#I'm not even kidding I'm still squealing looking at this Makka

[belovedyuuri]

lost and found (ao3) - written for @estellie for braving through a bad day <3 (the banner was made by her, I’m shook at how cute it is)

One of Viktor’s gold medals has gone missing. Not any gold medal, either—it’s his first Worlds championship in the senior division. Yuuri remembers watching the medal ceremony on the grainy TV back in Hasetsu like it was yesterday.

He could swear that he put it on the coffee table, right next to the TV remote, his phone, and the leftover pizza boxes from last night’s dinner which he had to throw out into the bin downstairs when Makkachin tried to bite them into pieces.

Even the kitchen towel he placed it on is still there!

It’s not on the floor. Not on the couch. Not under the couch. Not on the breakfast bar nor the kitchen counter. Not back in the medal showcase, either.

Shit.

Contrary to popular belief, Yuuri isn’t the ‘sit in the corner and rock back and forth’ panic kind of a guy.

Oh, no, no, no.

He’s the ‘I will turn this entire apartment upside down until I find the medal’ man—and that’s exactly what he’s in the middle of doing when Viktor finds him two hours later. He’s semi-stuck under the bed when the door to the apartment open. He looks towards the bedroom door just in time to see Makkachin jump off the bed and disappear in the living room.

“Here’s my girl!” Viktor’s voice rings through the hall. Something drops in Yuuri’s stomach at the sound of it. “Here’s my champion!”

Viktor’s home and he hasn’t found the medal yet. Shit, shit shit shit shit—

“I’m home~!”

“Yeah!” Yuuri shouts back and hits his head on his way back out from under the bed. His elbows are covered in gray smudges—a sign they really need to vacuum under there sometime soon. No sign of the medal, though.

“Yuuri?” Viktor’s voice comes closer and closer, accompanied by the sound of his footsteps. He appears in the doorway, finally, shoes and coat off, hair mussed with the cold St. Petersburg wind. “Everything—“ he starts, but the question dies on his tongue as he takes a look around the room.

Yuuri feels himself jerk alive again and glances around, too, actually seeing, for the first time since he came into the bedroom.

The room is a mess. The drawers are half pulled out or set on the floor completely. Their contents are upturned (what if Yuuri dropped the medal there when he was searching for something else? Did he even have the medal in the room? He doesn’t remember, maybe he did? Maybe he didn’t? It was safer to check), previously neatly folded underwear and socks piled on the bed, some scattered on the floor. The wardrobe is wide open, some hangers empty. Even the top of the chest of drawers, usually meticulously void of anything but their wedding photo, is littered with god knows what.

“What—what happened here?”

Yuuri’s cheeks grow hot. “I—” Shit. “I was just—cleaning up?”

Everything’s completely quiet for a long moment—so long that Yuuri gathers enough courage to glance at Viktor.

Viktor, who looks absolutely surprised, with a small smile playing in the corner of his lips. “I can see that,” he says, a gentle note of teasing curling around his words.

Yuuri groans and drops his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry, I was just—I wanted to clean the medals but then had to take the trash out so Makkachin wouldn’t—“

Wait.

The trash.

“Oh no,” Yuuri breathes and jerks his head up to look at the door. In the next moment, he jumps to his feet and runs out of the bedroom, past Viktor, who only calls his name again, but Yuuri’s not listening. He runs to the coffee table, looks at the TV remote and the phone and the kitchen towel, looks around, and remembers...

The pile of cartoon boxes from the pizza they ordered last night. He put the medal next to them, then grabbed the boxes and went out to the outdoor trash bin, threw them out—

Was the medal there?

No, of course it—

...maybe?

Oh god. He can still get the medal back—

Except no, no, he can’t, the boxes are gone now, he’s seen the trash truck arrive—

“Yuuri?” Viktor asks again—it’s a good thing he’s there because, suddenly, Yuuri feels weak. “Yuuri, are you okay?”

Makkachin whines somewhere close but Yuuri doesn’t see her, can’t see anything. His head fills with bright, thick cotton, so bright it nearly overshadows the single high note ringing in his ears as his balance shifts—

“Hey hey hey,” somebody—Viktor—mumbles, his voice muffled and quiet as Yuuri loses control over his knees and they bend under his body weight, “Yuuri—Yuuri, what’s going on? Yuuri.”

Almost as if his body isn’t his, Yuuri’s only vaguely aware that he’s being moved; his legs lose their footing completely and for a second his instinct to fight back kicks in, only to be calmed when he’s sat somewhere soft—on their couch.

What has he done?

Viktor pulls at his hand and, in the next moment, Yuuri feels the warmth of Viktor’s chest underneath his palm, the beat of a heart pulsing directly under his hand.

“That’s it,” Viktor murmurs encouragingly and finally, finally Yuuri hears his voice and doesn’t have to guess the meaning of his words. “Breathe, sweetheart, breathe with me.”

And he does. He follows Viktor’s exaggerated breaths in and out. In. And out. With every another minute, the fog in his mind dissipates, and even if his heart still constricts with shame and panic of what a mistake he’s made, his nerves aren’t so on edge anymore.

His hands feel cold, but the warmth of Viktor’s protects them from shivers.

