He got here too early, probably. Even after Yuri texts that he's landed, it'll take him ages to deplane and make his way through the rabbit warren that is any airport, even a small one like Fukuoka, even from a short commuter flight. It feels interminable, and he tries to resist the temptation to keep texting Yuri, asking where he is, or to look down at his phone and hope for a message bubble to appear on his screen. He's never been prone to nervous motion, which is good because otherwise he thinks he might jitter this seat loose of its bolts. Maccachin is a comforting, calming warmth against his leg, and he puts his hand on the curly head rather than into his pocket for his phone.
(Has it only been two days?
The whole of the fifteen months in St. Petersburg before coming here never felt this long.)
Under his palm, Maccachin's head lifts, and then his body stiffens, collecting himself in a bunch of muscle and wagging tail, and then throws himself with a bark at the glass barrier between them and the corridor Yuri will come down --
is coming down. Standing there, staring at Maccachin with a comical looks of surprise rounding his eyes above the mask he wears when he travels, and when Victor stands up, it feels like he's moving in a dream, or under water. Nothing feels connected, nothing feels like a choice he makes, not even starting to run when he sees Yuri do the same, unable to take his eyes off the figure past the glass. Yuri pulls down his mask. Yuri's arms are pumping and his strides and lengthening. Yuri is sprinting, and so is Victor, and so is Maccachin, joyfully bounding at his side, blissfully unaware that this isn't just a happy reunion. Is it? He doesn't feel happy, or excited, or even relieved. He doesn't feel anything but desperate to get to that sliding glass door that's the last barrier between him and Yuri, and the last five meters feel just as impossible to cover as the thousands of miles Yuri just flew to get here.
But he does get there, stopping right in front of the door as Yuri stops at the glass blocking his way, and Victor throws out his arms to catch him as soon as the door slides easily open and Yuri can come through.
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(Has it only been two days?
The whole of the fifteen months in St. Petersburg before coming here never felt this long.)
Under his palm, Maccachin's head lifts, and then his body stiffens, collecting himself in a bunch of muscle and wagging tail, and then throws himself with a bark at the glass barrier between them and the corridor Yuri will come down --
is coming down. Standing there, staring at Maccachin with a comical looks of surprise rounding his eyes above the mask he wears when he travels, and when Victor stands up, it feels like he's moving in a dream, or under water. Nothing feels connected, nothing feels like a choice he makes, not even starting to run when he sees Yuri do the same, unable to take his eyes off the figure past the glass. Yuri pulls down his mask. Yuri's arms are pumping and his strides and lengthening. Yuri is sprinting, and so is Victor, and so is Maccachin, joyfully bounding at his side, blissfully unaware that this isn't just a happy reunion. Is it? He doesn't feel happy, or excited, or even relieved. He doesn't feel anything but desperate to get to that sliding glass door that's the last barrier between him and Yuri, and the last five meters feel just as impossible to cover as the thousands of miles Yuri just flew to get here.
But he does get there, stopping right in front of the door as Yuri stops at the glass blocking his way, and Victor throws out his arms to catch him as soon as the door slides easily open and Yuri can come through.