Chapter Text
Yuuri hangs his jacket up on a hook in the entranceway and toes off his shoes and socks, tucking them into his customary slot in the shoe rack. Next to him, Viktor does the same. Makkachin supervises the proceedings, tail wagging faster at each passing second. He leans over to give the dog some scritches behind his ears. “Hi, sweetie.”
Makkachin noses him impatiently, tongue darting out to lick Yuuri's hand.
Yuuri sits down in a hurry. Makkachin promptly launches a cuddle offensive, darting in between his spread legs and paws landing softly on his chest with a familiar thump. It’s an exuberant bad habit that was adorable when Makka was a puppy. It’s a bit dangerous now that the poodle doesn’t know his full strength at 65 pounds but he only ever reacts this way with Viktor and Yuuri - and neither of them have the heart or desire to train him out of it.
Yuuri falls on his back under the attack and wraps his arms around the poodle for a hug. “Makka~” he croons. “I know, love. I missed you so much too.” He buries his face against Makka’s fur. It's been three days since he saw Makkachin. Really, that’s practically an eternity.
Viktor settles down on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. “Should we have a doggy playdate this weekend?”
Yuuri digs his phone out of his pocket and thumbs over to his calendar. “Sorry, I’m on prep and dinner shift at the diner for Saturday and Sunday. Mari will kill me if I skip out.”
“I'll drop by with Makka on Saturday,” Viktor suggests. “I bet he misses Vicchan too.”
“Sounds good,” Yuuri says. It’s one bright light in his weekend. He nudges Makka off and stands up, brushing dust and dog hair off his jeans. He slings his bookbag over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Makka,” he coos.
Makkachin sticks close to his side as they head down the hallway to Viktor's bedroom.
Viktor trails behind. “Do you want a drink or a s-n-a-c-k?” he calls out.
“Sure,” Yuuri says. He pushes open Viktor’s bedroom door and flops down on the bed, pulling a pillow out from behind him to prop against the headrest as a cushion.
Makkachin climbs up his wooden step ladder against the side of the bed and settles in a sprawl over Yuuri's legs in a shameless bid for more attention.
Yuuri is nothing but a sucker for pampering Makkachin. He slides his hands in deep through his fur, giving him slow belly rubs. Makkachin relaxes completely and Yuuri can feel his thoughts drifting to his mountain of homework, dreading the thought of tackling it.
He misses Viktor entering the room until a can of seltzer is stuck under his nose, the straw bobbing up and down as the bubbles make inviting fizzing noises.
“Thanks.” Yuuri frees one hand from Makkachin’s fur and accepts.
“You're welcome,” Viktor chirps. “Hold this?” He hands him a plate of cheese and ham as he steps onto the bed and over Yuuri’s legs. He settles down on the far side of the bed.
Yuuri sets the plate down in between them. Makkachin lifts his head, sniffing the air with interest. He hastily picks the plate up and hands it to Viktor. “Put it on your side. Makka is starting to drool.”
Makkachin snuffles and alternates between giving Yuuri and Viktor sad puppy eyes. In most matters, it's usually a failsafe tactic. Both Yuuri and Viktor see it as their solemn duty as dog lovers to spoil Makkachin.
“No, Makka,” Viktor says firmly. “Human food is not doggy food.”
Makkachin gives a short whine of disgruntlement and flops down again, ears drooping.
Yuuri offers him comforting belly rubs.
“No fair,” Viktor says. “I'm always bad cop with Makka.”
“You have more practice with it,” Yuuri counters pragmatically. “Plus, one of us has to cheer Makka up so that he’s not sad.”
Viktor makes a grumpy noise. “Okay, point.”
Viktor's mouth is puckered up like he ate a lemon instead of a cube of cheese. Yuuri graciously does not giggle. He tosses his bookbag at him. “Let's get started. I have a ton of math homework tonight too.”
Viktor unzips the bag and pulls out Yuuri's laptop and his folder.
“The home ec packet is in the back of the left side,” Yuuri says.
Viktor riffles through the folder and pulls it out. “Did you get a chance to read through the first assignment yet?”
“Not yet. You?”
Viktor shakes his head.
“Let's read it together.”
Viktor scoots closer, resting the assignment packet on his thigh.
Yuuri skims the first page. Most of it is a reiteration of the rules that Ms. Baranovskaya reviewed during class.
The main points are simple - safety of the flour babies is paramount for successful completion of the project and the flour babies need to be with at least one of the partners at all times until the conclusion of the project at the end of the semester.
To ensure compliance, each flour baby has Ms. Baranovskaya’s signature across the top and bottom flaps. And to practice vigilance and live the motto of it takes a village to raise a child, classmates are strongly encouraged to inquire after the well-being of other flour babies. In other words, narking on each other for lapses in the rules is acceptable to get ahead.
Viktor taps the paper. “Ready to flip?”
“Yep.”
Viktor turns the page and sets the packet on his lap again.
The first assignment is brief. They simply need to agree on a name.
Yuuri sips at his seltzer. “Do you have anything in mind?” He’s going to have at least three dogs when he grows up. He has a whole list of names picked out for all of his future doggies. He’s never considered naming anything else.
Viktor hums in thought. “When my aunt was pregnant, she and her wife had a few names in mind. They couldn’t decide so they waited until my cousin was born to see what would fit best.”
Yuuri bites his lower lip. “Okay. So make a list of top contenders and go from there.” It is a bit murky what the there part of this particular equation would equal. It isn't like they are waiting around for their flour baby to be born.
Viktor nods. “Yep, that's the general idea. By the way, how do you say flour in Japanese?”
Makkachin nuzzles Yuuri’s leg and gives him a mournful look. Yuuri obligingly resumes belly rub duty. “Hana.”
Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Isn't that nose?”
“Wait, sorry.” Yuuri laughs. “I got distracted. You're right. Hana is nose but it's also a homophone for flower. The roses and daffodils kind of flower, not baking flour.”
Viktor takes his word vomit in without so much as a blink. “Okay, got it. What's baking flour then?”
Yuuri pauses to think. “Well, we have chuurikiko - all purpose flour.”
Viktor’s lips move soundlessly as he repeats the word several times in succession. “Hand me my notebook?”
Yuuri leans over and plucks the well-worn slim leather volume from the bedside table. Viktor accepts the book and flips to his last entry, jotting down the new nuggets of information.
Viktor's notebooks are a wonder. Every line is a new vocabulary word. And there's no rhyme or reason to the order with various languages mixed in on the same page. But it's a controlled chaos that Viktor has perfected since he was a kid. He's a sponge for languages.
“Hana is a lovely name,” Viktor says. He hands the book back to Yuuri.
“But that’s confusing.” He holds the book steady against his thigh to add the kanji for the new vocabulary words for Viktor. “And our flour isn’t even traditionally Japanese,” Yuuri adds. He stops short, pen frozen on the page. He was just not about to argue against the absurdity and proper naming protocol for a bag of flour.
Viktor grins with the self-assurance of a man who knows he has won not only the battle, but the war. “Hana-chan just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?” he chirps.
Yuuri caves. Okay. It’s pretty cute. And a dumb pun. But it’s their dumb pun and multilingual to boot so maybe that actually makes it an intellectual, smart pun. “Hana-chan it is,” he says.
Viktor clasps his hands together and beams.