There’s a moment of confusion when Yuri goes from decisively having the shred of a plan, trying to look for things that need packing, while possibly very specifically not looking at others, when suddenly there are arms thrown around him. One would think he’d be used to that. This many months in.
Isn’t he? (Wasn’t he?)
Except, he startles into a frozen block of unprepared stillness at the shock and the something far greater it sets free. Yuri’s not sure how he thought anything hurt, anything knew what hurt was, before this second when it suddenly felt like the inside of his chest shredded and blew up at the same second, when there were suddenly arms around him. Victor’s chest, his ribs, the side of his face, pressed into him. The sound of his voice this close. The simplicity of the Japanese he uses.
It feels like an overwhelming testament to any strength Yuri has left that he doesn’t suddenly tear up under the overwhelming onslaught of both breaking everything he’d had in his hands, in his head. (Victor is leaving.) The same can’t be said for the shake that slides through his slim figure, instead. (Victor will be gone in minutes.) Or the way he has no clue how to move his arms at the moment. (Victor has to go.)
He might be the worst person in the world, because he suddenly has the urge to beg Victor not to. Go. Leave him. Except. Except. Except. Maccachin. Maccachin (is at the vet right this second, possibly dying) and Vicchan (who Yuri could never have had the chance to even make it back to).
And Victor is hugging him. Victor is thanking him.
For understanding? Letting him go? Telling him to? Giving Victor that chance he never got?
Yuri nods against the pressure — of everything shoving upward in his chest, his throat, pressing in against eyes from the muscles below them and to the side, Victor around them, around him, the way Victor’s voice sounds raw through that single word. He has to be better than the coldness falling everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, than the feelings suddenly, with Victor this close, that he’s already gone, that Yuri was already alone again, that this was always coming.
no subject
Isn’t he? (Wasn’t he?)
Except, he startles into a frozen block of unprepared stillness at the shock and the something far greater it sets free. Yuri’s not sure how he thought anything hurt, anything knew what hurt was, before this second when it suddenly felt like the inside of his chest shredded and blew up at the same second, when there were suddenly arms around him. Victor’s chest, his ribs, the side of his face, pressed into him. The sound of his voice this close. The simplicity of the Japanese he uses.
It feels like an overwhelming testament to any strength Yuri has left that he doesn’t suddenly tear up under the overwhelming onslaught of both breaking everything he’d had in his hands, in his head. (Victor is leaving.) The same can’t be said for the shake that slides through his slim figure, instead. (Victor will be gone in minutes.) Or the way he has no clue how to move his arms at the moment. (Victor has to go.)
He might be the worst person in the world, because he suddenly has the urge to beg Victor not to. Go. Leave him. Except. Except. Except. Maccachin. Maccachin (is at the vet right this second, possibly dying) and Vicchan (who Yuri could never have had the chance to even make it back to).
And Victor is hugging him. Victor is thanking him.
For understanding? Letting him go? Telling him to? Giving Victor that chance he never got?
Yuri nods against the pressure — of everything shoving upward in his chest, his throat, pressing in against eyes from the muscles below them and to the side, Victor around them, around him, the way Victor’s voice sounds raw through that single word. He has to be better than the coldness falling everywhere, everywhere, everywhere, than the feelings suddenly, with Victor this close, that he’s already gone, that Yuri was already alone again, that this was always coming.