It feels like it’s both an agonizingly slow crash that keeps slamming through his center and absolute less than a second, before suddenly Victor squeezes him tighter, again and then is gone. His words make sense, but Yuri can really only stand there as they sink in, while Victor is picking up the phone and Yuri can only assume calling for the cab Victor just said he was, had to.
When he’s just staring, and he doesn’t know the words, and. He didn’t hug Victor. Seconds ago. Which seems to catch up like something large cracking from up high, only to fall and go smashing. Too late. When it all feels too late, and everything else is moving so fast. Too fast. The dizzying spill of fear and pain that blur together at the thought of that being the last chance, when something in that still cracking, still crashing certainty knows he can’t just walk over and hug Victor to change that.
Isn’t certain that if he could manage to do just that, he’d be able to let go.
Not while he’s watching Victor right his suitcase and the bag that slides on top of it. When everything is in it, everything is gone from the room, and it’s only the breath of however many minutes or seconds left, before that’s Victor, too. Victor’s voice is the only sound in the room, not even the air, and he still has to blink to focus, even when the only thing he’d been looking at was Victor.
There’s another nod, gaze slipping to one side, before coming back to Victor’s face. “Okay.”
The idea of walking Victor down to his cab, to the thing that will bring this all to an end, to watch him vanish entirely from this sudden upside down tilted night, is a pervasive pain. The idea of saying no and just watching Victor walk out the door less than twenty feet from them, right there, at the front of their — his? his room, now? — is worse.
Yuri takes small breaths walking down the hallway with Victor and the soft sound of the rolling suitcase, trying to reach for anything that will make this even out, taper at least to a manageable roll, but there’s a problem with trying to find anything like to hold on to, ground into. He finds it in the elevator, while the numbers are counting down so fast.
When he’s trying to tell himself it’s fine, they’ve done this.
But they haven’t.
No matter how he looks at, how he twists it.
They haven’t. In the greater part of a year the furthest he’s been from Victor has been what? The opposite side of an airport, recently? Half of Hasetsu, before the Qaulifiers, for the summer and spring? Because when Victor decided he wanted to go so much as a town away Yuri was no longer cajolingly invited to attend things, but all but kidnapped into acquiescence. Not days or nights away. Not weekends. Not competitions.
When had that happened? How? How many months now?
Had he ever spent that much time with anyone before? Ever?
Yuri needs to stop. He has to stop. Before he can’t breathe at all.
This isn’t about him. It’s about Victor. It’s about Maccachin. Victor deserves this, and more. Anything, he could want, could need, right now, if Yuri could give it to him. Or just not stand in the way of it. Victor’s done so much. For so long. He’s never asked for something this important. He was never going to have to tonight. He'd done so much, given so much, every single one of those suddenly painstakingly clear days.
Yuri just had to make it through the next few seconds — minute, if it’s even that long? — and then he can go somewhere and give into being stupid and selfish. Whatever that was, whatever it even looked like, when the last time he'd ever been it, without Victor, felt like a whole life, was nearly a whole year ago.
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It feels like it’s both an agonizingly slow crash that keeps slamming through his center and absolute less than a second, before suddenly Victor squeezes him tighter, again and then is gone. His words make sense, but Yuri can really only stand there as they sink in, while Victor is picking up the phone and Yuri can only assume calling for the cab Victor just said he was, had to.
When he’s just staring, and he doesn’t know the words, and. He didn’t hug Victor. Seconds ago. Which seems to catch up like something large cracking from up high, only to fall and go smashing. Too late. When it all feels too late, and everything else is moving so fast. Too fast. The dizzying spill of fear and pain that blur together at the thought of that being the last chance, when something in that still cracking, still crashing certainty knows he can’t just walk over and hug Victor to change that.
Isn’t certain that if he could manage to do just that, he’d be able to let go.
Not while he’s watching Victor right his suitcase and the bag that slides on top of it. When everything is in it, everything is gone from the room, and it’s only the breath of however many minutes or seconds left, before that’s Victor, too. Victor’s voice is the only sound in the room, not even the air, and he still has to blink to focus, even when the only thing he’d been looking at was Victor.
There’s another nod, gaze slipping to one side, before coming back to Victor’s face. “Okay.”
The idea of walking Victor down to his cab, to the thing that will bring this all to an end, to watch him vanish entirely from this sudden upside down tilted night, is a pervasive pain. The idea of saying no and just watching Victor walk out the door less than twenty feet from them, right there, at the front of their — his? his room, now? — is worse.
Yuri takes small breaths walking down the hallway with Victor and the soft sound of the rolling suitcase, trying to reach for anything that will make this even out, taper at least to a manageable roll, but there’s a problem with trying to find anything like to hold on to, ground into. He finds it in the elevator, while the numbers are counting down so fast.
When he’s trying to tell himself it’s fine, they’ve done this.
But they haven’t.
No matter how he looks at, how he twists it.
They haven’t. In the greater part of a year the furthest he’s been from Victor has been what? The opposite side of an airport, recently? Half of Hasetsu, before the Qaulifiers, for the summer and spring? Because when Victor decided he wanted to go so much as a town away Yuri was no longer cajolingly invited to attend things, but all but kidnapped into acquiescence. Not days or nights away. Not weekends. Not competitions.
When had that happened? How? How many months now?
Had he ever spent that much time with anyone before? Ever?
Yuri needs to stop. He has to stop. Before he can’t breathe at all.
This isn’t about him. It’s about Victor. It’s about Maccachin. Victor deserves this, and more. Anything, he could want, could need, right now, if Yuri could give it to him. Or just not stand in the way of it. Victor’s done so much. For so long. He’s never asked for something this important. He was never going to have to tonight. He'd done so much, given so much, every single one of those suddenly painstakingly clear days.
Yuri just had to make it through the next few seconds — minute, if it’s even that long? — and then he can go somewhere and give into being stupid and selfish. Whatever that was, whatever it even looked like, when the last time he'd ever been it, without Victor, felt like a whole life, was nearly a whole year ago.
But only once this part is done.