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“One day I’ll make him speechless,” Yuri grumbles into his dinner. “One day, he’s going to be floored by my performance. He won’t be able to say anything. Because I’ll take his breath away. Just you wait.”

“I’m sure you will.” Yuuri folds himself into tailor style sitting and slides him another bowl of katsudon. “There you go. It’ll help. And of course you will.”

“Definitely.” 

The moment that passes is barely a minute long, then Yuri stuffs a piece of egg into his mouth. “And you?” he mumbles, pushing the food into one cheek. “Don’t you want to do the same thing?”

“Happened already.” Fuck. 

Yuri chokes. “Grh? Y’wha?”

“Forget that I said that.”

“No way in hell. Tell me.”

If Yuri is good at one thing besides skating, it’s bugging people, Yuuri finds. He spills it all (is practically forced to, alright) and Yuri stares at him like he grew a second head. “That’s – ew. Oh my god. That’s like hearing about your parents having sex. Fucking disgusting.”

“Yuri!” Yuuri gasps. “It was just a kiss!”

“A really good one,” Viktor says, walking in with two more bowls of katsudon. “Are you telling him how we got together? That’s so cute. Let me hear how you tell the story.”

“I’m going to bed. Let it be known that I never want to hear about this ever – ever! – again.”

Once Yuri has slammed the door to his room, Viktor sinks to the floor as well, lips brushing Yuuri’s temple. “Why’d you tell him about it?”

“He asked about it, that’s all.”

“How we got together?”

Yuuri smiles. He leans over, catches a kiss from Viktor’s mouth, thumb resting on his wrist. “How you made both of us speechless.”

wilwheaton:

“There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man. True nobility is being superior to your former self.”

Dat mic drop tho.

There are few works of art in the world that have left permanent traces within me.

Kingsman is one of them.

From its first minute to the last second, with every spoken word, every whisper and expression, with every character brought to life by brilliant actors, and with dialogues like these, it is one of the most underappreciated movies out there and I will recommend it for as long as I can.

Source: magzneto

The interviewer is a bit of an idiot, but Viktor had told him repeatedly to not say everything that crossed his mind when the public was talking to him, so Yuri does his best.

This time it’s some old guy trying to squeeze a scandal out of him. He looks like he hasn’t had a big story in years, greed shining in his tiny eyes that remind Yuri of bugs. When his assistant signals him that it’s just one more question, Yuri sits up straight.

“I think we’re almost done, so could you hurry,” he starts, but the interviewer interrupts him with a sleek grin.

“Mr Plisetsky, I’ve heard countless rumours about your love life. You’re sixteen now, and we’ve all been there, haven’t we, the exciting years are coming up. So tell me, from one man to another: Is there love in your life?”

Before Yuri can sock him right in the jaw (because he’s a Russian punk, damn right, but being punk doesn’t mean fulfilling stupid ideals of masculinity, and hes getting enough of that already just with doing figure skating), the guy raises his voice again.

“Or are you maybe a bit too young? Would be understandable, I assure you. Young men your age, especially athletes, have other priorities. And isn’t the physical part enough after a hard training? Doesn’t love distract one from their greater goal?”

Yuri knows that he had an angry tirade laid out and ready to hit just a moment ago. All of it seems to have died after that last sentence though. And while the interviewer stares, pen soaking an inky hole in his notepad, Yuri takes a deep breath.

He remembers a first meeting and an intimidated young man crying in a toilet, a video of a performance that made Yuri choke on his speechless tears, a tiny bathhouse and training so hard that everyone though ‘he can’t’ at some point and slowly, finally, a raised chin with calm, dark eyes.

He remembers admiration and a yearning to be like that, elegant and effortless and so stunning that the world would change its season for you, shattering under loneliness and façades and autograph-ink-stained fingers that become thinner, a new spark after losing all inspiration, gleaming eyes finding their old spirit in a country far away and finally, an embrace to seal that he’d keep his promise.

Yuri thinks of the way that Viktor speaks that name that’s so like his own and different in all the meanings. He thinks of hesitant fingers on cold-reddened cheeks when he’d been too early for training once and almost ruined the moment when Yuuri choked on “I love you, too” against Viktor’s lips.

He thinks of Yuuri pushing a bowl of food in front of him, of late nights after training and being treated not like a child or a man but someone who belongs.

“Mr Plisetsky,” the interviewer says.

