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Toronto life suited them more than they expected.
The city had just enough buzz to feel alive, but enough quiet pockets to feel like home. They’d found a cozy apartment near a park, walking distance to a rink, and close enough to a grocery store where Victor could impulse-buy peaches and sparkling water like it was a sport.
Yurio had grudgingly come along, enrolling in Grade 12 at a nearby school that boasted both a flexible training schedule and an advanced academic track.
He didn’t say much about it, but one day he left a midterm on the fridge with a 98 circled at the top, and Yuuri caught him muttering something about “early admission offers” under his breath.
Victor tried not to cry. Yuuri almost succeeded too.
Despite his best efforts, Yurio had somehow made a friend at school.
Alex was sharp, sarcastic, and completely unimpressed by Yurio’s gold medals—which, apparently, made them best friends now. He played guitar, made terrible puns in French class, and once told a substitute that Yurio was “an Olympic-level scowler with a soft heart and anger management issues.” Yurio hadn’t spoken to him for three days. Then brought him a protein bar the next week.
At lunch, Yurio was picking the seeds out of his bread like they’d personally offended him.
Alex leaned over the table. “You know that’s whole grain, right? It’s meant to have seeds.”
Yurio scowled. “It’s meant to be edible.”
“It is edible. You just have a vendetta against health.”
“I’m a high-performance athlete,” Yurio muttered. “My body is a temple.”
Alex snorted. “Your temple eats two mochas and a fistful of gummy bears before practice.”
“That was once.”
“Yesterday.”
Yurio glared and shoved half his sandwich across the table. “Here. Be quiet.”
Alex blinked. “You just offered me food. Are you dying?”
“Just testing your loyalty.”
“To what? Bread?”
“To me,” Yurio said flatly.
Alex laughed. “You are the weirdest cool person I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not cool.”
“You wore a leopard-print scarf to biology class.”
“It was cold.”
“It was May.”
Yurio rolled his eyes but didn’t take the sandwich back. “Eat it before I decide I like someone else better.”
Alex grinned. “Wow. You like me now?”
Yurio scowled. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You made it weird.”
“I gave you lunch.”
“Exactly,” Alex said. “That’s emotional warfare.”
“…Fair.”
Twice a week after school, Yurio met Victor and Yuuri at the rink—new city, same schedule. He refused to let either of them call it “practice,” preferring “precision maintenance” instead.
On the ice, he was laser-focused, his movements sharp and clean. Off the ice, he kicked his skates off dramatically and muttered about Canadian vending machines.
“Why is there maple-flavored everything?” he snapped once, tossing a granola bar onto the bench.
Victor patted his head. “Because here, even the snacks are polite.”
Yurio glared. “I’m defecting.”
“You already did,” Yuuri reminded him. “We filed the paperwork.”
Yurio made a noise like he was being personally persecuted by government forms and jam-flavored protein.
Still, he showed up. He worked hard. And sometimes—when he thought no one was watching—he lingered just a little longer before heading home.
They made a quiet rhythm out of their new lives: skating, cooking, walks with Makkachin. Late-night boba runs when Victor got too nostalgic. Lazy Sundays. Grocery lists. Spotify playlists for rainy days.
And somewhere between the laundry and the meal prep and Yurio learning what a snow day was in Ontario terms, it happened.
Victor brought it up first.
They were lying on the couch, Makkachin sprawled over Victor’s legs like a hairy throw blanket, and Yuuri’s head tucked under Victor’s chin.
Victor had been unusually quiet, which in itself was suspicious.
Yuuri had just opened his mouth to ask what was on his mind when Victor said, “What if we had a baby?”
Yuuri blinked. “Like… now?”
Victor shrugged, noncommittal. “Eventually. Someday. Maybe sooner than someday.”
Yuuri propped himself up on one elbow, looking at Victor carefully. “Where is this coming from?”
