He's too exhausted from the day, and half-distracted by everything that has his sitting here, for anything like outright panic.
Especially still being this far away. But that doesn't keep the rest of his head from worrying. From the consideration. From the concern. From the question. From an overdone, all too viscerally imprinted reminder of the dreams, the flash sudden overwhelming panic, fear, desperation, despair that sometimes woke him up. To rooms that reminded him only seconds later he wasn't there.
Which doesn't keep his guts from twisting up at the memory of the real, and not-real, times it's happened, cementing the feeling deeper and deeper. Doesn't entirely help to think it's not real here, like he could in bed. When it could be. Has been. Has proven it can.
A door in the way. A wall. A world, a universe, millions.
(He knows why he's dreaming it. He doesn't need to be told.
Knows exactly how many days. Even if he tries not to. He knows.)
He blinks back to Yurio talking and staring at him, and then the door, and Yuri flushes, like the sun decided it should sit right against the sides of his neck. Hastily stumbling right into, "Sorry." He doesn't know entirely what to do with his hands. The papers is in his pockets, and the sudden cold, coiled hissing in his stomach doesn't really want to swallow food. "I --uh--" am a mess, works really well here, and Yuri's fingers clench into his pants not to come up and touch, or cover, his face. "--probably should in a few minutes."
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He's too exhausted from the day, and half-distracted by everything that has his sitting here, for anything like outright panic.
Especially still being this far away. But that doesn't keep the rest of his head from worrying. From the consideration. From the concern. From the question. From an overdone, all too viscerally imprinted reminder of the dreams, the flash sudden overwhelming panic, fear, desperation, despair that sometimes woke him up. To rooms that reminded him only seconds later he wasn't there.
Which doesn't keep his guts from twisting up at the memory of the real, and not-real, times it's happened, cementing the feeling deeper and deeper. Doesn't entirely help to think it's not real here, like he could in bed. When it could be. Has been. Has proven it can.
A door in the way. A wall. A world, a universe, millions.
He doesn't need to be told.
Knows exactly how many days.
Even if he tries not to. He knows.)
He blinks back to Yurio talking and staring at him, and then the door, and Yuri flushes, like the sun decided it should sit right against the sides of his neck. Hastily stumbling right into, "Sorry." He doesn't know entirely what to do with his hands. The papers is in his pockets, and the sudden cold, coiled hissing in his stomach doesn't really want to swallow food. "I --uh--" am a mess, works really well here, and Yuri's fingers clench into his pants not to come up and touch, or cover, his face. "--probably should in a few minutes."