Agreeing, this time, instead of annoyed. "Yes, you need to sleep."
Tomorrow is the beginning of it all. The road to the Grand Prix Final. Everything they've been working towards over the last eight months, with every perfected program and aching muscle and bruised bone. It's why they do what they do: pushing themselves on and on toward greater heights of artistry and beauty and athleticism.
Yuri's ready. Victor has poured as much of himself into those programs, and into his training, as he would if this were his own season and his own try for the gold.
But Yuri's fingers tighten on his arm, and his arm tightens, in response, because he has no way of reacting to anything Yuri might give him, any encouragement or affection, that isn't taking it and running with it, and wanting more, and doing his best to absorb every last iota of it. Every smile, every touch, every hug, every confidence, every sudden laugh or fond glance. He wants it all. Feels it soaking into him, making him turn towards Yuri even further, like a flower towards the sun.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is ... "Eros."
That he cheated on. Just a little. On the assignments. There was never a chance he would give Eros to anyone but the one who inspired it.
His chuckle a low and sleepy muddle against the back of Yuri's neck. "You seduced me."
Over and over again. That night. On the tiny screen of his phone. At the baths. On the ice. Tossing him that burning look across the rink, over and over again. Saying please watch. Saying promise.
(As if there's been a time in almost two years when Victor could do anything but.)
"It always was yours."
How could he have ever thought that program might be meant for someone else, even him? Even without knowing it, he'd been choreographing it for Yuri. Because of Yuri. Snippets of that night, played out over and over again on ice instead of a ballroom floor. His own frustration at being sought out, pursued, won, and then finally pushed aside gaining immortality as Yuri seduces him and rejects him over and over and over again.
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Agreeing, this time, instead of annoyed. "Yes, you need to sleep."
Tomorrow is the beginning of it all. The road to the Grand Prix Final. Everything they've been working towards over the last eight months, with every perfected program and aching muscle and bruised bone. It's why they do what they do: pushing themselves on and on toward greater heights of artistry and beauty and athleticism.
Yuri's ready. Victor has poured as much of himself into those programs, and into his training, as he would if this were his own season and his own try for the gold.
But Yuri's fingers tighten on his arm, and his arm tightens, in response, because he has no way of reacting to anything Yuri might give him, any encouragement or affection, that isn't taking it and running with it, and wanting more, and doing his best to absorb every last iota of it. Every smile, every touch, every hug, every confidence, every sudden laugh or fond glance. He wants it all. Feels it soaking into him, making him turn towards Yuri even further, like a flower towards the sun.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow is ... "Eros."
That he cheated on. Just a little. On the assignments. There was never a chance he would give Eros to anyone but the one who inspired it.
His chuckle a low and sleepy muddle against the back of Yuri's neck. "You seduced me."
Over and over again. That night. On the tiny screen of his phone. At the baths. On the ice. Tossing him that burning look across the rink, over and over again. Saying please watch. Saying promise.
(As if there's been a time in almost two years when Victor could do anything but.)
"It always was yours."
How could he have ever thought that program might be meant for someone else, even him? Even without knowing it, he'd been choreographing it for Yuri. Because of Yuri. Snippets of that night, played out over and over again on ice instead of a ballroom floor. His own frustration at being sought out, pursued, won, and then finally pushed aside gaining immortality as Yuri seduces him and rejects him over and over and over again.
And he falls for it, every time.
(But so will China.)
"They'll love you."