open so much earlier, while Victor's mouth brushes his skin on occasional words and he's speaking directly into Yuri's bones.
Yuri's skin catching on fire, heating everywhere, while his bones try to melt.
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Victor is shifting and Yuri for the life of him, still stuck in fight-or-flight, even though he's been denied, he's lost but not given up, is trying figure out if Victor's arm or leg will loosen, and is not expecting Victor's entire face to press into the back of his neck suddenly. Everything popping with dramatic, painful clarity. The smoothness of his skin, breaking for a forehead head, a nose there. Cheekbones. The chill of either winter, or water from the bathroom on them. The suddenly, startling, scalding, heat of his breath.
Making Yuri's heart and his stomach do something explosive he can't describe, can only try to hold on for dear life through. Fingers digging into the sheet and blanket, and his own other shoulder, while it feels like everything in him goes impossibly hot, too big, too small, and too stuck. Unable to even process, behind startling pain and startling heat, because that is only one beat, and in the next one, Victor's lips are brushing his skin and Yuri must nearly bite through his lip when he shakes.
And.
And.
And.
He's gone insane. He has. Or Victor has. It's probably him. Victor is just drunk. He's the one who's gone insane. He always was mentally weak, and now. Now. Now. He's just snapped. The darkness of the room pressing into his suddenly wide open eyes, blurred brightness of twinkling Shanghai from when Victor last through the curtains open so much earlier, while Victor's mouth brushes his skin on occasional words and he's speaking directly into Yuri's bones.
Yuri's skin catching on fire, heating everywhere, while his bones try to melt.