No one uses the diminutive of his name. No one aside from Yakov, who has known him longest and best and who he knew he could still count on. While the rest of the world might only see Yakov's face falling back into carved grooves of dissatisfaction, Victor knows there's a thaw of that long-held, inches-thick layer of ice beneath his features.
Yakov would never turn him away if Victor pleaded with him. If Victor needed him. "Maccachin --"
The Russian comes faster and easier, and with more than a little of the desperation of the teenager he hasn't been in a decade, but that was when he got Maccachin. Perhaps it makes sense that, as he's trying to explain to Yakov what happened, his sentences get faster with worry that is swiftly escalating into blind fear, words tumbling and tangling like branches in a flooding river. He doesn't know if they make sense -- trying to explain about leaving Maccachin behind in Hasetsu, Mari's call, the dire prediction from the vet, how far he is, how he knows he shouldn't go --
He shouldn't be doing this, either. He'd left, and Yakov has Yurio and Georgi and Mila to worry about now. It's not orthodox. It's absurd. It might even be insulting.
But his dog is (might be? is?) dying, and of everyone here, only Yakov really knows what a toll that would take. Not even Yuri -- who lost his own pet immediately before the Grand Prix Final the last time he skated, who probably knows how that would feel better than anyone -- knows just how much Maccachin means.
Ending his rushed explanation with his fingers gripping like iron into the old man's shoulders, his own only kept from slumping by nervous energy and strain, pouring into his native language like he'd been painting in black and white all this time, and only just now remembered to use color. "I don't know what to do."
If this was two years ago, he would hug Yakov and let the old man take over, tell him what to do, and he can't now, but the wish is there, to just fold against him as he had so many times, assured even in his worry that everything would be alright.
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Yakov would never turn him away if Victor pleaded with him. If Victor needed him. "Maccachin --"
The Russian comes faster and easier, and with more than a little of the desperation of the teenager he hasn't been in a decade, but that was when he got Maccachin. Perhaps it makes sense that, as he's trying to explain to Yakov what happened, his sentences get faster with worry that is swiftly escalating into blind fear, words tumbling and tangling like branches in a flooding river. He doesn't know if they make sense -- trying to explain about leaving Maccachin behind in Hasetsu, Mari's call, the dire prediction from the vet, how far he is, how he knows he shouldn't go --
He shouldn't be doing this, either. He'd left, and Yakov has Yurio and Georgi and Mila to worry about now. It's not orthodox. It's absurd. It might even be insulting.
But his dog is (might be? is?) dying, and of everyone here, only Yakov really knows what a toll that would take. Not even Yuri -- who lost his own pet immediately before the Grand Prix Final the last time he skated, who probably knows how that would feel better than anyone -- knows just how much Maccachin means.
Ending his rushed explanation with his fingers gripping like iron into the old man's shoulders, his own only kept from slumping by nervous energy and strain, pouring into his native language like he'd been painting in black and white all this time, and only just now remembered to use color. "I don't know what to do."
If this was two years ago, he would hug Yakov and let the old man take over, tell him what to do, and he can't now, but the wish is there, to just fold against him as he had so many times, assured even in his worry that everything would be alright.
"There's no one else who can help me. Please."