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It’s just three days.
"That’s hardly enough time to even start to miss someone," Yuri says, as if he’d done a study on the matter and has graphed the results and knows that three days fall outside the parameters of How Long It Takes To Miss Someone.
Out loud, Victor agrees. But he knows better, and from the slight exasperation on Yuri’s face, Victor isn’t able to hold back from pouting a little. Yuri’s eyes only make it through a half-roll before his lips meet Victor’s to chase the pout away; just a fleeting whisper, but enough that Victor can manage a smile. He picks up Yuri’s bag, settles the strap on Yuri’s shoulder, steals another kiss—a little more than a whisper this time—and then watches Yuri walk out the door.
Three days.
Right, then.
Victor grabs his duffle and heads for the rink. Yakov will yell himself into an aneurysm if Victor skips practice in favor of moping, which he’d been considering doing last night when the thought of being on the ice without Yuri had first struck him. But at least it will kill some time.
His free leg’s sloppy and he keeps turning quad loops into quad Salchows and Yakov yells himself silly anyway. Georgi keeps staring at Victor with a woeful, pitying look, and Mila’s laying on the compliments a little thick considering she usually isn’t given to handing out compliments in the first place. Victor kind of appreciates Yurio’s periodic get your head out of your ass, you old fart jabs; they may come a little more frequently than usual, but at least they’re a normal part of practice.
Victor gets in the minimum four hours, and then Yakov practically hurls him out of the rink. He wonders if he’ll be able to sneak back in later, but figures even if he does, one of the other skaters will turn traitor and snitch on him.
Victor sulks all the way home.
Makkachin’s there to welcome him as soon as he unlocks the door, and Victor devotes five whole minutes to greeting him with ear scratches and baby talk until Makkachin gets bored of him and wanders back to his Designated Afternoon Snooze Spot (the corner of the couch, where the setting sun hits just right). Victor scowls after him and considers giving the poodle a lecture on manners—Excuse you, but who dropped everything and flew halfway around the world because you forgot how to chew and swallow properly, I think you can afford to find it in your little doggy heart to not abandon that person the way he didn’t abandon you—but he concedes that would be as effective as lecturing ice for being cold.
Victor scratches his nose and watches the dust motes float above Makkachin’s head.
The trouble is—and it was apparent the moment Yuri left, and it had prodded Victor out the door right after him—there are holes now, Yuri-shaped holes all over the apartment, and not even Makkachin can fill those spaces. Right next to Makkachin is where Yuri would be right now anyway, and Victor stares at that spot on the couch where the cushions sag with the memory of someone else’s weight.
“Enough,” Victor snaps at himself. He’ll make himself a sandwich and then go force his company back on Makkachin. They can watch a movie. He’ll even let Makkachin have a bit of his sandwich.
Except no he won’t be making a sandwich because the bag is open and Victor’s irritation is flaring and the fucking bread is stale and there’s no point yelling about it because who’d even hear him?
Poof. Just like that, the irritation’s gone, and a mellower but more niggling mood sets back in.
Victor heaps some food into Makkachin’s bowl and goes out to force his company on Yurio.
There are immediate frown lines on Yurio’s forehead when he opens the door, but Victor slips inside before he can slam the door in his face. Yurio whirls on him, clearly ready to go on a you’re an idiot and you’re annoying me, get the fuck out of my apartment rant, but Victor smiles and says, “Yurio! Let’s go shopping,” and maybe something about his face or his voice is a little bit funny because it stops Yurio, who awkwardly shifts from one foot to another for several long seconds before muttering, “Fine, but you’re buying me food.”
Victor also winds up buying him two new shirts—only one has any sort of animal print on it though, and Yurio frowns at the other but Victor just pats him on the head and tells him he’ll appreciate it someday—and also somehow ends up at a hair salon where he foots the bill for the blue streaks that appear in Yurio’s hair. Victor coos over the new style and then turns to a mirror, picking at strands of his hair as he muses aloud about what might complement him. Yurio forcefully drags him from the salon when he starts asking the staff what color would bring out his eyes best. Victor sulks for ten minutes.
