Walking into the room feels like walking into another world. Victor is all movement toward the middle of it, and Yuri stands there holding the door for long moment as the realization strikes him (again? for the first time?) that Victor won’t walk back into this room again. The door closing sounds more finite than Yuri knows what to do with, never saw coming, like all of this. Steps slow, while Victor is already starting to undress in the middle of the room, dropping things around him in his haste, and Yuri has to swallow hard.
Except for the first time, there’s no other feeling like there’s ever been with it before. No warmth. No swell of embarrassment. If anything, just for the briefest second he feels sick. Everything is different, and he just looks down and to one side, toward the bathroom, knowing he needs to snap out of his thoughts. This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place. Victor’s talking about the cab, the plane, his time, his train, all sensible details, all forward direction, and Yuri needs to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Help with whatever he can.
Instead of walking forward, he turns and flicks on the bathroom light. As much as he can avoids the mirror entirely, and starts putting Victor’s things into his case. While Victor’s voice continues to come from the room proper as he scoops everything from the counter into it. Then, takes the bottles from the shower area and adds them in, too.
Having to give the counter a last look, to be sure he has everything, but all that’s left is his stuff, and this stinging bite at how it all looks like so little in the vista of endless empty space around it. The little he has, has ever had, ever brought, with nothing thrown around it in use. But even as it tries to crawl upward, Yuri shoves it back, making himself turn, hit the switch and come out after that voice.
“Okay.” Because he doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know what the not-so-slowly spreading sore ache turning into a pressing wave in his chest will let him say. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to say anything. He just needs to help. He just needs to make sure he’s not in the way, and that Victor can catch his cab, and his plane, and get to Maccachin. That’s what’s important.
He hears himself (more than feels like he chooses himself to) add, “Here.”
He sets Victor’s toiletry case on the end of the bed beside Victor’s suitcase. Then, turns, without looking up, to look over the tops of everything in the room. Table, and dresser, and bed tables, and chairs, for any of the small things that shouldn’t be forgotten.
no subject
Except for the first time, there’s no other feeling like there’s ever been with it before. No warmth. No swell of embarrassment. If anything, just for the briefest second he feels sick. Everything is different, and he just looks down and to one side, toward the bathroom, knowing he needs to snap out of his thoughts. This isn’t the time. This isn’t the place. Victor’s talking about the cab, the plane, his time, his train, all sensible details, all forward direction, and Yuri needs to focus. Focus. Focus. Focus. Help with whatever he can.
Instead of walking forward, he turns and flicks on the bathroom light. As much as he can avoids the mirror entirely, and starts putting Victor’s things into his case. While Victor’s voice continues to come from the room proper as he scoops everything from the counter into it. Then, takes the bottles from the shower area and adds them in, too.
Having to give the counter a last look, to be sure he has everything, but all that’s left is his stuff, and this stinging bite at how it all looks like so little in the vista of endless empty space around it. The little he has, has ever had, ever brought, with nothing thrown around it in use. But even as it tries to crawl upward, Yuri shoves it back, making himself turn, hit the switch and come out after that voice.
“Okay.” Because he doesn’t know what else to say, doesn’t know what the not-so-slowly spreading sore ache turning into a pressing wave in his chest will let him say. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to say anything. He just needs to help. He just needs to make sure he’s not in the way, and that Victor can catch his cab, and his plane, and get to Maccachin. That’s what’s important.
He hears himself (more than feels like he chooses himself to) add, “Here.”
He sets Victor’s toiletry case on the end of the bed beside Victor’s suitcase. Then, turns, without looking up, to look over the tops of everything in the room. Table, and dresser, and bed tables, and chairs, for any of the small things that shouldn’t be forgotten.