If he could think, he might pray. Or plead. Not that anything has listened before. Not that he can. Think. Victor. Victor is still stringing words together against his skin. Each puff of breath and press of sound sending a brick up and down between his stomach and his smashed, smashing, further being smashed ribs.
His heart is being flung each direction on it. His lungs are trashed. He's not sure he can swallow, no less breathe in.
He doesn't understand what's happening. He needs to get off this bed. Get away from Victor. "V-Victor." Because none of this is. And he's not. And he's drunk. And Yuri's heart is going to explode, but only if his skin doesn't melt first. His neck, and then his face. Which is an order he's not used to. Like all of the words Victor's saying.
And his own voice sounds ... like it isn't even his. Thin-strained. Like it might crack. Finger that might have clutched bruises into his own shoulder trying to drop to pull at that arm locked across him again, but he can't even seem to gather the right focus to make his muscles listen entirely. "I can't--"
But he doesn't even sound like he's listening, and Yuri has no clue at all what he's talking about now. What he's even saying. Only that it's being pressed into his skin with an iron. All the foreign, smooth, round, strange edges of Victor's Russian. Thicker and faster than he's ever spoken it to Yuri. And he's going to die. He's just going to die right here. And he can't admit that either.
Not to Victor who is drunk, and has given up on English again, and tightens his arm, grumbling an all too familair annoyance into Yuri's own skin. At a vibration, in his skin, he might never be able to wash off. Out. He can't. Doesn't. Yuri just snaps and sags under it, strangely and savagely confused, left up too high where it stops, leaving his body still humming, clutching at the arm around him, like maybe it'll keep him from falling apart instead of continuing to drown him.
Even though Victor is annoyed now. He knows. He knows. That tone. That sigh. That grumble.
He can't stop his heart from trying to strangle his throat. He's such an idiot.
Shaking his head, "I don't even know what you're saying."
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His heart is being flung each direction on it. His lungs are trashed. He's not sure he can swallow, no less breathe in.
He doesn't understand what's happening. He needs to get off this bed. Get away from Victor. "V-Victor." Because none of this is. And he's not. And he's drunk. And Yuri's heart is going to explode, but only if his skin doesn't melt first. His neck, and then his face. Which is an order he's not used to. Like all of the words Victor's saying.
And his own voice sounds ... like it isn't even his. Thin-strained. Like it might crack. Finger that might have clutched bruises into his own shoulder trying to drop to pull at that arm locked across him again, but he can't even seem to gather the right focus to make his muscles listen entirely. "I can't--"
But he doesn't even sound like he's listening, and Yuri has no clue at all what he's talking about now. What he's even saying. Only that it's being pressed into his skin with an iron. All the foreign, smooth, round, strange edges of Victor's Russian. Thicker and faster than he's ever spoken it to Yuri. And he's going to die. He's just going to die right here. And he can't admit that either.
Not to Victor who is drunk, and has given up on English again, and tightens his arm, grumbling an all too familair annoyance into Yuri's own skin. At a vibration, in his skin, he might never be able to wash off. Out. He can't. Doesn't. Yuri just snaps and sags under it, strangely and savagely confused, left up too high where it stops, leaving his body still humming, clutching at the arm around him, like maybe it'll keep him from falling apart instead of continuing to drown him.
Even though Victor is annoyed now. He knows. He knows. That tone. That sigh. That grumble.
He can't stop his heart from trying to strangle his throat. He's such an idiot.
Shaking his head, "I don't even know what you're saying."