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It’s a stuffy Friday night in July and no one’s eaten yet because Makkachin’s special feast must be made first.
Yuri’s slumped on the doorframe of the Katsuki-Nikiforov kitchen, stewing in conflict as he watches Viktor prepare homemade dog food. Ever since the dog reached twenty, Viktor and Yuuri have been taking even more vigorous steps than usual to protect her from the ravages of aging. They even work with a veterinary nutritionist—a job Yuri didn’t previously know existed and has secretly been researching out of the purest curiosity.
Over the past year, Yuri’s worked on downgrading his short-fuse temper into a cooler kind of mild disdain. Keeping it up on a regular basis demands less emotional stamina than his standard fare, but it can also call for more of a time commitment. For example, he’s been standing here for the past six minutes trying to comment on what he’s witnessing in a way that won’t upset Viktor or call the universe’s unkind attention to Makkachin’s improbable lifespan.
The poodle, stationed at Viktor’s feet, raises her limpid eyes to Yuri’s face with something very near suspicion.
“Viktor,” Yuri says, pleased with the neutral tone he’s achieved. “What the fuck.”
Mm. Too much focus on tone, not enough on syntax.
He’s merrily ignored anyway, so he gives up and goes to find the one who listens to him.
On his way to the bedroom, Yuri passes the sofa where Mila and Otabek are seated and trails his fingertips through Otabek’s hair without looking.
He finds Yuuri on the floor of the bedroom, half buried under the bed. Yuri frowns as he clears the doorway and folds his arms over his stomach. “Oi,” he says, abandoning both neutrality and syntax, “I’m fucking hungry.”
Yuuri’s reply is too vague to comprehend, so Yuri rolls his eyes and hooks his foot under Yuuri’s ankle and hauls him out with a burst of strength. The man he’s retrieved twists at the waist and peers up at Yuri with mild confusion and a wisp of annoyance. “I said, ‘I know,’” Yuuri clarifies. “Sorry, Yura. I'm trying to find Makkachin's chew rope. Do you want to start eating some of the sides?”
Yuri would, but then he’ll either be the only one doing it, since Otabek and Mila are polite, or he’ll be the reason they’re eating the meal in fragments. He dips his head back, torn between going hungry and getting what he wants in a way that will make him feel a tiny bit like a spoiled child.
“Forget it,” he mutters, “I’ll wait.”
He returns to the living room and flops back into his space on the sofa beside Otabek. The arm his boyfriend drapes around his shoulders releases some of the tension there, at least.
“Well?” Mila prompts. She sent him to check on the food’s progress, probably thinking he’d have some influence on the pace of things.
Yuri reports, “It’s for the dog.”
Mila drops her head forward with a groan. “That’s it,” she says, holding up her phone with determination. “I’m going to order pizza.” She waits for an objection from either of them, but Yuri likes the idea of consuming extra food on top of whatever Viktor plans to give them (someday), and there’s definitely a glimmer of amusement tucked at the corner of Otabek’s mouth.
“Go for it,” Yuri says.
And that’s how the five of them end up rushing to be the first to post a photo of the elegant homemade dishes on the dining room table that have been shoved inelegantly to one side to make room for a cardboard box filled with the ugliest looking pizza Yuri’s ever seen. Mila concocted the combination of toppings online and calls it her “Spite Baby” on Instagram without explaining anything further.
Once they’ve all gathered some assortment of food and tuck in, Yuri entertains himself by watching skating fans try to piece together the story behind the photo. They don’t have much to work with, considering that no one posted anything informative. Yuri just uploaded the photo with a pizza emoji, Yuuri’s hashtags are just #pizza and #friends in three languages and the usual English #icehusbands he uses to tag everything Viktor is even tenuously associated with, and Viktor’s are #icehusbands and #ungratefulchildren.
Yuri’s scrolling through one fan’s theories when his attention is called up by Mila saying Potya’s name.
He peers over his phone and catches Mila winking at him.
“Why are you talking about my cat?” he asks.
Otabek, whose voice he definitely hasn’t heard in the last few minutes (or he might have been paying more attention), explains, “She asked what you feed him.”
“Cat food,” Yuri says, flat.
“Yes, but do you love him enough to make it yourself?” Mila asks. Her eyes are sweet and coy and Yuri makes sure his face is communicating how stupid he thinks she’s acting.
“Potya doesn’t need special food,” he says with extra scorn. “He’s not old.”
Viktor makes an affronted sound around a mouthful of pizza, and Yuuri actually covers the dog’s ears.
“Yura!” Viktor snaps, once he’s swallowed. “Have some respect.” He leans over his husband’s lap and gathers Makkachin’s snout in his hand, cooing gently at her.
Yuri pretends neither of them is being as embarrassing as they are and says, “Well, he isn’t. He’s only seven.”
Otabek tilts his head. “Is he really?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, alarmed. “Why?”
Mila hums as she brings an asparagus spear to her mouth. “That’s like middle age for a cat, Yura,” she says.
“No it isn’t,” Yuri says. “Cats can live into their late twenties.” He’s looked it up multiple times; he’ll fight her to the death on this.
