It catches him like -- he doesn't even know what like.
Like the boulder the snakes were making of his guts, of his already entrenched anxiety about today, about tomorrow, and now Maccachin, and Victor gone, and Victor if Maccachin isn't ... , decided to drop on to the floor. Hitting his feet, gluing them, for just a moment too long, to the floor of the bar, when his eyes suddenly went to The Door, bypassing Yuri altogether.
Just as innocuous and simple as it has been the whole time since they walked in. Yuuri isn't even certain he'd looked at it until now. Not while coming in. Not while sitting.
Except nothing like that now. Innocuous.Simple.
Tangling his ribs right into his lungs. Branches and grates becoming iron bars pressing in and in and in. Even when he can't breathe it. Can't even think to breathe. Because that must be impossible, right? Except that he's never been quite sure that word applied here. With its magical bar of appearing and disappearing nearly everything, so far as Yuuri can tell.
(Not to mention the nauseatingly unsettling window. The existence of it entirely.)
None of it sticks. Nothing. Yuri is talking. Again. But Yuuri can't make his eyes track away from it at the right time. His shoulders turning, but his eyes refusing to leave it except for a second. Long enough to be certain, not of what Yuri is saying exactly at first, but more just that his mouth is moving. He is talking. Before his eyes are back to the door again.
Impossible.
(Possible?
Who is he to say?)
And if it did --
How did that thought finish. It drags. It's a sharp pain like cutting his palm on a blade unexpectedly. It's want and denial so vast it feels violent. Bigger than his body. Than the bar. That Victor could be on the otherside of an inch or so of wood. Close enough to touch. To just launch himself into the arms of, lose himself to.
(Victor's head tucked down against his hair, those long arms wrapped all around him tight. Laughter filtering through Yuuri's ruffling hair as he spoke through it, through Yuuri's very skin, weaved into his words, his voice, no matter which language.
He could be there. With Victor.
Victor wouldn't have to be alone either. No matter what might happen there.)
Except.
Except.
Except. It's all wrong. Too.
All the wrong place. Something upended in the nest of his stomach is an even harder rock hardening at that. Obstinant. Terrified. Sickened at the vehemence of his own flip, his own reaction. Desperate want. Because he's not supposed to be there. Not in Hasestu. Not even if he wants to be. (Not even if he wants Victor beyond an understanding of the word want. Of anything that could ever try to compare in so small as four letters. When the space Victor filled is empty for the first time in almost a year.)
He's supposed to be in Moscow. He needs to be in Moscow. He has to skate. Has to compete. He doesn't hide.
Not anymore. Not since Victor.
( ... not even without Victor?)
He can't place. Can't get to Barcelona. Can't keep Victor at his side.
If he isn'there.
Except.
Except he can see his hand
( -- when did he start trembling?
And ... when did he make it to the door? )
In the air
( -- even if it does -- even if he doesn't
-- does
-- might
-- can't)
Trembling, in the air, imposed over the door knob
( He has to know. )
Right before it, and The Door, vanishes entirely when his hand settles on it.
no subject
It catches him like -- he doesn't even know what like.
Like the boulder the snakes were making of his guts, of his already entrenched anxiety about today, about tomorrow, and now Maccachin, and Victor gone, and Victor if Maccachin isn't ... , decided to drop on to the floor. Hitting his feet, gluing them, for just a moment too long, to the floor of the bar, when his eyes suddenly went to The Door, bypassing Yuri altogether.
Just as innocuous and simple as it has been the whole time since they walked in.
Yuuri isn't even certain he'd looked at it until now. Not while coming in. Not while sitting.
Except nothing like that now. Innocuous. Simple.
Tangling his ribs right into his lungs. Branches and grates becoming iron bars pressing in and in and in. Even when he can't breathe it. Can't even think to breathe. Because that must be impossible, right? Except that he's never been quite sure that word applied here. With its magical bar of appearing and disappearing nearly everything, so far as Yuuri can tell.
(Not to mention the nauseatingly unsettling window. The existence of it entirely.)
None of it sticks. Nothing. Yuri is talking. Again. But Yuuri can't make his eyes track away from it at the right time. His shoulders turning, but his eyes refusing to leave it except for a second. Long enough to be certain, not of what Yuri is saying exactly at first, but more just that his mouth is moving. He is talking. Before his eyes are back to the door again.
Impossible.
Who is he to say?)
And if it did --
How did that thought finish. It drags. It's a sharp pain like cutting his palm on a blade unexpectedly. It's want and denial so vast it feels violent. Bigger than his body. Than the bar. That Victor could be on the otherside of an inch or so of wood. Close enough to touch. To just launch himself into the arms of, lose himself to.
(Victor's head tucked down against his hair, those long arms wrapped all around him tight. Laughter filtering through Yuuri's ruffling hair as he spoke through it, through Yuuri's very skin, weaved into his words, his voice, no matter which language.
He could be there. With Victor.
Victor wouldn't have to be alone either.
No matter what might happen there.)
Except.
Except.
Except. It's all wrong. Too.
All the wrong place. Something upended in the nest of his stomach is an even harder rock hardening at that. Obstinant. Terrified. Sickened at the vehemence of his own flip, his own reaction. Desperate want. Because he's not supposed to be there. Not in Hasestu. Not even if he wants to be. (Not even if he wants Victor beyond an understanding of the word want. Of anything that could ever try to compare in so small as four letters. When the space Victor filled is empty for the first time in almost a year.)
He's supposed to be in Moscow. He needs to be in Moscow.
He has to skate. Has to compete. He doesn't hide.
Not anymore. Not since Victor.
He can't place. Can't get to Barcelona.
Can't keep Victor at his side.
If he isn't here.
Except.
Except he can see his hand
And ... when did he make it to the door? )
In the air
-- even if he doesn't
-- does
-- might
-- can't)
Trembling, in the air, imposed over the door knob
Right before it, and The Door, vanishes entirely when his hand settles on it.