Imagine Yurio waltzing into Victor's apartment in St. Petersburg because he can and saying "WHAT'S UP FU-" and Victor goes SHHHHH and points to the couch where Yuuri is sleeping, curled up with Maccachin.
“WHAT’S UP FU–”
There’s a hand clamped over his mouth.
His eyes go wide and he glares at Victor, who has a finger pressed firmly to his own lips, his expression grave. Then, slowly, he lowers his hand from Yurio’s mouth, points towards the couch, where Yuuri is sleeping with Makkachin snug against his side. His hair is messy, lips parted, and he shifts slightly in his sleep, burying his nose in the dog’s fur.
Yurio blinks at Victor, asking him if he’s seriously going to ask him to stay silent so that Yuuri can sleep at two in the afternoon, but then he sees Victor take his phone out of his pocket and snap a photo. “You’re really taking photos of him? Doesn’t this happen, like, every day?”
Instantly, the hand is back on his mouth. “Shhh,” he urges, his voice barely a whisper. “You’ll wake him.”
“if I haven’t woken him yet, he’s not going to wake up,” Yurio points out, his voice muffled by Victor’s palm. He nips at it and Victor pulls his hand back, yelping.
“He’s so peaceful,” he says dreamily, then, as though it’s an afterthought, takes another photo of him.
Yurio rolls his shoulders back. “Let’s draw a mustache on his face.”
Victor thinks for a second. “No, we’ll draw hearts on his face. I don’t want him to have a mustache.”
“Hearts? No, ew. We’ll draw glasses on him.”