There's a surprised shriek of Victor's name that Yuri is certain, especially now, comes out too high and too shrill, all panic, and even as it's coming out, as he's being pushed into the bed by Victor's hand on his chest, unable to escape because of that hand still, and Victor is suddenly above him. That panic was not even close enough to whatever is mounting up his chest, his throat, ants and consistent haywire explosions.
Because. Victor is suddenly above him, or at least slightly to the side. When he's not even sure he has the time to be grateful Victor isn't pressed to the back of him -- because Victor is pressed to his side, hand still on his chest, pressing him into the bed with it, eyes just barely glinting in the dark (and they'll still be cut glass and the sea and ice and nothing like anything else), bangs brushing his cheek (whinsome and artistic and somehow graceful), hair just barely mussed by the pillow. Victor is staring down at him, making him freeze, but making nothing inside of him freeze, or stop.
(Because his neck is still burning, and he's sure it's all over him, And he can't help despair or desperation at that Victor is drunk and still perfect,
even as every word there in the air, still presses into his skin before it reaches his ears.)
He stays there, not granting Yuri the grace of vanishing or letting him escape. He stays there ... not doing ... anything he'd never do ... because Yuri's brain has cracked staring up at him. So close, half-formed, unknown things Yuri is terrified of just as much as he might almost be desperate enough to blunder toward, run from, trying to take root in his head. Pushed at in a flailing fashion he can't push Victor away with.
While Victor goes on not meaning any it. The words he'd chosen (Only you, I love. Yuri), that stabbed at Yuri's chest, (you seduced me) his head, (who satisfies me) as Victor spoke with a drunken sleepiness. Except he does. Victor means them the way he always has, nothing more than academically, nothing more than Victor's inflation of everything he feels, and does, and says, blown up to the highest degree. Academics turned into artful exaggeration on his tongue.
And still ... meaning nothing, nothing, nothing, but what he always has, reminding Yuri that is what he is, Yuri's coach, when he's laying back down, back down on the bed, with Yuri's arm pressed against his chest and a little under him. Victor's arm looser and covering more of his chest. Whispering those last three words, fond and failing, somewhere not far from Yuri's hair, and Yuri's ear, and making Yuri want to give a pained, insane laugh. Sure that he passed nervous a long time ago.
He has to try so hard. Just to breathe in. Just to keep that (and everything, everything, everything else down, that he's such an idiot for feeling, questioning, hurting), to even say, "I'll try."
Two words, like it's a default setting on a machine, and the only thing he can even begin to make fit anything. Not being nervous about the morning, even though he's trying not to fall apart entirely before he can even sleep, or get away, or get to tomorrow existing at all.
no subject
Because. Victor is suddenly above him, or at least slightly to the side. When he's not even sure he has the time to be grateful Victor isn't pressed to the back of him -- because Victor is pressed to his side, hand still on his chest, pressing him into the bed with it, eyes just barely glinting in the dark (and they'll still be cut glass and the sea and ice and nothing like anything else), bangs brushing his cheek (whinsome and artistic and somehow graceful), hair just barely mussed by the pillow. Victor is staring down at him, making him freeze, but making nothing inside of him freeze, or stop.
(Because his neck is still burning, and he's sure it's all over him,
And he can't help despair or desperation at that Victor is drunk and still perfect,
even as every word there in the air, still presses into his skin before it reaches his ears.)
He stays there, not granting Yuri the grace of vanishing or letting him escape. He stays there ... not doing ... anything he'd never do ... because Yuri's brain has cracked staring up at him. So close, half-formed, unknown things Yuri is terrified of just as much as he might almost be desperate enough to blunder toward, run from, trying to take root in his head. Pushed at in a flailing fashion he can't push Victor away with.
While Victor goes on not meaning any it. The words he'd chosen (Only you, I love. Yuri), that stabbed at Yuri's chest, (you seduced me) his head, (who satisfies me) as Victor spoke with a drunken sleepiness. Except he does. Victor means them the way he always has, nothing more than academically, nothing more than Victor's inflation of everything he feels, and does, and says, blown up to the highest degree. Academics turned into artful exaggeration on his tongue.
And still ... meaning nothing, nothing, nothing, but what he always has, reminding Yuri that is what he is, Yuri's coach, when he's laying back down, back down on the bed, with Yuri's arm pressed against his chest and a little under him. Victor's arm looser and covering more of his chest. Whispering those last three words, fond and failing, somewhere not far from Yuri's hair, and Yuri's ear, and making Yuri want to give a pained, insane laugh. Sure that he passed nervous a long time ago.
He has to try so hard. Just to breathe in. Just to keep that (and everything, everything, everything else down, that he's such an idiot for feeling, questioning, hurting), to even say, "I'll try."
Two words, like it's a default setting on a machine, and the only thing he can even begin to make fit anything. Not being nervous about the morning, even though he's trying not to fall apart entirely before he can even sleep, or get away, or get to tomorrow existing at all.