“You’re not going to believe me,” Yuuri insists.
“No piece of dog related information can be kept from me, Yuuri.”
Yuuri huffs, buries his face in Makkachin’s fur. They’re lying on Viktor’s bed, atop plush sheets, the hum of Euro pop soft in the background. Yuuri’s wearing ratty sweatpants and a T-shirt, dotted with the occasional curl of Makkachin’s hair. Viktor can’t look away. Their fingers are laced over the poodle’s plump belly, something that keeps happening, ever since the Cup of China. There are two periods in Viktor’s life: B.C., Before China, and after. Viktor loves the after.
“Vicchan was a stray,” Yuuri mumbles.
Viktor tries not to laugh. “Oh, love, I know there were posters in your room with my face on them– you can say you bought Vicchan.”
“Viktor,” Yuuri whines, burying his face into Makkachin. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
“Okay, okay,” Viktor chuckles. “So Vicchan was a stray.” He wiggles over the top of Makkachin, presses a kiss to Yuuri’s forehead.
“Yeah,” Yuuri breathes, soft. “When I found him and brought him back to the onsen, soaked in muddy puddle water and curls all matted, I thought he was some kind of gift from god. A poodle all my own. So I could be just like you.”
“Clearly, your parents agreed.” The brown eyes flicker up to him, twinkling.
“No,” Yuuri admits. “They told me Vicchan probably belonged to someone else. That we had to put up signs saying we’d found him.” He snorts gently through his nose. “…I sobbed for hours.” Makkachin snuffles, licks Yuuri’s cheek. “I plucked up Vicchan and locked myself in my room–my parents had to talk me down through the door. They told me they knew I loved Vicchan, but that maybe there was some other little boy out there missing him, loving him.”
“And you,” Viktor says, “my softhearted Yuuri, you were willing to give him back.”
Yuuri presses his lips together. Amused. “No,” he contradicts again, quietly. “That didn’t work. After all, who could love Vicchan more than me? I refused to put up the Found Dog signs up because of that.” There’s a pause, and Viktor fills in the gap. Until. “Then, they told me that Vicchan could be missing the place where he belonged.”
“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor says. Maybe they shouldn’t discuss Yuuri’s dog– sometimes when he looks at Makkachin, the cinnamon eyes still glaze over.
“How could I take Vicchan away from what he loved? So we put up signs,” Yuuri finishes, smile small. “I was ready to give him up. Ready, even if it broke my heart.” Their fingers tighten across Makkachin’s belly, and it’s natural to lean forward and kiss him, all ruffled hair and round cheeks, gentle eyes. Viktor’s Yuuri. Viktor’s everything.
“Let’s end this,” Yuuri says, in Barcelona. The man who is his everything, and he wants to end it.
You don’t have to break your heart, Viktor thinks. Oh, you don’t have to break your heart.