Victor shrugged again, but his voice was softer. “I’ve just been thinking… we’ve built this whole life here. I love it. I love us. But I keep thinking about what comes next.”
Yuuri didn’t respond right away. Instead, he curled back into Victor’s side and let the silence stretch for a while—comfortably.
“I’m not sure we’re ready,” he said finally.
Victor sighed. “Emotionally? Yes. Financially? Definitely. Maturity-wise? Debatable.”
Yuuri laughed. “You’d name the baby after a Russian pastry.”
“Only if they were sweet and round,” Victor said proudly.
“You just described Phichit’s hamster.”
Victor grinned.
“But I want a family,” he added, more seriously. “With you. However that looks.”
Yuuri was quiet for a moment longer before murmuring, “You already have one.”
Victor kissed the top of his head.
And then—two weeks later—Victor came home carrying a silver-gray poodle puppy wrapped in a fluffy towel like a baby.
Yuuri blinked at him from the kitchen. “Victor.”
Victor gave him the most guilty, radiant smile imaginable. “Before you say anything—”
“You adopted a dog.”
“She was at the shelter! And she looked at me, Yuuri. She looked into my soul.”
“She’s peeing on your hoodie.”
Victor looked down. “She’s still perfect.”
From the couch, Makkachin let out a low, affronted woof, like he was watching his title as Favorite Child slip away.
Yuuri pinched the bridge of his nose. “We said we’d talk about this.”
“I thought you meant babies,” Victor defended.
“We said family planning, Victor.”
“This is a family member!”
Yuuri looked at the tiny, judgmental fluffball now licking Victor’s chin with absolute impunity.
“…What’s her name?”
Victor’s grin widened. “Borscht.”
“You named her after soup.”
“You love soup.”
From the hallway, Yurio groaned. “If that thing touches my boots, I’m moving back to St. Petersburg.”
“She just got here,” Yuuri called back.
“And she’s already eyeing them.”
That night at dinner, Makkachin lay curled on the couch like the distinguished elder he was, while Borscht perched beside him with the posture of someone who fully believed she was entitled to a seat at the table.
She had already attempted to climb onto Victor’s lap twice, nosed Yuuri’s leg like a truffle pig, and barked indignantly when no one offered her rice.
Victor gasped. “She’s so ambitious!”
“She’s trying to manifest tempura with eye contact,” Yuuri muttered.
Borscht huffed and rested her chin on the armrest, eyes locked on the plates like a tiny general planning a siege.
“I’m telling you,” Yurio muttered, jabbing his chopsticks at her without looking. “She’s one unguarded moment away from chewing my other boot.”
“You still gave her chicken earlier,” Victor reminded Yurio.
“That was pity chicken,” Yurio snapped. “Not permission chicken.”
Somehow, they made room.
Makkachin adjusted. Borscht took over an entire pillow. Their apartment felt fuller. Their hearts, maybe, too.
They walked together more. Morning coffee runs with tangled leashes. Grocery store trips where Victor somehow smuggled in extra dog treats. Nights spent on the couch, tangled in limbs and fur and soft conversation.
Later, curled up together under a blanket with Makkachin at their feet and Borscht snoring between them, Yuuri whispered into the quiet.
“I used to think building a future meant knowing all the answers.”
Victor rubbed small circles into his back. “And now?”
“Now I think it just means knowing who you want to build it with.”
Victor kissed his forehead. “I wanted to marry you yesterday—”
Yuuri smiled.
“—and I want to marry you today,” Victor continued.
“And you fully intend to want to marry me for all the days for the rest of our lives,” Yuuri finished, eyes twinkling.
Victor grinned. “Exactly.”
The future didn’t have to be loud. Or clear. Or defined by milestones.
Sometimes, it looked like shared silence.
Sometimes, it barked and chewed on couch cushions.
Sometimes, it looked like a skater with his two coaches, their two dogs, and one very cozy home filled with soft love and slow mornings.
And always—always—it looked like them.
Together.
For all the days.