He knows the first words Victor whispers. Words that have exploded from him, only occasionally and with exuberance. When Yuri manages to complete one of the programs flawlessly, or does or says something particularly embarrassingly naive that Victor somehow finds -- Impossibly funny? He knows Victor loves him. Loves these programs he made and Yuri skates. That that is what he means. That and nothing else. More words about how he'll be fine. Tomorrow. Because it's all about tomorrow.
But the words land aching and foreign,
so familiar and so untrue and true all at once,
leaving him feeling even more conflicted than ever.
Heart aching against the bars of his ribs, uncertain whether it's still trying to escape out the front, to find the skin of Victor's palm, or if it's trying to hide by his spine, as far as he can get, from that hand, from his mouth, for his words.
And he's not an idiot. He doesn't know the word, but he can guess well enough at the second of the two. A low, thick Russian mumble, between his hair and the pillow. His name, and something that sounds all too like the word my, with a vowel inset to its center, and he trembles beside himself. Unable to stop himself from starting, unable to make himself stop.
Helpless against the idea, and the words before it. The way Victor says it careless and sleepy, clinging to Yuri like he's a teddy bear or another pillow that came attached to his bed, and claiming Yuri with the simplicity of a child picking something up off the street and just making it their own. Heedless of anything those word might mean on the other side. Any other translation that exists except his own.
He waits, alive, alert, every cell in his body on edge, on fire, trembling and trying to hold still, for the next words, the next move, whatever Victor will do next. What new way he's going to display that he can take every part of all Yuri has ever known of himself and rearrange it at his leisure. Without asking. Without caring. With a smile, and a laugh, and a wink.
(And his hands.
And his mouth.)
Yuri doesn't know how long he's been waiting, how many endless minutes of aching, spooling darkness and anxiety, have crawled by, counted in the Victor's breath's against his hair, his shoulder, his ear, the faintest twitches of Victor's body, the heavier and heavier weight of his hand over the center of Yuri's chest. Before he realizes -- with so much relief it feels like abject denial and disappointment, pitiful and wrong and weak -- that Victor is asleep. Actually asleep on him.
Just gone, and he doesn't know when that happened. Maybe the whole time. (And isn't that every proof?)
Leaves him alone in the dark. Trapped half under Victor, staring at the ceiling. Too much in his head for sense or sanity. Too much in his skin for anything resembling calm. It's all faint shivers and tenses, like he can't stay perfect still. Especially now that Victor absolutely is, and is making it so he can't move. Which makes it shameful that it feels harder to breathe now than earlier. Which can't be true.
Makes each breath a labor to keep himself from taking a too fast, too deep breath and hyperventilating in the sudden, overwhelming silence all around him. Pressing on every fire-bitten part of him, but especially his head. His head which can't stop listening to each breath near his head. In, and out. In, and out. Can't stop listening to a million words that don't mean anything, but are trapped. In his head. In his blood. In his lungs. In his guts. In his heart.
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But the words land aching and foreign,
so familiar and so untrue and true all at once,
leaving him feeling even more conflicted than ever.
Heart aching against the bars of his ribs, uncertain whether it's still trying to escape out the front, to find the skin of Victor's palm, or if it's trying to hide by his spine, as far as he can get, from that hand, from his mouth, for his words.
And he's not an idiot. He doesn't know the word, but he can guess well enough at the second of the two. A low, thick Russian mumble, between his hair and the pillow. His name, and something that sounds all too like the word my, with a vowel inset to its center, and he trembles beside himself. Unable to stop himself from starting, unable to make himself stop.
Helpless against the idea, and the words before it. The way Victor says it careless and sleepy, clinging to Yuri like he's a teddy bear or another pillow that came attached to his bed, and claiming Yuri with the simplicity of a child picking something up off the street and just making it their own. Heedless of anything those word might mean on the other side. Any other translation that exists except his own.
He waits, alive, alert, every cell in his body on edge, on fire, trembling and trying to hold still, for the next words, the next move, whatever Victor will do next. What new way he's going to display that he can take every part of all Yuri has ever known of himself and rearrange it at his leisure. Without asking. Without caring. With a smile, and a laugh, and a wink.
(And his hands.
Yuri doesn't know how long he's been waiting, how many endless minutes of aching, spooling darkness and anxiety, have crawled by, counted in the Victor's breath's against his hair, his shoulder, his ear, the faintest twitches of Victor's body, the heavier and heavier weight of his hand over the center of Yuri's chest. Before he realizes -- with so much relief it feels like abject denial and disappointment, pitiful and wrong and weak -- that Victor is asleep. Actually asleep on him.
Just gone, and he doesn't know when that happened. Maybe the whole time. (And isn't that every proof?)
Leaves him alone in the dark. Trapped half under Victor, staring at the ceiling. Too much in his head for sense or sanity. Too much in his skin for anything resembling calm. It's all faint shivers and tenses, like he can't stay perfect still. Especially now that Victor absolutely is, and is making it so he can't move. Which makes it shameful that it feels harder to breathe now than earlier. Which can't be true.
Makes each breath a labor to keep himself from taking a too fast, too deep breath and hyperventilating in the sudden, overwhelming silence all around him. Pressing on every fire-bitten part of him, but especially his head. His head which can't stop listening to each breath near his head. In, and out. In, and out. Can't stop listening to a million words that don't mean anything, but are trapped. In his head. In his blood. In his lungs. In his guts. In his heart.