you loved me last night

. .

(the four people yuri almost fell in love with. yuri-centric. no capital letters.)

disclaimed.

.

.

estelle.

by far, estelle is the easiest; simplicity at its finest.

she tells him, once, how much he means to her. how important it is that his eyes shine. she tells him that her favorite color is the grey of his eyes and her favorite sound is his voice when he's just woken up and murmurs her name like the rumble of a machine. she reaches for his hand and traces the callouses there, tells him she likes even the most hardened and rigid parts of him.

most importantly, though, she tells him that he is imperfect, reminds him of this fact when they're lying on their backs and watching the stars. she murmurs it into the fabric of his shirt, says it quietly, as though it is a secret that yuri lowell has flaws.

"you are so distant, yuri," she whispers, "you are so incomplete."

it is just another way of saying he's broken. he doesn't want her to fix him.

.

.

judith.

judith is fire and she is ice and she is earth and she is air. she is only bits and pieces of herself.

that is something yuri likes about judith; that she is intangible, somehow. that there are fragments of her that cannot be grasped, taken hold of. judith is everything and anything and, most importantly, judith is freedom. she is liberation.

"you're strange," she says, speaking as though it is a trait she is inconceivably fond of.

"maybe so," he agrees. he feels strange around her, perhaps. unlike himself.

"you always act as though you could be in love with me," judith tells him softly, eyelashes fluttering over the blue veins that tiptoe up his wrists. she kisses the heel of his palm, lips soft. "i like to pretend you do, sometimes. it makes me feel special, somehow."

yuri closes his eyes and takes a breath, lets it out slowly, as though he's saving it. when judith leaves it is as if she was never there.

.

.

rita.

rita is the closest thing to himself he has ever found. she is angry and passionate and acts older and braver than she is.

"how can i be so stupid?" she asks him, chin propped on her knees.

he touches her shoulder, presses memories there. "you're trying too hard to grow up," he responds in a whisper. "you're trying so hard to do what you need to." he feels as if he's talking to himself.

"says you," she says, lips curled into a grimace. she shakes her head, bangs falling into her meadowy eyes. "you're so much older, yuri," she mutters, "but you're so young."

"says you," yuri repeats. he pauses, thinks. "i've never liked you, rita." he takes a breath. "i've never liked anyone who is like me."

perhaps if he hated himself less than he does, things would be different.

.

.

flynn.

if rita is the closest, flynn is the farthest, unreachable. flynn gives chase to yuri, but yuri is the one who cannot catch up with him.

flynn is the first person to hold yuri's hand; they are twelve years old, lost children, dirtied and looking for a meal. yuri is a timid child, but when flynn reaches for him, laces their fingers together, their shared strength makes him braver.

flynn has never told yuri that he loves him, but yuri feels it in the way flynn gazes at him. flynn's love is steadfast, sure and unchanging, but it is also secretive, tucked into his sleeve and only shown in the form of an illusion, a trick and slight of hand.

"catch up with me," flynn writes in letters, pens carefully in permanent ink, and the significance of this is not lost on yuri, but he never writes back.

yuri's love is fickle, faithless. yuri has never known permanence and has never trusted it.

"easy for you to say," he mutters, crumpling the page.