Yuri gets help. A tongue licking at fingers trying to tie shoes, until they are buried in Maccachin's heavy wet hair playing with his head for just a second, before he uses a hand to push himself up, with a single "Hai!" at the demand on the end of Victor's comments. The springy readiness to meet it swelling him, almost impertinent to start right now, as he and Maccachin jog the few steps to catch up to where Victor is.

Navigating falling into step, while Maccachin circles closer to Victor than he does.

It's been impossible not to feel affection for Maccachin, who delighted in following him about, but did so without any requirement. The deepest demand he's caused for a moment's attention, to let to be landed on Yuri, or get sleepily pet on the head when somehow shows up on the bed, in the middle of the night, again. He can understand that part, as it plays in his head again. About how Victor never got time to be with him this much, when he was on the ice.

It's been five years (six now) since he'd moved away, and he'd missed Vicchan, but he'd been one of the many necessary sacrifices. He could at least imagine what it might have been like. If he'd never gotten that call. If he'd been here, waiting to greet Yuri when he got home, the same as Maccachin had -- if a little lighter and bit smaller -- when he'd first bounded back into Yu-topia when Yuri opened the door that morning.

Simple things. All the simple things they put away.


(Simple things Yuri isn't entirely certain if he's ever had or understood entirely.

Things translated easier in the slow glide of silver carving ice, a slow turn, with his hand out like the wind, the curve of the earth.)