“Well, sure, they can,” Mila says, “but they’re more the exception than the rule.”
No one jumps in to correct her. Yuuri studies him carefully, bottom lip caught under his teeth.
Something cold crawls up Yuri’s spine, and when he opens his mouth, he can’t produce sound at all.
Viktor’s expression has softened considerably. “Do you want the number of our veterinary nutritionist?” he asks.
“Fuck off,” Yuri says automatically. Then, in the next second when he realizes he’s not being teased anymore, “Yes, please.”
•
Otabek takes his hand on the walk back to Yuri’s apartment, lacing their fingers and even swinging their arms a few times. His face is thoughtful, and Yuri doesn’t feel like talking, so they pass the time in silence.
At a particularly crowded crosswalk, they press closer to each other and Yuri leads them down a side street to avoid the gradual increase in tourist traffic. As they leave behind the sound of cars sloshing through puddles and the dissonant clash of languages, Yuri manages to untangle his thoughts a bit.
“Do you think I should make Potya homemade food too?”
He’s already mostly decided on it, but he likes asking Otabek for his opinion on things even after he knows what he’s going to do. Otabek’s approval is like a varnish in that it isn’t necessary, but it strengthens Yuri’s resolve to follow through with his decisions. He also just…likes to know.
Otabek, to his credit, doesn’t answer immediately even though he’s probably known it’s been on Yuri’s mind ever since his awkward, overly somber moment at dinner.
Eventually, he squeezes Yuri’s hand and says, “It couldn’t hurt.”
Yuri nods, resolved.
•
He makes his move the next day. He and Otabek return from the rink just after noon and choose to rinse off separately. When Otabek opts for a bath, Yuri twists his wet hair into a towel and sits on the bed with Potya to make the call. He presses the number Viktor messaged him and holds his phone to his ear, Potya’s rumbling purr vibrating against his palm.
On impulse, he ducks down and kisses Potya’s whiskered cheek.
“Allô?”
The French throws him. “Hello,” he says in hesitant English. He hasn’t used it since the ice show last month. “Is this Doctor Adelaide?”
“Ah, yes!” The voice is warm and suddenly filled with clarity. “This is Viktor’s little—ah, I—Yuri…Plisetsky, yes?”
It sounds like she’s reading his name from somewhere. “Yes. I’m calling about my cat.” Belatedly, it sinks in for him that she doesn’t sound like she’s at work. “Um, is this a bad time?”
“No, no,” she laughs. “I’m sorry. This is my private number, so I wasn’t expecting a business call.”
Of course it is. Fucking Viktor.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I call you another time?”
“No, no, no, no!” she insists. “Now is okay, it’s fine. I work when the work arrives. Tell me about your friend.”
Fr—oh.
“His name is Potya. He’s seven years old. I do feed him good food,” he feels the need to point out, despite this being a call on the road to changing that, “but my friend says he’s middle-aged now, so I want him to eat better. I want him to be healthy for a long time.” He scrunches his nose against the hot mist gathering in his eyes.
As if he can understand the conversation, Potya rubs his forehead against Yuri’s fingertips and licks his thumb, eyes slitted with deep contentment.
Yuri gives him a watery smile and scratches under his chin.
Dr. Adelaide’s clinic is located in Paris, so Yuri agrees to scan Potya’s medical records and send them to her so she can make an accurate account of what Potya needs and then send back some recipes that Yuri will feel comfortable making on a regular basis.
When he finishes the call, Yuri sets his phone aside and gathers Potya into his arms, ignoring the tiny squeak of confusion.
“You’re going to live past forty,” Yuri whispers, giving him a very gentle squeeze.
He’s just started to wonder how long Otabek will stay in the bath when he hears the floorboards squeak. When he lifts his chin, he finds his boyfriend standing in the doorway showing him a small, fond smile.
“I wasn’t crying,” Yuri tells him.
Otabek nods with perfect sincerity.
•
The evening is devoted to an online shopping spree.
“Doctor Adelaide says a lot of cats develop kidney problems as they get older,” Yuri explains to justify the stainless steel water fountain he’s just added to the cart. “She said the reason fountains are so popular is because cats think of them as safer to drink from. Running water is cleaner, like a stream as opposed to a pond. Also, this one has a filter in it, so it actually will be cleaner.”
Otabek’s answering nod is indicated by a slight movement of his chin where it’s resting on Yuri’s shoulder. The two of them are bunched up together at the end of Yuri’s couch, the air conditioner spilling over them in a gentle continuous stream.
Yuri types in a few new keywords and peruses the feeders with a critical eye. “I think I should get a newer automatic feeder, too. I’ve had mine for three years now and I don’t want it to break while I’m overseas.”
Otabek hums. “That one’s nice.”
“Which one?” He scrolls back up. “This one?”
Otabek nods again, accompanied by a low noise of approval that pulses against the curve of Yuri’s bare shoulder. “My friend has one like it.”
“Who?”
“Joachim.” Otabek hides a yawn against the side of Yuri’s neck and squeezes his arms around Yuri’s waist. “He was at the club last month. He has four Bengal cats.”