“No comment.” His assistant has a coat ready. Yuri stands and slips inside in a motion that flows as if the room was made of ice. “I don’t discuss questions about my romantic life or my family.”

i can never know everything. there’s always something out of reach, something hidden, something buried, something so breathtaking in uniqueness, and it hurts me. species have passed without an eye to see them, colours and scents and the feeling of extinct air faded away like they meant nothing. it breaks my soul apart. don’t even think about the universe, the curious fingertips of our galaxy feeling into the darkness to search for more of infinity. don’t think about our solar system, the stars’ dying light touching our hair or the millions of years-things-lives before us and away from us. the lost history of earth is enough to slither sorrow into my bones. i bow my head. i weep for what i and you and the future will never know.

i can never know everything. there’s always something out of reach, something hidden, something buried, something so breathtaking in its uniqueness, and it gives me hope. there’s growth. life changes, and the change lives in everything. nothing lasts forever, they say, and look up to the night sky to remember the moon before one day, their children’s children ask about the history of the silver firmament where the mighty ocean obeyed the glint of something further away then the new continents. it breaks my soul apart that we will never run out of secrets and discoveries. i’m not afraid that there will come a time when the shiver of new words and mysteries settling into your mind through the pages of a book or a whispered tale or fingers drawing in the mud is unknown to humanity. history doesn’t run out of ink. it may change the font and go from black to blue or emerald, but the new chapters will always, always come out.

there are locked chests and hidden waterfalls, tree houses and underwater trenches and bird nests and old books. there are first steps and a new touch of fingers against yours and a million ways of getting out of bed so you can stand up to the sunrise and whisper: today, i want to hear a new story.

i lift my head. there is no need to cry.
we can never know everything.

because curiosity did not kill the cat but made a key instead

“Because he is a brilliant skater. He’s overflowing with raw potential and you want to be the one to carve it out of him, but you were stupid enough to get admiration mixed up with love. You want to shape him, not have him,” his mother says.

“No,” Viktor replies. “That’s not the reason.”

“’Cause you haven’t had a proper girl in a while. I’ll find you one. Pay for her, even. My son ain’t sick. I didn’t raise a sinner. You like blondes or brunettes better? Fuckin’ answer me,” his father roars.

“No,” Viktor whispers. “That’s not what I want.”

“Because he’s just like a woman? Lets you hold him like one? I don’t get it, I suppose. But, uh. If you’re really gonna keep that up… don’t tell anyone that we’re related. Like, I don’t want my name in the paper,” his brother begs.

“No,” Viktor swallows. “That’s the last thing I’d do.”

“Because you’re an idiot when you’re not on the ice,” Yuri decides.

“Maybe,” Viktor laughs. “That’s probably part of it.”

“Because it’s convenient for you. He adores you as a skater and now as a man, too, and as long as whatever you have makes him happy, I’ll leave you be. But if the day comes that you hurt him, go ask that single god of yours for mercy, because there won’t be any from me,” Yuuri’s mother smiles.

“No,” Viktor breathes. “That’s not true, but I believe you.”

At night, Yuuri turns to him. Their futons touch where there fingertips are inches apart, Yuuri’s exhale burning an aria of electricity through his nerves.

Viktor searches for permission in his eyes. He finds liquid starlight poured into darkness, and he kisses Yuuri’s knuckles, one by one until they’re warm like his cheeks.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Viktor nods. He watches Yuuri drift off to sleep, their fingers tangling over the futon’s borders. “I’ll be.”

I may have a hard shell, but if you get close to me, reach out to my heart, and dig deep into my soul – then you’ll find something soft.

Lava. There’s lava in my core. You’ve burnt yourself, love.

Nobody knows how he does it. It’s strange, really, how the effects in his movies look so real, almost as if the faeries could reach through the screen to steal your nose, as if the sea serpent could rise from the ocean to tug you gently between its teeth.

When the movie director that creates fantastic world’s wins his tenth award, someone finally asks. “How come,” the journalist shouts over the noise of his colleagues, the static of microphones and laughing celebrities almost blocking his voice, “that your movies seem so real? What’s the technology? Who is your team, would you tell us?”

Because the director always accepts his awards and honours and prizes alone. His team “sadly cannot attend this time” and that means every time. Nobody knows who works for him. The best in the entire the industry deny any cooperation (and oh, some may whisper behind switched off cameras about dubious business, because special effects are brilliant nowadays, but even those can’t pretend the impossible.)

This time, the director halts. He turns around. The journalist holds his breath. Could this be his chance? Would he find an answer to Hollywood’s most scandalously expected question? In all his excitement, none of the reporters pays any attention to the bodyguards flanking the director.

Maybe they would have seen a flock of a forked tongue over thin lips. Maybe their eyes would have stuttered in irritation when they caught on a shimmer of horns in the left one’s dark hair.

But they all watch the director.

The director who just, as he always has, smiles and says:

“You just have to be very good at closing contracts.”