He almost forgets about the empty apartment he’ll be returning to later.
Almost.
Eventually, after noisily sucking up the last of his orange-banana smoothie, Yurio mutters, “I really need to get back to the rink now,” and Victor nods, trying not to visibly droop. Yurio eyes him, sighs, and with a heavenward look like he’s asking God for forgiveness, he says, “You could come with me. Not to skate, because you’re a trainwreck right now, but you could coach me. For old time’s sake.”
He sputters and curses when Victor promptly seizes him in a bear hug.
It goes about as well as expected, and while Yurio had ended the practice session with a water bottle (poorly) aimed at Victor’s head and several impressive curses, Victor knows a good night’s rest will calm him right down. (Mostly.)
Victor forgoes the bus and walks all the way home, strolling along as slowly as he dares on a cold St. Petersburg night. He gets home and takes Makkachin out for a long, leisurely walk, and only an ornery whine from Makkachin finally sets his feet on a path back to the apartment.
When he falls into bed, the space beside him is so horribly empty. Even when he calls Makkachin up and cuddles him close, he can’t seem to get warm. There’s still a Yuri-shaped hole, and Victor’s too aware of it, and he’s too aware of how pathetic he’s being, dammit, man, get it together. But it feels all wrong to fall asleep with fur under his fingers and wake up to a Sunday where no one fights him for the crossword puzzle.
Ilya calls him and asks him to meet for breakfast at That One Café With the Redheaded Barista Whose Number Ilya Desperately Wants. It’s certainly not Victor’s idea of an ideal morning, but That One Café doesn’t have Yuri-shaped holes (unlike the hallway closet, which is missing a coat, or the bathroom, which is missing a toothbrush). Georgi and his girlfriend Sabina wind up meeting them there, and Victor suspects Yurio has been texting their rink mates. (Victor is a pathetic bastard. I did my part, now you assholes get to deal with him. Feed him eggs.) It’s kind of nice, really. And the eggs are delightful.
The four of them get coffee to go and wind up wandering through an outdoor flea market. Georgi puts on an unintentionally comical performance as he searches for earrings with gems that are the exact green of Sabina’s eyes; what begins as enthusiasm quickly devolves into desperation, and Ilya might as well be carrying around a bag of popcorn for how much he’s enjoying the show. Victor picks out three new ties for Yuri (which Yuri will grumble over, but Victor is helping, okay) and also a set of mini amigurumis that Yuri will just adore. (A tiny octopus! A panda that will fit in his palm! A little piggy! Okay, Yuri might not appreciate that last one so much.)
Lunch is pirozhki from a food cart that is very shrewdly stationed outside the flea market, and then, arms twined around Georgi, Sabina begs to go to a movie, so off for a matinee showing they go. Victor tries not to feel too prickly about the fact that Georgi and Sabina keep cuddling while he, tragically, has no one to cuddle.
He’s feeling a little tired afterwards, and everyone else probably is too, but Victor points out a karaoke bar and Ilya and Sabina perk right up and instantly accept the challenge. Georgi looks a little mopey at first, but it’s no time at all before he recovers as he treats them all to a powerful performance of Only Happy When It Rains. Victor films the whole thing; Yuri has to see it.
There’s a lot of singing, and a lot of drinking—a lot of drinking—so by the time he pours himself into bed (or rather, gets poured in by Georgi and Ilya as Sabina plunks his garbage can in a convenient spot), he hardly even notices he’s there, much less who isn’t.
Day three arrives, and Victor uses the excuse of his hangover to skip practice, though the lack of argument from Yakov tells him he was probably not going to be very welcome anyway. Victor fortifies himself with coffee and aspirin and, when those stay down, toast with a generous slather of honey. Finally feeling more or less human again, Victor grabs Makkachin’s leash, cooing at the old pup and apologizing for leaving him alone all day with only the neighbor popping in to feed him. While he shrugs on his coat and hunts down his shoes, Victor keeps up a steady stream of that special dialect people create for their pets—we’re gonna take a nice long walk, yes we are, a long long walk past the bad fish smells and the rumbly cars, we’re gonna take the good little pup to the park to chase squirrels, yes, squirrels, look at that tail go, who’s a happy puppy, YOU ARE.
