Even as Yurio blows it off, with strangely careful words, Yuri is torn between two different images, uncertainty blowing both of them like tangling streamers together. One where Yurio does not give the smallest amount of care about what other people are doing or care about grading himself or a situation for appropriateness if he's given permission to act unruly as though it has a stamp of approval on it.
The other. The other is more like ... a question. A question that posits that Yurio just mentioned he does watch to see what other people are doing. That he wants the ability to cause a scene to be after it first -- which, does slightly sound more like him. The end part. The being perfect. The capability to hold that perfection out, abrasive and aggressive, at anyone who might look sideways at it.
(...could you just show it to me?, his mind whispers,
So I can get it right?)
It's a question mark beside the safe, if often calmness-shattering, assumption, unsettling the weight of the certainty that had been there when he walked in. But that's not true either, really. It's a question mark of a moment, sitting next to the several question marks left from Moscow, from the tea here, and the shouting and birthday prest in the Moscow snow, and Yurio being o very different sides across a very thick line dividing them.
But Yurio is quietly attempting more pieces in his bowl and Yuri doesn't specifically have to say anything to his words. There isn't a question, it doesn't need him to give something out, and there's a ramping fear that if he even so much as opens his mouth a few centimeters, the wrong questions will all fall out. About this still. All. Why. Why, again. Even if he already said it. Why. Questions he can't ask. Doesn't.
It's easier to detour his attention back to his own bowl, back to his own chopsticks, to take another bite while his stomach is starting to rail like a starved lion at the bars of its cage, practice and cool down and a shower giving way to what should be evening; food in hand, and still not eating all of it, as though to replace everything he's burned out in another overwhelming day faster than breathing in air.
Because this isn't dinner, this isn't Yu-Topia, this isn't whatever his mother made while asking them how the day went and not really understanding the answers, before Yuri and Victor devolve into first conversation on what needs to be worked on tomorrow and then, whatever else has gathered Victor attention, and by that Yuri's focus, from there through the end of the night.
This isn't that. No matter how much his stomach yawns like a pit at his bowl. This is something ... else.
The thought stuck, being chewed between Yuri's teeth with a bite, as he looks back toward Yurio again. Yurio, pulling at one of the longest noodles and starting to look like he's headed for a shortstop in terror first because it won't end when he tugs or pulls, just keeps pulling out more and more of itself. His face is almost squashed to the bowl by the time it's free and he's trying to jam the whole length of it in his mouth, and Yuri tries not to laugh, even if his mouth can't stop quirking toward the edge of a raise.
no subject
Even as Yurio blows it off, with strangely careful words, Yuri is torn between two different images, uncertainty blowing both of them like tangling streamers together. One where Yurio does not give the smallest amount of care about what other people are doing or care about grading himself or a situation for appropriateness if he's given permission to act unruly as though it has a stamp of approval on it.
The other. The other is more like ... a question. A question that posits that Yurio just mentioned he does watch to see what other people are doing. That he wants the ability to cause a scene to be after it first -- which, does slightly sound more like him. The end part. The being perfect. The capability to hold that perfection out, abrasive and aggressive, at anyone who might look sideways at it.
his mind whispers,
It's a question mark beside the safe, if often calmness-shattering, assumption, unsettling the weight of the certainty that had been there when he walked in. But that's not true either, really. It's a question mark of a moment, sitting next to the several question marks left from Moscow, from the tea here, and the shouting and birthday prest in the Moscow snow, and Yurio being o very different sides across a very thick line dividing them.
But Yurio is quietly attempting more pieces in his bowl and Yuri doesn't specifically have to say anything to his words. There isn't a question, it doesn't need him to give something out, and there's a ramping fear that if he even so much as opens his mouth a few centimeters, the wrong questions will all fall out. About this still. All. Why. Why, again. Even if he already said it. Why. Questions he can't ask. Doesn't.
It's easier to detour his attention back to his own bowl, back to his own chopsticks, to take another bite while his stomach is starting to rail like a starved lion at the bars of its cage, practice and cool down and a shower giving way to what should be evening; food in hand, and still not eating all of it, as though to replace everything he's burned out in another overwhelming day faster than breathing in air.
Because this isn't dinner, this isn't Yu-Topia, this isn't whatever his mother made while asking them how the day went and not really understanding the answers, before Yuri and Victor devolve into first conversation on what needs to be worked on tomorrow and then, whatever else has gathered Victor attention, and by that Yuri's focus, from there through the end of the night.
This isn't that. No matter how much his stomach yawns like a pit at his bowl. This is something ... else.
The thought stuck, being chewed between Yuri's teeth with a bite, as he looks back toward Yurio again. Yurio, pulling at one of the longest noodles and starting to look like he's headed for a shortstop in terror first because it won't end when he tugs or pulls, just keeps pulling out more and more of itself. His face is almost squashed to the bowl by the time it's free and he's trying to jam the whole length of it in his mouth, and Yuri tries not to laugh, even if his mouth can't stop quirking toward the edge of a raise.