[ Daily, small things remind Victor of why he chose to do what he did, why looking at the breadth and depth of his career and deciding it was worth dropping - at least for the year - for this man. The pleasure of watching Yuuri in bloom is unending: a subtle straightening of his shoulders at breakfast, holding Victor's eyes for longer, if not looking away at all, the small, happy glow of a job he knows he's done well anticipating Victor's actual praise. The reality is Victor is a finger on the hand that keeps pushing Yuuri onward, but he takes a deep and selfish happiness in knowing he was the definitive, tipping pressure toward greatness.
And he wants it so badly to mean as much for Yuuri, for him to love and allow himself to be loved and trust in that all the way to the gold because it's a language they share besides English, carving out their hearts a jump at a time, smoothing it over and doing it again. Higher. More beautiful. Delicately, like finding Michaelangelo's statue inside the stone rep after rep, competition after competition. And just as thrilling as the first time. Victor is in love and it feels like the way things should have been from the start, letting someone else have the key to all that is instead of him.
("You've changed," Chris said, not complaining, per se, but not happy either. Victor couldn't disagree, though he smiled beatifically and peaceably urged Chris to finish his damn coffee.)
Getting to be on the ground floor of a whole new avenue of Yuuri's expression - Victor can think of nothing more exquisite. So he creates room for him, gives Yuuri a safe space to play out this thing that Victor's helped awaken and gotten sweat and a scored back for it, an exhilaration gone unmatched because Yuuri is unmatched. He can be him, or he can be her. Victor belongs to them.
This evening sees Victor gallantly rescuing Hiroko's cabbage stock as well as making a few personal purchases, a promise given to Yuuri that he'd be swift to see Yuuri off to bed, the usual. What isn't usual is the smokey-eyed vision that greets him inside his room, Makkachin nowhere in sight, replaced with - god.
Victor nudges the door closed, avoiding collapsing against it to do so, but it's a near thing. His eyes are transfixed, already dark and deep with the night, a midnight blue eclipse taking Yuuri in and all at once he knows who he's addressing, who's demanding his attention. Victor draws himself up, smiling at last with the molten sensation rolling down his spine. ]
Ah, good evening. To what do I owe the pleasure, ma chèrie?
fun fact: dyk word of God says Victor is fluent in French?
And he wants it so badly to mean as much for Yuuri, for him to love and allow himself to be loved and trust in that all the way to the gold because it's a language they share besides English, carving out their hearts a jump at a time, smoothing it over and doing it again. Higher. More beautiful. Delicately, like finding Michaelangelo's statue inside the stone rep after rep, competition after competition. And just as thrilling as the first time. Victor is in love and it feels like the way things should have been from the start, letting someone else have the key to all that is instead of him.
("You've changed," Chris said, not complaining, per se, but not happy either. Victor couldn't disagree, though he smiled beatifically and peaceably urged Chris to finish his damn coffee.)
Getting to be on the ground floor of a whole new avenue of Yuuri's expression - Victor can think of nothing more exquisite. So he creates room for him, gives Yuuri a safe space to play out this thing that Victor's helped awaken and gotten sweat and a scored back for it, an exhilaration gone unmatched because Yuuri is unmatched. He can be him, or he can be her. Victor belongs to them.
This evening sees Victor gallantly rescuing Hiroko's cabbage stock as well as making a few personal purchases, a promise given to Yuuri that he'd be swift to see Yuuri off to bed, the usual. What isn't usual is the smokey-eyed vision that greets him inside his room, Makkachin nowhere in sight, replaced with - god.
Victor nudges the door closed, avoiding collapsing against it to do so, but it's a near thing. His eyes are transfixed, already dark and deep with the night, a midnight blue eclipse taking Yuuri in and all at once he knows who he's addressing, who's demanding his attention. Victor draws himself up, smiling at last with the molten sensation rolling down his spine. ]
Ah, good evening. To what do I owe the pleasure, ma chèrie?