It’s a quiet sort of descension. Door, car seat, window. Fingers on his lap on his warmup pants — the lagging realization that he’s still suited up under it and everything else is inside, behind them — only long enough to remember he’s supposed to be doing something. It gives him some movement. Digging into his pocket for his phone and pulling it out to send a quick, short text to his family that Victor will be coming as soon as he can, while directions are being given in the background.
It’s only a few words and it leaves him already looking up, just holding the phone in his hand, as Victor starts apologizing, and Yuri can’t for his life in that second come up with anything that Victor should be apologizing for. The surprise of it, and wash of denial against the idea of that being needed now of all time, takes longer in his head than getting to even understanding what the apology is was supposed to be for.
His phone call. The one Yuri, himself, has pointed out should be had in here. As soon as possible. It doesn’t matter. Victor’s voice permeates the small vehicle and Yuri leans back in his seat, trying to look out the window and not stare at Victor. He’s not sure he sees any of it, and yet some of it still looks familiar, from it being pointed out. Something about that high rise, or something about that food place. Voices from half a day and a day ago, like the faintest echoes. People talking somewhere else, on the other side of a wall.
The fragile foolishness of those people who seemed recklessly carefree now.
The pressure on his hand is still somehow a surprise, when his is moved suddenly, and he looks down to his hand, before he’s looking up to Victor’s pale, troubled expression, while those fingers squeeze his. That faint pressure registering even just as Victor lets go and goes digging for something of his own. Yuri gives up on his window without trying a second time, staying just slightly canted toward Victor, leaving his hand where it had been as the sensation of that touch evaporates too soon. Staring at some amalgamation of Victor’s hands and his knees, or, maybe it’s the car door on that side.
It doesn’t sound like bad news at least. (And. Good. That's good.) Not if Victor needs his wallet. His money. (The sooner he can get to Maccachin the better.) Last step and first (and he’s actually going, he’s actually leaving). There’s a line cutting itself somewhere right on the inside of his breast bone. A strange sort of sharp chill radiating into the bones right around it.
Yuri does wait until Victor is finished and hanging up, before asking, quietly, “How soon?”
no subject
It’s only a few words and it leaves him already looking up, just holding the phone in his hand, as Victor starts apologizing, and Yuri can’t for his life in that second come up with anything that Victor should be apologizing for. The surprise of it, and wash of denial against the idea of that being needed now of all time, takes longer in his head than getting to even understanding what the apology is was supposed to be for.
His phone call. The one Yuri, himself, has pointed out should be had in here. As soon as possible. It doesn’t matter. Victor’s voice permeates the small vehicle and Yuri leans back in his seat, trying to look out the window and not stare at Victor. He’s not sure he sees any of it, and yet some of it still looks familiar, from it being pointed out. Something about that high rise, or something about that food place. Voices from half a day and a day ago, like the faintest echoes. People talking somewhere else, on the other side of a wall.
The fragile foolishness of those people who seemed recklessly carefree now.
The pressure on his hand is still somehow a surprise, when his is moved suddenly, and he looks down to his hand, before he’s looking up to Victor’s pale, troubled expression, while those fingers squeeze his. That faint pressure registering even just as Victor lets go and goes digging for something of his own. Yuri gives up on his window without trying a second time, staying just slightly canted toward Victor, leaving his hand where it had been as the sensation of that touch evaporates too soon. Staring at some amalgamation of Victor’s hands and his knees, or, maybe it’s the car door on that side.
It doesn’t sound like bad news at least. (And. Good. That's good.) Not if Victor needs his wallet. His money. (The sooner he can get to Maccachin the better.) Last step and first (and he’s actually going, he’s actually leaving). There’s a line cutting itself somewhere right on the inside of his breast bone. A strange sort of sharp chill radiating into the bones right around it.
Yuri does wait until Victor is finished and hanging up, before asking, quietly, “How soon?”