Yuri is adorable, rubbing at his face and fixing his glasses, and all Victor wants to do is kiss him again, cuddle him against the car seat, and demand to hear those words again. The ones Yuri shouldn't know. Has no reason to know. Somehow had on the tip of his tongue, even badly pronounced, shy, stumbling.
He wants to be there, already, but they have to deal with physical space, first, which is about as frustrating as it always is. He has to lean back and reach to unbuckle his seat belt, and open the car door into a biting burst of winter air. "I'll get your luggage."
But first, Maccachin: bounding out the door into the fresh snow as if he'd never been sick a day in his life. He kicks up the white powder and snuffles some onto his nose before trotting around the car to disappear on his way towards Yuri and the front door, the last thing Victor sees of him a wagging stub of tail and snow-covered paws. "Bring Maccachin in with you."
As if Yuri has a choice, really.
But Victor can take a moment, as the winter chill kisses his exposed throat and cheeks and hands, a little breeze that smells like snow ruffling his hair like affectionate fingers, before he's opening the trunk to grab Yuri's luggage and pull it out. It's heavy and unwieldy in the snow leading up to the front door, but he's pulled luggage through drifted snow more times than he cares to count, and, anyway, it's the last time for a while. They're home. That's what that spill of yellow light on the fresh snow means, that's what the excited voices lifting from just past the open door mean.
This isn't his family, and it isn't his house, and it isn't even his country, the one he just left, but somehow, the bubble of warmth that feels like it envelops him as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him doesn't feel like it's just from the heat from the house.
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Date: 2017-08-01 03:17 am (UTC)Yuri is adorable, rubbing at his face and fixing his glasses, and all Victor wants to do is kiss him again, cuddle him against the car seat, and demand to hear those words again. The ones Yuri shouldn't know. Has no reason to know. Somehow had on the tip of his tongue, even badly pronounced, shy, stumbling.
He wants to be there, already, but they have to deal with physical space, first, which is about as frustrating as it always is. He has to lean back and reach to unbuckle his seat belt, and open the car door into a biting burst of winter air. "I'll get your luggage."
But first, Maccachin: bounding out the door into the fresh snow as if he'd never been sick a day in his life. He kicks up the white powder and snuffles some onto his nose before trotting around the car to disappear on his way towards Yuri and the front door, the last thing Victor sees of him a wagging stub of tail and snow-covered paws. "Bring Maccachin in with you."
As if Yuri has a choice, really.
But Victor can take a moment, as the winter chill kisses his exposed throat and cheeks and hands, a little breeze that smells like snow ruffling his hair like affectionate fingers, before he's opening the trunk to grab Yuri's luggage and pull it out. It's heavy and unwieldy in the snow leading up to the front door, but he's pulled luggage through drifted snow more times than he cares to count, and, anyway, it's the last time for a while. They're home. That's what that spill of yellow light on the fresh snow means, that's what the excited voices lifting from just past the open door mean.
This isn't his family, and it isn't his house, and it isn't even his country, the one he just left, but somehow, the bubble of warmth that feels like it envelops him as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him doesn't feel like it's just from the heat from the house.