For @thehobbem, who has a birthday and deserves a ficlet and a million dollars !!
“Ah, we can’t tonight,” Yuuri says, looking apologetic. “We have reservations for a night out. Another time, Yurio.”
“Why?” Scowling, he flicks ice from his skate in the direction of the men’s power couple. “It’s not biweekly date night-” which Viktor and Yuuri do have, twice a week “–and it’s not either of your birthdays, or your anniversary.” If asked, Yurio would snarl that he cares about none of those dates. Evidence shows otherwise.
“Well,” Yuuri replies, “it’s Makkachin’s birthday.”
Yurio gives up, and goes to ask Mila about her evening instead. (He does bring a bag of dog treats to practice the next day, though.)
Does Makkachin know it’s her birthday? Yuuri thinks Viktor’s dog is an empathetic and precious creature, able to understand every little thing about her favorite humans. This, of course, is probably beyond her grasp. It doesn’t matter, because they walk through Saint Petersburg to the fanciest restaurant that allows dogs, and cuddle together at a table. Around Makkachin’s neck is the silk bow tie Yuuri has bought her, in her teeth the restaurant’s “puppy platter.” At home she has three presents waiting: a bandanna with Viktor’s favorite cartoon character, fancy pooper-scooper bags for walks in the park, and a collage of every picture of her Yuuri has been able to find.
“Happy birthday,” Yuuri says, looking at Viktor, and then reaches down to smother Makkachin’s head in kisses. Viktor smiles, not a heartshaped one but one that curls, insistent and delighted and shy, around his lightly flushed cheeks.
Viktor’s birthday. Christmas. They’ve spent the last two with Viktor buying Yuuri extravagant presents, or curled up in bed if they’re not at a competition. For their years together, Yuuri hasn’t yet probed why Viktor tries so wholeheartedly to treat his birthday like nothing special. Like a day solely for Christmas, rather than one that means so much more. To both of them.
“Let’s walk the beach, later? Makkachin likes that.” So does Viktor.
“Okay,” Viktor hums, beaming at him, and the rest of their dinner is spent swapping skating stories, ushering Makkachin beneath the table so they weave their legs around her, one being made out of three.
“I hope Makkachin is having the best birthday,” Yuuri murmurs, and links his fingers with Viktor’s atop the tablecloth. Looking down, a quiet light in his eyes, Viktor laughs.
“She is,” Viktor says happily. “The best birthday, Yuuri, and it’s all because of you.”