Yuri crouches down to Maccachin and gets his face licked clean, but not before he holds onto the wildly wagging poodle and presses his face into soft, curly fur just as Victor had, earlier. If he looked up, he might well see the heel of Victor's hand brushing beneath one eye, but though there's a damp sort of thickness to his voice and a faint gleam of moisture in his eyes, his laugh is as genuine as ever. More relieved, maybe, than happy –– he doesn't quite know what the word is for this feeling, but happy doesn't do it justice, it's more like fulfilled, or perhaps just full –– but there all the same, after two days when it felt as far out of reach as the moon or stars. "He has no idea he scared everybody."
He might have some idea. Maccachin is more perceptive than most dogs –– maybe more so than most people, even –– but the extra exuberance to his affection might simply be a function of how long Victor and Yuri have been gone. It's been weeks, and Maccachin always did love to see him after a long absence. "But he does look good."
Better than he looks. Better than Yuri looks. Of the three of them, only Maccachin now resembles the version of himself in the picture Victor had reposted to his Instagram. Yuri looks anything but carefree and joyful, and Victor still feels like death itself warmed over, but it's all fine.
He still looks perfect to Victor.
Who offers a hand to help Yuri back up, even as Maccachin leaps to lick it, a long swipe of warm wet tongue across the backs of his fingers, until he scolds: "Even if he's forgetting his manners."
It lacks heat, or firmness, or any sort of heft. Maccachin can run him over all he wants, can lick him and jump on him and shock him into a yelp by shoving a cold nose into his neck when he least expects it. Maccachin is alive, and Victor hasn't lost him yet.
Not him, and not Yuri. Be my coach until I retire.
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Yuri crouches down to Maccachin and gets his face licked clean, but not before he holds onto the wildly wagging poodle and presses his face into soft, curly fur just as Victor had, earlier. If he looked up, he might well see the heel of Victor's hand brushing beneath one eye, but though there's a damp sort of thickness to his voice and a faint gleam of moisture in his eyes, his laugh is as genuine as ever. More relieved, maybe, than happy –– he doesn't quite know what the word is for this feeling, but happy doesn't do it justice, it's more like fulfilled, or perhaps just full –– but there all the same, after two days when it felt as far out of reach as the moon or stars. "He has no idea he scared everybody."
He might have some idea. Maccachin is more perceptive than most dogs –– maybe more so than most people, even –– but the extra exuberance to his affection might simply be a function of how long Victor and Yuri have been gone. It's been weeks, and Maccachin always did love to see him after a long absence. "But he does look good."
Better than he looks. Better than Yuri looks. Of the three of them, only Maccachin now resembles the version of himself in the picture Victor had reposted to his Instagram. Yuri looks anything but carefree and joyful, and Victor still feels like death itself warmed over, but it's all fine.
He still looks perfect to Victor.
Who offers a hand to help Yuri back up, even as Maccachin leaps to lick it, a long swipe of warm wet tongue across the backs of his fingers, until he scolds: "Even if he's forgetting his manners."
It lacks heat, or firmness, or any sort of heft. Maccachin can run him over all he wants, can lick him and jump on him and shock him into a yelp by shoving a cold nose into his neck when he least expects it. Maccachin is alive, and Victor hasn't lost him yet.
Not him, and not Yuri. Be my coach until I retire.
"Let's go get your luggage."