There’s something about Victor’s voice. He can’t entirely place what it is even. Low. Thick. Even in two words. (Not quite breathless? Not quite a tremble?) But Victor doesn’t jerk back, and Victor doesn’t pull away. Victor stays exactly where Yuri’s pulled him to, only agreeing with him and leaving it there, and — they don’t have time. Yuri doesn’t. Not even to wait for Victor to remember to tell him anything now.
It’s futile, but at the same time there’s a surge of hot, steadying, mollification curling in his gut, too. That he has Victor’s full attention (taken it from them, taken him from them) although Victor has no time to use it. He doesn’t let go of the slick fabfic fisted in his partially gloved fingers, inverting what Victor should have said to him. Taken the time to. Wanted to. Remembered. Comfort. Promise. Advice. Pointers. Inverted outward, when he leans closer, his cheek barely brushing Victor's, in his first next two words. “Don’t worry.”
More of them falling, warm and backward. “I’ll show my love to the whole of Russia.”
Then, he lets go, all at once. All movement, all force, using both of his hands to push off of the wall, and twists to make toward the center of the ice. Not looking at Victor. Not looking back behind him. The audience is still cheering. They never stopped cheering. But now it’s changed, too. There’s screams and claps more than any single word — single name — that can be heard, except for the announcement of his name on the loud speaker.
Everything catching up with him as the space widens and widens. Warmth hitting his cheeks with hot recognition. The slick heat of embarrassment. For the crowd chanting for Victor and not him, and Victor, with them and not him, and what he did because of it. Right here. Out the open. Did. Said. While his stomach tries to suddenly wobble like a loose screw.
Threatens to unspool in a way it hasn’t this whole morning and night. Hadn’t gotten that bad. Even as he waited for it. Suddenly feeling the sickening intimidation of being right. About every person out there watching him. But he can’t. He can’t not now. Not seconds away. He can’t let them intimidate him now. Here. In Russia. Not after he got this far.
no subject
It’s futile, but at the same time there’s a surge of hot, steadying, mollification curling in his gut, too. That he has Victor’s full attention (taken it from them, taken him from them) although Victor has no time to use it. He doesn’t let go of the slick fabfic fisted in his partially gloved fingers, inverting what Victor should have said to him. Taken the time to. Wanted to. Remembered. Comfort. Promise. Advice. Pointers. Inverted outward, when he leans closer, his cheek barely brushing Victor's, in his first next two words. “Don’t worry.”
More of them falling, warm and backward. “I’ll show my love to the whole of Russia.”
Then, he lets go, all at once. All movement, all force, using both of his hands to push off of the wall, and twists to make toward the center of the ice. Not looking at Victor. Not looking back behind him. The audience is still cheering. They never stopped cheering. But now it’s changed, too. There’s screams and claps more than any single word — single name — that can be heard, except for the announcement of his name on the loud speaker.
Everything catching up with him as the space widens and widens. Warmth hitting his cheeks with hot recognition. The slick heat of embarrassment. For the crowd chanting for Victor and not him, and Victor, with them and not him, and what he did because of it. Right here. Out the open. Did. Said. While his stomach tries to suddenly wobble like a loose screw.
Threatens to unspool in a way it hasn’t this whole morning and night. Hadn’t gotten that bad. Even as he waited for it. Suddenly feeling the sickening intimidation of being right. About every person out there watching him. But he can’t. He can’t not now. Not seconds away. He can’t let them intimidate him now. Here. In Russia. Not after he got this far.
Keep refusing. Keep demanding. All of them.