toward paradise falling

Yuri’s heart still forgets how to beat every time Victor smiles at him or skates with him or touches him or even exists around him, because Victor Nikiforov is real. He’s not a poster on his bedroom wall or an article that Yuri has bookmarked on his computer; he’s not a pixelated blur of color on the TV or a distant figure on the skating rink in Sochi. He’s five feet eleven inches of affectionate touches and lean muscle, messy silver hair and horrible morning breath, glittering smiles and sweat drenching the back of his black practice shirt after a long day on the rink.