A popping bubble of surprise in his head, if not actually on his lips, as Yuri shifts again. Lashes a dark and fluttering smudge against pale skin, his hair gone every which way, face slack and soft and when he moves, Victor almost jumps.
(He does notice, somewhere in the back of his brain, that as the sheet slips down, all it exposes is the shirt Yuri was wearing last night. He might not be dressed, but Yuri is, and that's ... relieving? Disappointing?
Something he only acknowledges and pushes away again in less than a breath.)
Watching him pull himself toward sitting, with a sleepy mumble, rubbing his eyes, and it! Is!
So damn cute!
He thinks his heart will burst and overflow, and the temptation to reach out and gather the warm and mussed and yawing lump of Yuri, sheets and rumples clothes and messy hair and all, directly into his chest and never let go is an increasingly desperate one. All thoughts of how this even happened have flown directly out the window: he is charmed.
"Good morning, Yuri!"
And delighted! He has absolutely not the faintest idea of what happened to bring this about, but Yuri, sleep-soaked and puddled in sheets and early morning light and miles away from anything like he's ever seen before, is perfect.
It is, perhaps, the single best morning of his entire adult life: Christmas and Easter rolled into one, the way he felt the very first time he stayed on wobbly colt legs for an entire circuit of his town's rink when he was small.
Something fond and warm in his chest expanding so widely it feels like something has to crack and spill sunshine all across the bed. "I'm glad you got some sleep."
He has no idea what they were doing last night –– there's a dim recollection of a restaurant –– but it doesn't really matter, does it? Yuri is here, within reach, in this bed, and looking so messily adorable that it's absolutely all Victor can do not to reach out and hug him like the teddy bear he looks like.
At the moment, self-restraint seems like the most useless of concepts.
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A popping bubble of surprise in his head, if not actually on his lips, as Yuri shifts again. Lashes a dark and fluttering smudge against pale skin, his hair gone every which way, face slack and soft and when he moves, Victor almost jumps.
(He does notice, somewhere in the back of his brain, that as the sheet slips down, all it exposes is the shirt Yuri was wearing last night. He might not be dressed, but Yuri is, and that's ... relieving? Disappointing?
Something he only acknowledges and pushes away again in less than a breath.)
Watching him pull himself toward sitting, with a sleepy mumble, rubbing his eyes, and it! Is!
So damn cute!
He thinks his heart will burst and overflow, and the temptation to reach out and gather the warm and mussed and yawing lump of Yuri, sheets and rumples clothes and messy hair and all, directly into his chest and never let go is an increasingly desperate one. All thoughts of how this even happened have flown directly out the window: he is charmed.
"Good morning, Yuri!"
And delighted! He has absolutely not the faintest idea of what happened to bring this about, but Yuri, sleep-soaked and puddled in sheets and early morning light and miles away from anything like he's ever seen before, is perfect.
It is, perhaps, the single best morning of his entire adult life: Christmas and Easter rolled into one, the way he felt the very first time he stayed on wobbly colt legs for an entire circuit of his town's rink when he was small.
Something fond and warm in his chest expanding so widely it feels like something has to crack and spill sunshine all across the bed. "I'm glad you got some sleep."
He has no idea what they were doing last night –– there's a dim recollection of a restaurant –– but it doesn't really matter, does it? Yuri is here, within reach, in this bed, and looking so messily adorable that it's absolutely all Victor can do not to reach out and hug him like the teddy bear he looks like.
At the moment, self-restraint seems like the most useless of concepts.