Not for me, Yuuri says. It would have once been jarring, stating the opposite of what Viktor had so clearly seen in Sochi. He'd been shining and effervescent then, pulling Viktor into a frenetic Paso Doble. Yuuri had touched him so openly, dipped him so low, steered him with such certainty – for a long time, Viktor wondered if he'd forgotten all about him. The pass he gives him now is part in deference to Yuuri's comfort, but also to the fact he's realized that Yuuri had only become so much more than the charming playboy he'd once breathed into his programs. The way Yuuri really is – it's so much more disarming.
It's so unfair, really. He's so close and all Viktor wants to do is nose against his collar when he leans in. Viktor Nikiforov is not an inexperienced man, but Katsuki Yuuri is the only one who has ever championed his heart. – and the heart is a funny and willful thing when presented all that it wants.
To Viktor, this was all just as novel and new. He has no clue as to what is considered usual for him, for Yuuri. For Viktor, who had stopped giving them altogether, he'd only ever seen the flowers that others would pour at his feet. It wasn't much, but this is – it's more than what Viktor cares to count. The flowers that still live inside him stir and shiver as Yuuri keeps that one separate – keeps it apart.
And then Yuuri tells him to keep them and Viktor has to take a slow breath to keep himself from starting back up in earnest. He'll be a hair trigger for the rest of his days, he's convinced, as he breathes out a remaining few. They're unmistakable as roses, a dark and thoughtful pink: gratitude. ]
OK, [ he starts. It's a confirmation of many things, short and sweet – sincere. He hasn't looked away, not yet. ] We'll do just that. [ And finally, he gives a short glance toward their feet. It's littered, the floor, a carpet of meaning. His lap is still blanketed in blues. He's never felt more pleased to smell as though a garden, to be wrapped up in literal feeling. ] Do you really think your mother keeps something big enough for all these?
[ As if to demonstrate his point, Viktor finally uses the hand he was given to leverage himself up. It's a cascade, quite literally. And Viktor can't help the soft, short giggle that comes as the remaining petals Yuuri'd long ago poured over him tumble from the crown of his head – catch at his shoulder, the shell of an ear. ] We might have to make use of a few.
we're sorely lacking roses this thread but i mean they're flowers at least!!!
Not for me, Yuuri says. It would have once been jarring, stating the opposite of what Viktor had so clearly seen in Sochi. He'd been shining and effervescent then, pulling Viktor into a frenetic Paso Doble. Yuuri had touched him so openly, dipped him so low, steered him with such certainty – for a long time, Viktor wondered if he'd forgotten all about him. The pass he gives him now is part in deference to Yuuri's comfort, but also to the fact he's realized that Yuuri had only become so much more than the charming playboy he'd once breathed into his programs. The way Yuuri really is – it's so much more disarming.
It's so unfair, really. He's so close and all Viktor wants to do is nose against his collar when he leans in. Viktor Nikiforov is not an inexperienced man, but Katsuki Yuuri is the only one who has ever championed his heart. – and the heart is a funny and willful thing when presented all that it wants.
To Viktor, this was all just as novel and new. He has no clue as to what is considered usual for him, for Yuuri. For Viktor, who had stopped giving them altogether, he'd only ever seen the flowers that others would pour at his feet. It wasn't much, but this is – it's more than what Viktor cares to count. The flowers that still live inside him stir and shiver as Yuuri keeps that one separate – keeps it apart.
And then Yuuri tells him to keep them and Viktor has to take a slow breath to keep himself from starting back up in earnest. He'll be a hair trigger for the rest of his days, he's convinced, as he breathes out a remaining few. They're unmistakable as roses, a dark and thoughtful pink: gratitude. ]
OK, [ he starts. It's a confirmation of many things, short and sweet – sincere. He hasn't looked away, not yet. ] We'll do just that. [ And finally, he gives a short glance toward their feet. It's littered, the floor, a carpet of meaning. His lap is still blanketed in blues. He's never felt more pleased to smell as though a garden, to be wrapped up in literal feeling. ] Do you really think your mother keeps something big enough for all these?
[ As if to demonstrate his point, Viktor finally uses the hand he was given to leverage himself up. It's a cascade, quite literally. And Viktor can't help the soft, short giggle that comes as the remaining petals Yuuri'd long ago poured over him tumble from the crown of his head – catch at his shoulder, the shell of an ear. ] We might have to make use of a few.