cold creatures

ii. holy

"WHAT IS INSIDE OF YOU BESIDES THIS HUMAN STUFF OF VEINS AND BONES AND EXISTENTIAL LONGING?"

-GABBY BESS, FROM "TIPPING," ALONE WITH OTHER PEOPLE

He leaves soon after the kiss. It's a mistake, really, to be so careless as to allow this unknown boy to grace his fingertips against your skin and exhale warm into your neck. To want to offer yourself up to him like ripe fruit, sweet and untouched by anyone even remotely like him. Bright, ice cold and twirling. So you watch him leave from the doorway with a polite smile and never see him again.

That's what would have happened usually, what should have happened, had you been back home in familiar stomping grounds rather than alone in a foreign country where judgement or disapproval ceased to exist. Where you seemed to tiptoe into the unexplored unknown.

Yuri's face reads as tentative wild uncertainty, but there's a heated carnal glint to his eyes. Predator-like, wanting. "Y/N." He utters your name as if it's a benediction, barely loud enough to be a whisper, making you wonder how often he receives anything close to physical affection.

Nothing else needs to be said. You lean towards him, mouth quick to find his as you slide to straddle his lap, knees at his hips, arms snaking over lean shoulders. A low hum of satisfaction resonates up from Yuri's chest and you feel his grip tighten, fingers pressing into the curve of your back.

Kissing the Russian, you find, is far easier than not kissing him. Your lips slide over one anothers, his mouth soft but assertive as he pulls you into him, allowing gravity to sink you both down into the sheets. One gentle kiss becomes several, which then in turn grow in passion until you both run out of air and you're forced to pull away, barely capable of moving your mouth more than a couple of millimetres from his.

"You taste like the ice," he says with dizzying conviction, your lips so sensitive that the air from his words tickle against them.

You press your body flat against his in response, a smug smirk forming on your face as you feel his hips jut against you unintentionally. "I'll take that as a compliment."

It's simple, then, to just lay there and listen to Yuri's breathing, cheek pressed against his chest as he winds a curl of your hair around his finger. The contentedness that falls upon you is the sort that feels safe and drowsy, as if the essence of a lazy Sunday morning has been breathed into your veins.

Outside, the sky begins to darken. Gold diamonds of light flicker on as streetlamps react, the buildings of the city shifting into creatures of darkness.

"Yuri," you murmur, glancing up to meet his gaze. It seems pensive, lost to private thought. You reach up to stroke his bottom lip, tempting him out of his reverie. "You're a strange boy." The statement is gentle, entwined with a fondness that you hadn't entirely planned yet slipped out too fast for you to trap behind teeth.

"Maybe," he responds, and with all of the grace that had first drawn your attention to him, he slides himself out from under you and gets to his feet. "But you're stranger."

After that, he really does leave. The door shuts behind him, gym bag clutched in one hand, golden hair caught in the florescence of the hallway framing his face. Unreadable, peculiar, unforgettable. Lashes growing heavy, you fall asleep, bed sheets smelling of his lingering now ghost-like presence.

You don't see him the next day. It seems to make sense to spend time alone, so you try your best not to look for him out of the window or whilst wandering through the hotel.

It's the same the day after. Much to your own frustration, you linger in the reception for a little longer than usual, take your time by the pool just in case you catch a glimpse of the elusive figure skater.