Seven, Victor says, and Victor keeps talking, but Yuri’s head keeps repeating that number (Seven Seven Seven), while his hand shifts so he look at the time on his phone (Seven Seven Seven). If it was any other time, he’s not possible anyone would believe they’d make it.
But Victor has to.
Victor will.
Which makes it confusing why blinking at his phone and then Victor paying is making it feel strange, at the inside corners of his eyes. Like they’ve gone too dry and he has to blink too many times. His eyes and his throat, and maybe it’s good he doesn’t need to say anything, because he’s not sure he’d know what to say or if his body would even work to let him say it if he knew what to say, what to do besides stay out of the way, besides follow beside or right behind Victor in motion.
Which he’s been doing for months.
He can do that even at dawn in his sleep.
Across the lobby and into an elevator, everything feeling, backwardly, like the faster and closer it gets suddenly the slower the world seems and the tighter everything inside of Yuri. He makes his mouth do … something. A curve or a press, he’s not certain when Victor is making some relieved comment about not having to pack much. Which is good. It’s good for getting to Maccachin. It’s good for the plane. It’s good for Victor.
That’s what Victor needs.
That’s what Yuri wants for all of this.
So why does it feel like it’s just the beginning of a second act in the show of just how easy it would be under any circumstances for Victor to disentangle himself from all of this?
A few minutes and everything legally binding is changed. A few minutes here, of light packing, and every physical proof could be, too.
Which makes everything so confusing when he’s still impatient outside the door to the room, caught in the necessary forward momentum to do whatever it takes to keep the worse from coming. No key, no backpack, no roller bag. He doesn’t even have his jeans or his winter jacket, so he definitely doesn’t have his room key, stored with everything else that would have been waiting in the locker room for after the whole day on finish. None of it matters. It'll be there tomorrow. Maccachin might not be (and Victor won't either way).
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But Victor has to.
Victor will.
Which makes it confusing why blinking at his phone and then Victor paying is making it feel strange, at the inside corners of his eyes. Like they’ve gone too dry and he has to blink too many times. His eyes and his throat, and maybe it’s good he doesn’t need to say anything, because he’s not sure he’d know what to say or if his body would even work to let him say it if he knew what to say, what to do besides stay out of the way, besides follow beside or right behind Victor in motion.
Which he’s been doing for months.
He can do that even at dawn in his sleep.
Across the lobby and into an elevator, everything feeling, backwardly, like the faster and closer it gets suddenly the slower the world seems and the tighter everything inside of Yuri. He makes his mouth do … something. A curve or a press, he’s not certain when Victor is making some relieved comment about not having to pack much. Which is good. It’s good for getting to Maccachin. It’s good for the plane. It’s good for Victor.
That’s what Victor needs.
That’s what Yuri wants for all of this.
Which makes everything so confusing when he’s still impatient outside the door to the room, caught in the necessary forward momentum to do whatever it takes to keep the worse from coming. No key, no backpack, no roller bag. He doesn’t even have his jeans or his winter jacket, so he definitely doesn’t have his room key, stored with everything else that would have been waiting in the locker room for after the whole day on finish. None of it matters. It'll be there tomorrow. Maccachin might not be (and Victor won't either way).