Maybe he wishes it wasn't the truth. Just a little. Could picture just barely, hazy images, that are more like hazy would-not-feelings, what that might be like. But not long enough to hold on to it. He doesn't want to keep thoughts that aren't true. That will just get gummy and slip him up. He thinks enough things in a day that aren't true to not have anything kind of want to pick up more of them if he can help it.
It would be easier if it wasn't true, here or anywhere else, but especially here, but Yuri isn't certain -- especially laying there, looking into Victor's eyes, that even as much as he wants this (a comeback worth forgetting the last year, a good year to go out on, to make it to the Grand Prix final) -- that he wouldn't pick Victor, too, if there was a chance that he could see Victor skate, perform, compete instead of himself.
He'd loved Victor, and Victor's rise, and Victor's constant record-shattering, like the rest of the world for more than half his life.
Still something in his troubled expression softens the smallest bit against the feeling of Victor's fingers running along that small section of his side, through his night shirt. Soft warmth, he has no defense against, snaking its way through his skin into the spaces between the loops and knots in his stomach, and after a few seconds of that, he finally gives into turning on to his side to be able to face Victor.
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Maybe he wishes it wasn't the truth. Just a little. Could picture just barely, hazy images, that are more like hazy would-not-feelings, what that might be like. But not long enough to hold on to it. He doesn't want to keep thoughts that aren't true. That will just get gummy and slip him up. He thinks enough things in a day that aren't true to not have anything kind of want to pick up more of them if he can help it.
It would be easier if it wasn't true, here or anywhere else, but especially here, but Yuri isn't certain -- especially laying there, looking into Victor's eyes, that even as much as he wants this (a comeback worth forgetting the last year, a good year to go out on, to make it to the Grand Prix final) -- that he wouldn't pick Victor, too, if there was a chance that he could see Victor skate, perform, compete instead of himself.
He'd loved Victor, and Victor's rise, and Victor's constant record-shattering, like the rest of the world for more than half his life.
Still something in his troubled expression softens the smallest bit against the feeling of Victor's fingers running along that small section of his side, through his night shirt. Soft warmth, he has no defense against, snaking its way through his skin into the spaces between the loops and knots in his stomach, and after a few seconds of that, he finally gives into turning on to his side to be able to face Victor.