theaveragepenguin: posting a preview of my piece, ten miles of cherry blossoms, for Prism: @yoi
theaveragepenguin: posting a preview of my piece, ten miles of cherry blossoms, for Prism: @yoimagiczine; pre-orders open on March 14 :) For once, the silence around them is restful, tempered by trust and the knowledge that there is time. Yuuri is staying longer now, Victor knows; and as if in response to the thought, he watches eyelashes flutter open, gently. His hand rests against the cold stone underneath them, a smooth landing overlooking the woodland. It numbs his fingers, chills his bones. The wind whispers to him the crackle of swaying branches, the fall of drifting leaves and cherry blossoms. This is not a dream, he thinks. This is real. “I had a younger brother once,” Victor confesses quietly. “He had your name.” Perhaps it is the mood of the evening that leaves him open: honest and clear like the dark night sky, shimmering with the soft radiance of the stars and the silver-bright shine of the full moon; or perhaps, he thinks contemplatively, it is something else: the warmth of the head cushioned on his lap, anchoring him down into the truth of this reality—of what has been, of what is, and of what could be. “Will you tell me about him?” comes the equally quiet question. Here, Victor exhales, his breath fogging with the chill of the forest. Seeking for comfort, his fingers find themselves buried into the softness of his beloved’s hair, lightly combing through. He watches as the writhing shadows of his skin blend into the long dark tresses, thinks of what it means to have this person’s devotion in the midst of a non-ending curse. “Yuuri,” Victor begins, with great trepidation, “do you think you will still love me when you discover what I’ve done?” The weight of the silence that follows is expected but not nearly as severe as Victor had previously imagined. Yuuri does not look at him with anything akin to revulsion or fear; instead, he indolently lifts a hand up as far as he could reach from his supine position. Victor ducks down to meet Yuuri halfway, letting him tuck silver strands behind ears, brush cold fingers against a cheek. “You don’t strike me as a vengeful person, Vitya. Whatever wrongs you have made, you cannot disappoint me.” “You don’t know me,” Victor murmurs lowly. After all, blind faith can be a tremulous little thing—and yet, still, when he looks down, he is met with a gaze with no lack of warmth nor patience. “I will listen,” Yuuri assures. “Will you tell me your story?” -- source link