Refining choreography. Pushing himself further and faster, to greater heights of artistry, driven by this: this impossible thing threatening to snap his ribs, break his heart, drain all the color and joy from his life. This torture, aching deep in his bones for months on end.
That he cultivated. Wanted. Brought upon himself.
Anytime it seemed like it might start flagging, reborn again with a glance at a particular roll of photos and video on his phone, only to drown him in it all over again. Despair and anger. Hopeless desire. The battle he was losing, between eros and agape, between selfish want and selfless sacrifice, even as Stay Close to Me reminded him daily that it could never be so simple.
That there was no coming back from this.
And that was before he knew.
Before he knew what Katsuki Yuri was really like, who he really was. How his forehead crinkles and his eyes clear. His favorite food. His favorite people. His favorite places. Everything he hates or fears, and how he reacts to hate and fear.
Before he knew what it was like, really, for Yuri to stay close to him. Before he knew it was so much worse than he could have imagined. Back when he thought he would have a choice about staying or leaving, or thought the distance and silence was survivable.
(He'd skate that program so differently, now.)
But Yuri says nothing, even when Victor falls silent, and he's not sure what else there is to say, or how else to say it, if Yuri doesn't understand, if it wasn't clear. His mind is foggy and his thoughts keep blurring, and the only thing he wants is for Yuri to stay right here, with him. As close as he can get.
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Refining choreography. Pushing himself further and faster, to greater heights of artistry, driven by this: this impossible thing threatening to snap his ribs, break his heart, drain all the color and joy from his life. This torture, aching deep in his bones for months on end.
That he cultivated. Wanted. Brought upon himself.
Anytime it seemed like it might start flagging, reborn again with a glance at a particular roll of photos and video on his phone, only to drown him in it all over again. Despair and anger. Hopeless desire. The battle he was losing, between eros and agape, between selfish want and selfless sacrifice, even as Stay Close to Me reminded him daily that it could never be so simple.
That there was no coming back from this.
And that was before he knew.
Before he knew what Katsuki Yuri was really like, who he really was. How his forehead crinkles and his eyes clear. His favorite food. His favorite people. His favorite places. Everything he hates or fears, and how he reacts to hate and fear.
Before he knew what it was like, really, for Yuri to stay close to him. Before he knew it was so much worse than he could have imagined. Back when he thought he would have a choice about staying or leaving, or thought the distance and silence was survivable.
(He'd skate that program so differently, now.)
But Yuri says nothing, even when Victor falls silent, and he's not sure what else there is to say, or how else to say it, if Yuri doesn't understand, if it wasn't clear. His mind is foggy and his thoughts keep blurring, and the only thing he wants is for Yuri to stay right here, with him. As close as he can get.
For as long as he can have.