This was written for a prompt I received. It's set between the Russian Nationals and Victor flying to Japan to become Yuuri's coach. Content warning for vomit. Enjoy!

Victor's dim, empty apartment looks like heaven after traveling for so long. He lets his bags drop with a heavy sigh, thoroughly exhausted from traveling. Makkachin, upon hearing her master's arrival, comes bounding over to the front door. "Hey, girl," Victor says cheerfully, scratching behind her ears and bending over to rub her belly when she rolls over. "You've been holding down the fort while I've been gone, huh?"

Georgi has been looking after her; Victor should probably thank him. And he needs to start planning for next season. But first… He drags himself to the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets and the refrigerator. Of course. They're all empty. Well, he has been away for awhile. He needs go grocery shopping. Maybe he can do that tomorrow. He could always order takeout, except that he's not really hungry right now.

Heading towards the bathroom, Victor settles on just showering and going to bed. He can always go to the store in the morning. Casting a glance at his discarded luggage, he decides that that can wait as well.

He feels a bit strange, but it must just be the jet lag. The sore muscles, too, can be blamed on traveling; even first class seats will make you sore if you're sitting in them for too long. He just needs to get some sleep, and readjust to being at home.

The shower is nice and soothing, and Victor finds himself almost falling asleep on his feet. Fortunately, his nose bumping the wet glass wakes him up, and shaking his head at his own foolishness, Victor finishes washing up. He's reluctant to leave the cozy warmth of the steam-filled paradise, but as soon as he's in bed he has no complaints. It's a wonder to be back in his own bed, in his own home instead of a hotel room. Victor is asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Unfortunately, his blissful rest isn't the cure-all that he was hoping for. His muscles still ache, and his joints are stiffer than before. He's also still exhausted, despite getting twice as much sleep as usual, and he's strangely dizzy. He blames that on low blood sugar, and after another fruitless search through the kitchen, he drags himself out the door, Makkachin in tow.

The market is within easy walking distance, and Victor figures that it's a good way to get some food for the apartment and let Makkachin get some exercise at the same time. Makkachin is ecstatic to be outside, and sniffs inquisitively at every rock and bush they pass. He smiles at the dog's antics; the worst part of traveling, in his expert opinion, is not being able to take her with him. The morning is crisp and clear, not too cold or too warm. Perfect walking weather.

It's not a very long trip to the market and back, but Victor is completely drained by the time he arrives home. He's still a bit woozy, but strangely enough, he still doesn't really have an appetite at all. He forces himself to nibble on some of the fruit he brought anyway. The dizziness abates a little, but doesn't completely disappear.

Groceries put away, Victor wanders aimlessly around the apartment, looking for something to do. Makkachin follows closely on his heels as he unpacks his suitcase and reorients himself to his flat. Normally he wouldn't bother to try to find something to do, and would just head to the skating rink, but Yakov had made it very clear that he didn't want to see Victor until tomorrow (there might have been some threats involved). He settles on watching his past routines in an attempt to find some inspiration for some new ones. At some point during the afternoon, Victor dozes off mid-video, Makkachin curled up beside him.

A jolt of nausea forces him back to wakefulness. Victor sits bolt upright, one hand clapped to his mouth. Outside the windows, the sky is still pitch black. It must be the middle of the night. A bitter taste in the back of his mouth disrupts his train of thought and has him bolting for the bathroom.

He doesn't quite make it to the toilet in time, and instead he's forced to pause in front of the sink as the little bit of fruit he managed to choke down earlier forces its way back up his throat. Victor heaves violently into the sink, bringing up a wave of vomit that burns his esophagus and makes his eyes water.

There's a small reprieve after he pukes which he seizes to situate himself in front of the toilet. What Victor had originally thought was jet lag had actually been the stomach flu, and he's not about to be caught off guard again. The rest of the night passes painfully slowly, with Victor curled over the toilet, holding on for dear life and cursing his own existence. He didn't think that he had anything left in his stomach to throw up, but he's apparently wrong.

When he the vomiting finally stops, Victor is left curled up and shaking on the tile. Eventually, he pushes himself shakily to his feet and stumbles back over to the sink. He turns on the water to rinse the mess out, and rinses his mouth out. After a few cautious sips of water, he debates the merits of making the long trek back over to the couch.

The idea of relaxing into the comfortable cushions wins him over, and Victor painstakingly makes the journey back to the living room. He snags the trash can from the bathroom, in case of emergency.

The couch is beckoning to him, and he collapses onto it with a contented sigh. He closes his eyes for a moment, before a problem suddenly occurs to him: he's freezing. And there aren't any blankets within reach. Victor lets out a frustrated whine, and almost jumps when there's a nudge at his hand. He opens his eyes to see Makkachin next to the sofa, looking at him imploringly. He pats the cushion next to him and she jumps up eagerly, settling next to him.

Warmth seeps into his frozen legs from the dog lying next to them, and Victor moans in relief. He pulls Makkachin so that she's lying alongside him; her warmth is better than any blanket. Finally warm and relatively comfortable, he dozes off as the sun begins to peek over the horizon.

His restless sleep lasts for most of the morning, and Victor only wakes up when he hears his phone buzzing. He'd forgotten that he'd left it out here.

He enters his passcode and goes to his texts, expecting a "Where the hell are you?" from Yakov. Instead, there's a link to a video from Yuri.

That's unexpected. Frowning, he shoots a message to Yakov explaining the situation before opening the text from Yuri. "You've got to see this," is the only text accompanying the mysterious link.

"Cryptic," Victor murmurs to himself, before hitting the play button.

As soon as he sees just who is starring in the video, Victor lets out a shocked gasp, his blue eyes going wide with astonishment. He's transfixed, unable to take his eyes off the screen the entire time. Watching Yuuri skate is entrancing, and when the video ends, Victor immediately presses the replay button, determined to burn this into his memory forever. His mind is already swirling with ideas, plans to fly to Japan. Because this means that…

"My Yuuri," Victor whispers. "I knew that you hadn't forgotten me."

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