His heart freezes when a hand covers his upper arm, and Victor's voice breaks the silence of the room that hasn't been broken for seconds and years. When escape is taken, just on the cusp of being had. Before his blood snaps, hot and sharp, when Victor pushes his face into his shoulder (again, again, again) and defeat tastes like the copper of blood, feels like the black of exhaustion, like pressure of skates tied numbing-tight pressing on top unforgiving bruises, everything aching as the highest note in a piece struck in the wrong key, wrong cord, wrong place.
Before he sags into the arm back around him, the bed beneath his. The blurry darkness around him every freedom he can't have (...and doesn't he know, already, hasn't he learned it well enough, about not wanting things he can't have? Isn't that the entire theme of his life?) Victor pressed against him, breath warming Yuri's skin through Yuri's shirt. Stirring it into too much focus. Snapping and hissing wires, still not dead, still just as much under his command as where Yuri gets to go.
Helpless. Hopeless. Defeated. Aching. Certain for a second this is what hell is, but at the same time the whole explosion makes the edges of his eyes burn and tear, while his head blurs too many things from the night, into tomorrow behind and coming soon.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't try to. His head is too heavy, and everything that is only feels exhaustion in every alive, alert, pulsing thrumb, while Victor's breaths are sleep-heavy, and his arm is a belt. Because he can't run away from Victor, any more than he can run away from tomorrow morning (... and maybe the worst part is that, even agonised, he's not entirely angry, entirely disappointed, entirely un-wanting of either).
Sleeps is hard, exhaustion as aggressive and demanding and powerless to be fought as everything else tonight, and when it comes it's the boulder again. Smothering, unforgiving, demanding weight. Shoving, slamming, pushing him into a darkness, with greedy and careless hands, where warmth blooms forever at his shoulder, forever at his chest, forever in every part of his body he knows and has never cared to even pay attention to. But it brings only darkness.
Sends him tumbling further and further out, further and further under, into it without any further assault.
no subject
Before he sags into the arm back around him, the bed beneath his. The blurry darkness around him every freedom he can't have (...and doesn't he know, already, hasn't he learned it well enough, about not wanting things he can't have? Isn't that the entire theme of his life?) Victor pressed against him, breath warming Yuri's skin through Yuri's shirt. Stirring it into too much focus. Snapping and hissing wires, still not dead, still just as much under his command as where Yuri gets to go.
Helpless. Hopeless. Defeated. Aching. Certain for a second this is what hell is,
but at the same time the whole explosion makes the edges of his eyes burn and tear,
while his head blurs too many things from the night, into tomorrow behind and coming soon.
But he doesn't move. Doesn't try to. His head is too heavy, and everything that is only feels exhaustion in every alive, alert, pulsing thrumb, while Victor's breaths are sleep-heavy, and his arm is a belt. Because he can't run away from Victor, any more than he can run away from tomorrow morning (... and maybe the worst part is that, even agonised, he's not entirely angry, entirely disappointed, entirely un-wanting of either).
Sleeps is hard, exhaustion as aggressive and demanding and powerless to be fought as everything else tonight, and when it comes it's the boulder again. Smothering, unforgiving, demanding weight. Shoving, slamming, pushing him into a darkness, with greedy and careless hands, where warmth blooms forever at his shoulder, forever at his chest, forever in every part of his body he knows and has never cared to even pay attention to. But it brings only darkness.
Sends him tumbling further and further out, further and further under, into it without any further assault.