He's not that person. He's never been that person.
Yuri is, with a ruthless and bare lack of shame for that fact. Yuri, over there, with his uncaring shrug, who keeps reminding Yuuri, just by existing, over there, trying to look suddenly icy aloof and untouchable: that he isn't at all. There are lines even Yuri doesn't want crossed or to have to cross, things he doesn't want to give up and do without, himself.
He took a sip of his tea, grateful it was cool enough not to fog the bottom of his glasses, even as feeling torn settled into a too perfect, even if not perfectly felt, answer. "I'll do what Victor and I have been practicing all this time, as though he were still right there on the other side of the wall."
It's the right answer. Even as it's sour in his stomach and on his tongue, he knows its right, too. That it should be enough. Has to be. They've practiced these routines thousands of times. Over and over and over, until he could do them in his sleep, and in costume like it was his very skin. Until his muscles and his bones knew it at least as well as his mind, better -- in case they had to carry where focus couldn't.
no subject
He's not that person. He's never been that person.
Yuri is, with a ruthless and bare lack of shame for that fact. Yuri, over there, with his uncaring shrug, who keeps reminding Yuuri, just by existing, over there, trying to look suddenly icy aloof and untouchable: that he isn't at all. There are lines even Yuri doesn't want crossed or to have to cross, things he doesn't want to give up and do without, himself.
He took a sip of his tea, grateful it was cool enough not to fog the bottom of his glasses, even as feeling torn settled into a too perfect, even if not perfectly felt, answer. "I'll do what Victor and I have been practicing all this time, as though he were still right there on the other side of the wall."
It's the right answer. Even as it's sour in his stomach and on his tongue, he knows its right, too. That it should be enough. Has to be. They've practiced these routines thousands of times. Over and over and over, until he could do them in his sleep, and in costume like it was his very skin. Until his muscles and his bones knew it at least as well as his mind, better -- in case they had to carry where focus couldn't.