Viktor is a wild, atrocious, and beautiful note when star-struck and tangled in the messy troth of the saccharine melody Yuuri creates. He knows he’s played out of place when he’s lodged between the gentle tone of the innocent flutter of thick lashes upon flushed features and the screeching pitch of wavering breathes as they beat like drums of war against his ivory cheeks. But when fragile fingers are slotted through his like they’re creating an orchestra together, he can’t quite hear the ugly thunk that screams when he’s struck because this is where he belongs: with bare feet pressed against the bumpy texture of the mats below, surrounded by the muted noise of careless laughter hidden beyond the safety of the door that confines them, and wrapped loosely in Yuuri’s wandering hands.
But when a part of Yuuri’s heart still clings to his starved lips like he’s stolen a fragment from it when parting their mouths he can’t quite help but think the song he composes now is just a bit smoother. Because Yuuri has managed to T A M E the sporadic rhythm of his bitter heart and D U L L the sharp point of his fangs with soft touches and too warm a passion for Viktor’s frigid being.
Ah, he thinks, so this is how I die. From a lullaby traced too perfectly into his skin as the other man’s hand braves moving upwards; from the gentle tap of keys he had always been told would never be played for him; perhaps even from the bite of a broken string as it nips at the doubts that still loom in the back of his calloused mind. Yet the scar it leaves fades when the tiniest of kisses grace his silver locks like Yuuri is willing to repair him over and over again until Viktor is capable of creating a sound so sweet and gentle it could rival the younger man’s. And when his toneless fingers drum ever so gingerly against Yuuri’s spine, he believes he might have finally found it.
Yuuri’s words are so small compared to his, but they mean so much more than Viktor’s elongated poems and messy novels ever could. He squeezes Yuuri’s hand back; the pads of his fingers pressing firmly into the sharp of Yuuri’s knuckles like their harsh touch might wake him from this impossible dream. But the demons that lurk; the ones that shout; you don’t deserve this and you’re a coward, remind him that this can’t possibly be something so mundane and peaceful.
Viktor’s heart is something so terribly convoluted when it threatens to strangle him in the silence his tongue creates because it’s glued to the bottom of his mouth; rendered useless after such a simple sentence. But he would catch aflame to light a path for Yuuri in the dark; would climb a mountain to kidnap the stars and lay them out at the other man’s feet should he ever wish it, and so much more.
These broken, slender fingers of his (that look like purity, but taste like sin) have slotted between warm digits before, and these plump, glossy lips have tasted honey more than once, but never did they make his heart ache and his body tremble from too much and not enough in the very same breath before. Never had they felt like a fresh fire on a rainy day or tasted like home. But Yuuri does; always has and always will.
And Viktor realizes; perhaps too late; perhaps too intimately, that he LOVES this man. It’s different from the pull he feels from the ice when golden-tipped blades paint pictures into its immaculate surface; it’s new, and it’s daunting. Like the laces of newly carved skated, but somehow more dangerous than recently sharpened blades. He has nothing to compare this love to, but he’s seen it before (he thinks) when he remembers the way his mother used to weave tales about his nameless father, or how Yakov had hidden heartbreak behind bitter words after his breakup, and even in the way Yuuri’s parents look at when another beneath dimming lights because they feel safe in one another’s eyes. And it was damning. Damning because he’s written such tales with his own tongue; damning because he’s felt the way his heart stretches and breaks for Yuuri when they argue; and damning because he looks at Yuuri the same way.
“Yuuri,” He breathes like he’s afraid (because he is; his heart is a fragile thing that’s prone to breaking). “Yuuri,” he repeats like the other man’s name is his best kept secret (and it is, because he cherishes the way it leaves his lips like no other has before or will again). And the words are so difficult to pry from his throat; he wants to whisper Yuur’s name again and again because it’s the only thing that keeps him grounded, but he can’t. There’s something else he has to say, even if he has to dig the words from his lungs before he can even think of placing them within his mouth. And when he does find them, they’re tender and soft and delicate.
he doesn’t know what to call the flutter in his stomach, or the catch in his throat when viktor is so gentle with him. he can’t place how it makes time freeze, but also whistles in his ears like the world has fallen off axle, and spins like foggy glass marble and makes him dizzy. tilts him, but keeps him grounded. backwards, but ever forwards. every wild, torrential aftershock and mad hurricane, and it’s stark contrast, the quiet after spring shower and the warmth from summer sunlight. they’re not ideal ways of explaining it, but yuuri has no words. and no concise method, of telling viktor what he means to him, genuinely. if he tried, he’d ᴄᴏʟʟᴀᴘsᴇ. the glass in his heart would break, and he would spill himself to stain their floor mats with things he doesn’t know, or have the right language to comprehend.
sometimes he thinks, not even their language can describe it. can viktor tell what the sketch marks on yuuri’s rink spell? or is yuuri just as lost, writing sloppy poetry that goes off on tangents, of how he adores the way viktor cradles gold in his palm ⦅ and then, off into another direction ⦆ and how his presence through the wall stops sleep for him sometimes. maybe he’s giving mismatched signals, that he’s saying too much, or crying too little. is he playing a song, that doesn’t make sense, or is more perfect than heaven’s angel choir? viktor has responded to yuuri’s outcries. but am i telling you enough? am i making any sense to you?
i don’t know how else to explain this...
yuuri hears viktor like church bell. distant, but obvious, and a clarity in every note, even with shirt fabric and background noise. it must be a miracle, that time doesn’t trip over itself, and yuuri’s world doesn’t halt immediately. it keeps crawling, and even through the spare seconds when yuuri’s heart forgets what it’s built for, to fall tirelessly to pieces through viktors careful and catering fingers, he’s amazed that he can’t feel the very foundations under him jut forward. like trapping yuuri in a moment, in a second that seems. unreal. impossible. can viktor feel the spark along his nerves just at his fingertips? whatever yuuri might think, might say, will never do his heart any justice. it cracks in his chest at the mere attempt. not a sound from him could ever give viktor the ❛ love ❜ , that gross under exaggeration that it is, that he deserves. or that yuuri can explain.
this is ᴍ ᴏ ʀ ᴇ than just ʟ ᴏ ᴠ ᴇ ...
yuuri, with the fragile and frail strength that he has on solid ground, tries, battles for something tangible, but he can’t outdo poetry. and admission, and love. so while he can’t find word or syllable, he can, at the very least, do something tragic, and ruin the soft and gentle touch of the moment, with a sound that might just be the fringes of his soul escaping through his lungs, tiny, and whispering, and maybe god planned this, planned for yuuri to forget all years of learning, how to speak, how to breath properly, and how to forget what might be the pinpricks at the corners of his wide and crystal eyes. he might. he might spill.
he does. along with the softest sound, the bare breath of a name of divinity, and the heavy weight in him that affirms there are no words to return this with such clarity, the very edges, and hollow ends of sunset eyes start to pool, and betray him, overflow, until he is silence and glitter. and steady ⦅ rather, solid ⦆ hand slotted with an idol, and the most breakable of stain glass, telling too many tales, too many stories. all of them reply ❛ i love you too ❜.
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