Yuri jumps out of the way, seconds too late, with an incoherent sound of surprise, from water flying at him, hitting his body and his neck, the side of his face, and Victor yelling at Maccachin, in that same sing-song, too clear, too happy even while admonishing tone. While Yuri's feet dig into thicker sand and then dryer. Getting everywhere. Clumping between his toes, the arch of his foot, up toward his ankles, caught between skin and sticking pants, shifting at his steps, letting it up and in, in the explosion of the land from the jump.

But even when Yuri is wiping at his face and next, more than half smearing more water from those hands, from that half drenched sweatshirt sleeve, also collecting the chilly wind, the suggestions Victor is throwing out -- excited, always so excited at his own brilliance and new ideas -- ... they don't sound so terrible anymore?

They'll still be training. All the time. Even heavier. Leading up to Nationals to even lead up to the Prix qualifiers.

Even if it's uncertain, that thing inside of him pulls in a breath, because it's not a terrible idea.
"Yeah--" His own voice a little breathless and light even under the wind, and winded, heaviness. "--maybe."

Maybe if it's still like this then? Victor laughing and Maccachin's heaving, tongue lolling, huffing breaths, wiggling his water-laden body and dancing around them, dashing back and forth between them, like he can't even decide who to be with, when he could be helping both of them, still playing, as they divide to get their own socks and shoes from the sand and the shelf.