It’s just about noon when they get back to the apartment, Victor ravenous for some real food while Makkachin trots off for a well-deserved nap. After a rather extravagant lunch of beef stroganoff (considering that Victor’s cooking abilities do not range much further out from “boiling water” and “pouring milk into the cereal bowl”), Victor plods into the bedroom, having had rather enough sunshine for the time being but being loath to close the living room blinds and deprive Makkachin of a perfect snooze. He flops back on the bed, trying to ignore the gaping Yuri-shaped hole that needles at him.
Alone alone alone. He’s had a fairly successful run so far at dodging this circumstance, but the inevitable has come to pass. He has no idea what to do. Watch a movie? Do some laundry? Take up knitting?
(The thing is, he knows he’s going to jerk off to the thought of Yuri, but he’s classy, you know, so he pretends to have at least considered other options.)
It’s been three days since he last touched Yuri—two and a half, if you’re a stickler for details like that—and Victor is dying. And it’s not even a lack of intimate or erotic touches that’s driving him mad: it’s the lack of any touch at all. Casual bumps of elbows and shoulders in the kitchen. Hands resting on the small of a back. Brushing hair from a forehead. Kissing that forehead. Kissing other places. Kissing soft, kissing hard, kissing sugar sweet melt slow, kissing molten lava shiver sweat, kissing for hours—
Victor groans low and deep in his throat. Well. That didn’t take very long at all.
A glance at the clock tells Victor he still has roughly eight Yuri-less hours to get through. He sighs and goes to join Makkachin on the couch, figuring they’re both due for some snuggling. The television’s just background noise to try and make the lack of Yuri’s voice coming from the kitchen asking if he wants some tea a little less noticeable.
By early evening, Victor’s hopelessly restless and wishes he could just sleep and help the time slip away faster. He has vodka for dinner, and, imagining Yuri’s disapproving look, tops it off with an apple and several handfuls of potato chips. He considers washing the dishes just to prove to Yuri that he can, but the Yuri-shaped hole beside the counter makes him grumpy and he stalks out of the kitchen.
He asks Makkachin in an indulgent tone if Makkachin would like to see the routine he’s been piecing together for Yuri, and while Makkachin doesn’t look very enthused by the idea, Victor promptly leaps into action. He dances around the living room: jump combination, lunge, triple axel. Russian split, followed by a camel spin, and then into the step sequence—shit. Victor huffs a laugh as he rubs at the thigh that’s probably going to be bruised in the morning. In his defense, the routine was meant for ice, not wood floors, and at least the bookcase hadn’t actually fallen over, okay?
“It needs work, doesn’t it, Makkachin?” Victor says morosely.
Makkachin lets out a small whine, tail giving two soft thumps.
Dejected, Victor mopes off to bed.
The mattress is too big, and the sheets are too cold, and it’s three nights now that he hasn’t grumbled about the bedside lamp and Yuri, put the book down and get over here. There’s no shortage of things to complain about in a Yuri-less home, and Victor only falls asleep because he’s too miserable to remain conscious.
He doesn’t hear the sound of the deadbolt unlocking or the heavy thud of a bag being dropped on the floor; Victor only wakes when the mattress shifts and someone warm curls up against his back. He feels a hand slide over his stomach, lay soft against his skin, and he smiles as he feels lips press against the nape of his neck.
“Yuri,” he breathes, and doesn’t care how dopey and desperate he sounds because everything’s right when there are knees pressed against his own. Victor shifts and turns and touches Yuri’s nose with his finger. “I must be asleep because you look like a dream.” Yuri smiles at him with that touch of exasperated fondness and brushes Victor’s hair back. They both lean in, meeting in the middle. It’s brief, but just that soft press of lips shocks a shiver down Victor’s spine. “Hello,” he says quietly, catching Yuri’s hand and pulling it up to kiss the most precious gold he’s ever won. “How was the trip?”
Yuri closes his eyes and shifts closer, hooking a foot around Victor’s ankle. “I missed you,” he whispers, and Victor smiles his understanding into a kiss.