Contact is a shock. Another in the dozens and dozens that seem to be buffeting through him like strong, bone-cold, winter wind. But the pressure (real pressure, not quite to pain, but real, unimagined, this time with a location, a reason, a pintpoint exactness, when his eyes find the hand on his arm) helps. Oddly.
Easier not to question why. Answers haven't been forthcoming for minutes. (Even Milliways, the impossible place where nothing is impossible, said no.)
The English is rough, ruthless in his ear, all harsh Russian accents (nothing like the glide of Victor's inflections). Demands his attention like the hand on him. On his arm. Then his back. Not asking, because Yuri never asks. But even more than the original, hard order, made even harder.
Because Yuri wants him out of his room, his space, near him, too. Like he's sullying even the air. There's a part of him trying to say that's absolutely normal. The same as every other time he's been near Yuri. The same as Hasestu months ago, and those seconds right before his skate today.
Except.
Minutes that feel like more years. He remembers that face. The one Yuri made. He remembers the tea, and Yuri talking about them together. Wishing him luck.
(Except.
It doesn't want to hold either.)
It doesn't matter (or it matters more than he knows how to translate with everything else he doesn't know how to translate, suddenly feels like it's all in a language he's never been taught) because he's already stumbled the propelled steps in the hallway. Found motion again. The lights too bright for late night, and there's only one place to go.
(Their room. The one Victor arranged. The one Victor won't be in.
The one Victor won't return to.)
Not yet.
Or is it -- not still?
He looks back over his shoulder, searching for something, the words Yuri had just said maybe. Newest insult jangling ice shards into everything else nebulous and overwhelming everywhere -- he's suddenly so tired, in every bone, made of bricks (not music) even if he's sure sleep won't come easy. But he remembers anyway. The words. The insult.
"I'll be there." It's deflated, even unwavering.
Before he does turn back toward the hallway and start walking back to the elevator.
no subject
Easier not to question why. Answers haven't been forthcoming for minutes.
(Even Milliways, the impossible place where nothing is impossible, said no.)
The English is rough, ruthless in his ear, all harsh Russian accents (nothing like the glide of Victor's inflections). Demands his attention like the hand on him. On his arm. Then his back. Not asking, because Yuri never asks. But even more than the original, hard order, made even harder.
Because Yuri wants him out of his room, his space, near him, too. Like he's sullying even the air. There's a part of him trying to say that's absolutely normal. The same as every other time he's been near Yuri. The same as Hasestu months ago, and those seconds right before his skate today.
Except.
Minutes that feel like more years. He remembers that face. The one Yuri made.
He remembers the tea, and Yuri talking about them together. Wishing him luck.
It doesn't want to hold either.)
It doesn't matter (or it matters more than he knows how to translate with everything else he doesn't know how to translate, suddenly feels like it's all in a language he's never been taught) because he's already stumbled the propelled steps in the hallway. Found motion again. The lights too bright for late night, and there's only one place to go.
The one Victor arranged.
The one Victor won't be in.
The one Victor won't return to.)
Not yet.
Or is it -- not still?
He looks back over his shoulder, searching for something, the words Yuri had just said maybe. Newest insult jangling ice shards into everything else nebulous and overwhelming everywhere -- he's suddenly so tired, in every bone, made of bricks (not music) even if he's sure sleep won't come easy. But he remembers anyway. The words. The insult.
"I'll be there." It's deflated, even unwavering.
Before he does turn back toward the hallway and start walking back to the elevator.