"Wake up Yuuri."
"Yuuri, wake up."
"I said WAKE UP."
Yuuri blinks owlishly at the clock on the beside table. 9 AM, the arms indicate, the thinnest following its course and thumping at every mark with enough strength to break the silence filling his mind. It's too early or too late, too bright for English countryside. He misses most of it though. The shape on his back shadows most of the morning light, and his pillow pressed to his cheek drowns the rest. The corners of his eyes feel dry, glued together, his eyelashes shielding him.
"Wake up Yuuri! Breakfast is waiting." his mother's voice chimes, a distant memory he hasn't heard or thought of in ages.
When did he last hear it? Face to face, phone to phone, screen to screen?
Heaven knows. The lilt of her voice, her dulcet tones, lost to the static and the breeze, shrill and reduced to a music note he can thump on countless times on the living room piano. Out of tune like the rest of the house, otherworldly. Lost in time and space.
Has he slept at all? He wonders. The drowsiness he had been feeling these past days – or rather what feels like weeks, months even – has progressively evacuated his body through the night, yet lingers. Tension keeps him frozen and trapped where he is, eyes heavy with knowledge and the weight of what they saw unravel before them. Even the screams in his head are dulled background noises, the prick of a needle that has lost its sting but keeps him on his toes. His legs, his arms nestled in the king-sized bed float on the mattress, tip-toeing on the edge of water and earth. Gravity pulls at him from all sides. Either he drowns or he falls. Neither outcome is particularly welcome.
Victor ruffles the covers slightly as he drifts to consciousness, his voice no more than a grunt of protest muffled against Yuuri's shoulder. The movement brings him closer to the Japanese man, left arm tightening around Yuuri's waist and the other brushing the crown of his black hair. His right hand is close enough for Yuuri to see, right next to his temple. Large, calloused and dirty, the palm and nails smeared with dust. It looks awkward on the silken pillow, the stain on an otherwise perfect tableau, and yet it belongs there. Coarse and emerging from the depths like a sea monster, snow-white limb on the hunt.
They lie in bed, huddled together in the comfort of the bed sheets and duvet.
Normally the warmth seeping through his body would be most welcome. Yuuri had spent countless nights sleeping next to someone before, not as often as he would have liked, but often enough for the gesture to reach a degree of intimacy that he can only share with certain people.
Like Mari, his big sister who had opened her arms to him many times in the past when the nightmares kept him awake.
Like Phichit, whose tentative embraces became more self-assured as years passed by, as their relationship morphed from simply roommates to friends to something else, unlabeled. Enough for Yuuri to discover that the juncture between his collarbone and his neck was his most sensitive spot, that he liked to be held from behind, that he felt protected enough for physical contact to be deemed acceptable and pleasant.
Like Yuri, who would put his arms around him in that rather brusque manner of his, almost af if he were forcing himself. But Yuuri knew better. Yuri, who would gradually relax against him whilst also holding onto him like a lifeline.
Who wouldn't be touching him anymore in his way of loving him.
The arms that surround him, however, are loving. If only a parody of the feeling.
Yuuri nearly jumps when Victor's hand brushes his shoulder. He internally congratulates himself on not moving, still as a dead man under the covers.
Victor, however, is feeling restless this morning.
Victor's fingers, feather-light and cold at the tip, brush a path from his shoulder to his side, gliding with languor. A shiver runs through his spine when his fingertips settle on the junction between chest and lower half of his body, then run along his hip. Victor's hand comes to rest on the curve, his grip loose enough to keep Yuuri there pressed against his body, but just the right amount of steady to assert dominance of him. Possession.
"Do you want to play with me, Yuuri?"
"Yuuri."
Victor's muffled voice seeps in his consciousness and jolts him awake without a sound, without a movement.
His body presses closer to Yuuri, breaching the distance between them far more than should be humanly possible. The hard curve of him, lean and taut like a piano cord, looms by his side. Porcelain grazes his nape, chipped and cool against his skin, in a parody of a kiss from a lover to another, playing and testing the nerves and flesh like a violinist his instrument. The silver curls jutting from under the mask tease at his neck. Yuuri distractedly thinks of Makkachin's fur under his fingers, the long strands unfurling between his fingers as he combed through them and scratched at his the dog's head.
But Makkachin won't keep Victor away from him. No one could.
Victor had shown him as much at a cost.
Yuuri freezes when something firm start to grind against him. He's wearing only his nightclothes, an oversized t-shirt and his boxers, while Victor lies completely bare beside him, unaffected by the cooler temperatures but seeking his heat nevertheless.
He hadn't tried anything last night, the first night they'd shared a bed. Or rather he had made a move, only to be rejected by Yuuri and obedient, like a good boy. But how could he be sure that Victor wouldn't try again, or that he'd listen to him at all?
Victor is rutting against him, impatient as ever with his hard cock pressed between Yuuri's cheeks.
He rubs his legs together, putting as much space between him and Victor as he can. Closing them however only makes them rub against each other more, Victor molding his body with Yuuri's. The friction causes shivers to run down his spine and in his toes as Victor's hands come to rest under Yuuri's shirt, exploring the skin of his abdomen and threatening to venture further up and down. Yuuri's breath catches in his throat. To his dismay, he can feel himself hardening in response.
"No."
He doesn't realize the words came from him until he said it, voice hoarse from lack of use and almost burning his vocals cords.
Victor stills behind him, his hands still resting atop his stomach. Yuuri holds his breath, unmoving and anticipating. When Yuuri didn't speak any further Victor tentatively spread his palms again over his belly.
Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut. Part of him shivers from the physical contact, anxious of the premises and the outcomes. Part of him is also starting to get annoyed. A familiar spark that forces him to inhale through his nose, breath locked in his lungs. He doesn't trust his words, and he doesn't trust Victor's reaction either.
"I said "no," Victor." Yuuri puts as much steel in his voice as he can muster, lips pressed in a hard line on his face. Victor's glass-like eyes don't leave his face for one second, unreadable beneath the porcelain mask that shadows the rest of his face. Instead of staring back, Yuuri focuses on the light bathing the room and seeping through the curtains over Victor's shoulder, specks of dust dancing within the rays of morning sun. Clouds obscure the last beams, casting a shadow on the mask. It cuts through the surface like a knife, swift and momentary, but never once breaks the gaze Victor stares at Yuuri with. Like the sea before the storm.
"You're still dirty, Victor" Yuuri tries infusing authority into his tone, sharp and controlled. "Shower first, then breakfast." He almost prides himself on the fact that his voice doesn't waver too much, as steady as the grip Victor has on him.
Somehow, it helped that he wasn't wrong either. Dried blood stained Victor's shirt and mask, some of it caked underneath his nails. The rest of him was clean as far as Yuuri could tell without letting his eyes stray away from the Russian's face, but if he leaned in, buried himself in the crook of Victor's neck, he was certain he would find the unmistakable scent of sweat and soil, and probably even blood or something far more crass.
Yuuri didn't dare to move as Victor backed away from him, eyes still locked with his own. He removed his grasp from him, palms wide open and fingertips grazing Yuuri's skin before they reluctantly parted from it, as if afraid that he would vanish as soon as he would stop touching him. With equal apathy and slowness, he brought himself to his knees and slid out of bed backwards, rising from the sheets and coming to stand before Yuuri. He brought his hands to his sides, letting them fall heavily as they bundled into fists, and he raised himself to his full height. His head remained a little hunched as he stared back at Yuuri.
As he stood back to the curtains and the cloudy sky, bathed in the remains of the sun in his full glory, he looked all the more the picture of a wrathful god .