“There you are,” Viktor says oh so softly, Yuuri’s shoulders shake with it. “What happened? What made you so upset?”

Yuuri takes a shaky breath in and looks past Viktor at the coffee table—only to look him back in the eye when Viktor cups the side of his face and gently moves it back.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri chokes, and for a moment it seems like he’s going to back where he’s just managed to get down from, like the panic claws its way back at his heart—but Viktor gets up from where he knelt on the floor, sits down on the couch next to him and pulls him into his arms.

It should feel confining, but it doesn’t. Chest to chest, hearts beating against each other—Yuuri presses his face into the crook of Viktor’s neck and breathes. Viktor’s running his fingers through Yuuri's hair, a soothing gesture. Makkachin whines next to them—and stops when Viktor reaches to pet her, too.

“Your medal,” Yuuri mumbles finally.

For a second, Viktor’s hand stills on his head and Yuuri thinks, “This is it”, but it continues to move just a second later.

“What about it?”

Yuuri clenches his eyes and curls his fingers around the fabric of Viktor’s sweater. It’s one of his more expensive ones, Yuuri shouldn’t be pulling at it—but he can’t help himself. It’s like he’s preparing for Viktor to leave but doesn’t want to—can’t let himself be alone.

“I lost it,” Yuuri whispers.

He’s had enough time to imagine what Viktor’s reaction would be to finding out. Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. Disbelief. Up till this moment Yuuri’s thought he could deal with any of these—but Viktor’s quiet for a long time again. Yuuri can’t even see the look on his face because he’s still holding onto him with all of that weak strength left in his body.

“Yuuri—”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I—I think I threw it out.”

Viktor’s sigh feels warm against the top of Yuuri’s head when he puts his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders and gently pulls away. “What are you talking about?”

“Your gold medal.”

“The one Makkachin’s drooling on right now?”

What?

Yuuri quickly searches for the poodle—she’s right there, her head perched on Viktor’s thigh. She perks up when she notices Yuuri’s finally paying attention.

Red ribbon dangles from her muzzle. And at the end of it there’s—

“Makkachin!” Yuuri jerks away from Viktor and towards the dog, but Makka’s faster. She jumps to her feet and darts back into the bedroom.

“Yuuri—”

“Come here, give it back!”

“Yuuri!” Viktor calls, pulling at his T-shirt until Yuuri overbalances and once more falls back onto the couch. Makkachin barks from the other room, but Viktor’s hands move Yuuri’s face towards him again. “Is that what you’ve been worrying about? A medal?”

Yuuri stares at him, disbelief clear in his eyes and heavy on his shoulders. “It’s not just any medal,” he says, nearly scoffs. “It’s—it’s your first gold in seniors! The first time I saw you, I watched you win it.”

Viktor looks at him incredulously. “Yuuri,” he drawls. “I don’t care about any medals.”

“But—”

“No.” He shakes his head and brushes Yuuri’s hair away from his eyes. “No medal has ever given me what I found in you. They’re not worth you being so upset at all.”

Oh.

“What did you find in me?”

Viktor smiles and takes Yuuri’s hand in his. For a moment, he simply holds it and strokes his thumb over the ring on Yuuri’s finger. The warmth seems to seep through the metal and envelope it even after Viktor places their joined hands on his chest, right over his heart.

“This,” Viktor says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like his words don’t carry as great of a meaning as he puts into them. Like Yuuri’s own heart doesn’t grow calmer with the comfort of slowly, slowly beginning to understand. “Can you feel it?”

Warmth. Life. Love. Softness washes over Yuuri, easing all his muscles into rest with every single beat of Viktor’s heart.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He whispers, “Yes, I can.”

“There were times when I felt like it wasn’t here anymore,” Viktor murmurs. “And then you appeared and I felt it again. I’ve been constantly aware of it ever since.” He tightens the hold. “Every day. Every minute. Every second.”

“Oh, Vitya,” Yuuri breathes, quiet enough for the words to get lost in his own heartbeat. He gently pries his hand away and hugs Viktor as close, as tight as he can.

They breathe together like this, calm without the storm, fingers playing with each other’s hair and the fabric of each other’s clothes. It’s a treasured little moment even when it’s not rare to them at all.

“Don’t be upset with Makka,” Viktor says eventually. His voice is light; Yuuri can hear the smile in his words, yet still pulls away to check if it’s really there. “I used to play with her this way, you see. She’d hide my medal and I would search for it.”

Yuuri can’t quite help the small sound in the back of his throat; it translates in two ways: Those are your gold medals!, is one, and the other, How can you be this adorable, I don’t understand?. Both are completely correct.

Viktor chuckles and leans in, and Yuuri can’t help but follow until their foreheads press against each other. “Don’t tell her you know it from me,” he says and lowers his voice to an exaggerated whisper, “but she’s not that great at hiding things. She just lies down on them and doesn’t get up.”

Yuuri frowns and thinks back to when he barged into the bedroom in a desperate search of Viktor’s medal, right before he turned the place upside down—and Makkachin didn’t even try to get his attention except for her tail waggling whenever Yuuri as much as looked in her direction.

He closes his eyes and breathes a soft laugh. “Looks like she won this time."

Somehow, he doesn’t mind it at all.