Maccachin comes trotting along with him, back to his own sliding door and the banquet room they'd turned into a makeshift apartment. Much more comfortable now than when he'd first moved here, but he has fond memories of that night –– sleeping on the floor and all. Now, it's as much him as it is classically Japanese: his furniture, his bed, his laptop and music. His clothes in the closet, Maccachin more often than not curled on the bed, or half underneath a table. There's no kitchen and no bathroom even slightly nearby, and it's much more cramped than his bright and airy apartment in St. Petersburg, but he loves it here nevertheless.
It's comfortable in a way even that clean, sleek apartment never was.
He feels that way about almost everything here, tossing on a soft shirt and pulling on light trousers over his briefs after a second's consideration about whether or not he ought to just wear his swim trunks. Probably not: if they stay out all day, it would get cold, so he should probably just pack them in a small bag along with their towels and sunscreen.
The beach! He hasn't had a proper day at the beach in ages. Did he even manage to get to one, last summer? He can't recall. The whole previous year is a blur of training and misery he's more than happy to simply forget about, in favor of heading downstairs towards the kitchen to greet Yuri's parents with a cheerful good morning! that is mostly pronounced correctly, and a deluge of thanks once handed some tea and breakfast.
It may not be coffee and syrniki, but it's still delicious.
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Maccachin comes trotting along with him, back to his own sliding door and the banquet room they'd turned into a makeshift apartment. Much more comfortable now than when he'd first moved here, but he has fond memories of that night –– sleeping on the floor and all. Now, it's as much him as it is classically Japanese: his furniture, his bed, his laptop and music. His clothes in the closet, Maccachin more often than not curled on the bed, or half underneath a table. There's no kitchen and no bathroom even slightly nearby, and it's much more cramped than his bright and airy apartment in St. Petersburg, but he loves it here nevertheless.
It's comfortable in a way even that clean, sleek apartment never was.
He feels that way about almost everything here, tossing on a soft shirt and pulling on light trousers over his briefs after a second's consideration about whether or not he ought to just wear his swim trunks. Probably not: if they stay out all day, it would get cold, so he should probably just pack them in a small bag along with their towels and sunscreen.
The beach! He hasn't had a proper day at the beach in ages. Did he even manage to get to one, last summer? He can't recall. The whole previous year is a blur of training and misery he's more than happy to simply forget about, in favor of heading downstairs towards the kitchen to greet Yuri's parents with a cheerful good morning! that is mostly pronounced correctly, and a deluge of thanks once handed some tea and breakfast.
It may not be coffee and syrniki, but it's still delicious.