Yuri makes an absent noise as he reads through the feeder’s features. It has the same voice recording option as the one he has now and he still can’t figure out why that’s even included. It terrified the fuck out of poor Potya.
Otabek’s comment finally registers and Yuri peers at him over his shoulder. “The asshole who called me your elf?” he asks, scowling.
“No,” Otabek says, rolling his eyes. “That was Nick. He’s an idiot.”
“And an asshole.”
“And an asshole,” Otabek confirms.
Satisfied, Yuri returns to his quest to make Potya the longest-lived cat in history.
The cart has a total of seven items when he decides the cost is pushing the boundary of his monthly budget a little too heavily. Still, he doesn’t feel too guilty as he arranges the shipping details. Potya is family, and he spends a lot of time on his own when Yuri is traveling.
His mind meanders in a wild but familiar direction as he presses the checkout button.
He shouldn't get another cat; but maybe he should. Someday. Probably. Absolutely.
•
They fall into bed at midnight and Yuri pulls Otabek to him by the shirt. The anticipated kiss is slow, just the way Otabek likes to start things, and Yuri sinks into his arms with a sigh. While Otabek grazes his lips over Yuri’s jaw, Yuri pushes an arm under Otabek’s ribs and around his back, snuggling in tight.
On cue, Potya springs onto the mattress and lands between their legs.
Yuri and Otabek ignore him with weary resignation until he begins to knead the blanket. Otabek startles Yuri with a hissed curse and mutters, “He got my foot.” He shoots a baleful look at Potya and draws his legs in closer to his body.
Potya continues kneading the same spot with a yawn, probably unaware of the mistake.
Yuri spreads his fingers through Otabek’s hair and with his other hand presses his boyfriend onto his back. “Sorry,” he says on Potya’s behalf.
The first time they experienced a feline interruption is a year in the past when Yuri first moved in here, but it’s no less frustrating now. Locking Potya out makes the cat wail, and Yuri can’t stand the guilt of making Potya think he’s unwanted. Otabek says he isn’t averse to sex in front of Potya, but he has admitted it feels peculiar to have anyone, even a cat, staring at them when they’re most vulnerable.
They’ve basically worked up to a system of only having sex in hotels or Otabek’s apartment, but when Otabek’s visiting Russia for extended times, it can be unreasonable to expect total celibacy from either of them.
Otabek doesn’t answer him in words, but he does close his eyes and pull Yuri in by the hips, rocking up to meet him with a low, warm noise.
Having Otabek here now almost erases all the months he hasn’t been, and in this moment of relief, Yuri allows himself to dwell in a fantasy of their future when the two of them can live together and can do this whenever they want. He cups Otabek’s cheek with one hand and thumbs the prominent definition there while he guides Otabek’s legs to the corner of the bed with his foot; that should leave Potya some undisturbed space.
Their next kiss is only a glancing touch, and when Yuri opens his eyes next, Otabek’s face below his is as strong and gorgeous as it always is, but there’s also an added wry twist to his lips that Yuri’s never seen before.
“What?” Yuri says, frowning.
Otabek shakes his head, but the expression grows even more mystifyingly amused. “Nothing,” he says, kissing Yuri’s forehead. “You’re just a good roommate, Yuriyim.”
Yuri blushes and rolls his eyes so hard it actually hurts.
•
At the rink the following morning, Yuuri lands a clean salchow and then skates over to the side of the rink where Yuri’s been massaging his sore calf for the last few minutes. He’s smiling with sympathy as he coasts to a stop.
“Any better?” he asks.
Yuri lifts his free hand and wobbles it dismissively. It’s a familiar sort of sting, but nothing serious.
It isn’t long before Viktor joins them, latching onto Yuuri’s waist and hooking his chin over his shoulder with a brilliant smile. “Is our son injured?” he asks Yuuri.
“A little,” Yuuri says.
“Do we have to amputate it?” Viktor asks, feigning concern.
“Maybe, but we should ask him first.”
“Mm, true. Hey, Yurio—”
“Please shut the fuck up.” Yuri aims a tempered glare at both of them. Even if the profanity neutralizes the intended purpose, he’s still using some polite language.
Viktor glances around them and says, “Where’s the boyfriend?” as if he’s just noticed Otabek’s absence even though they’ve been skating for two hours.
Yuri had an excuse planned, but no one’s asked until now, and he’s forgotten it. “He’s not here,” he says instead, tensely, which only seems to make Yuuri curious.
“Did you fight?” he asks.
Yuri pretends he can’t see Viktor lose interest and switch tracks to searching out the hem of Yuuri’s track pants under his shirt.
“No,” Yuri says. The fact that skating away from this conversation isn’t a comfortable option gives him yet another reason to be very careful of injuries in the future. “He’s just grocery shopping.”
That gets Viktor’s attention back. “Are you two making a romantic dinner?” he asks with a smirk.
Yuri gives Yuuri a plaintive scowl. “Please make him go away,” he says.
Except to a very select few, he and Otabek are an unofficial couple for exactly this reason. Yuri’s grandpa knows, Yuuko knows, Otabek’s family knows, and Yuri’s rinkmates know because they’re all nosy bastards, but everyone else just suspects the truth (probably very strongly) based on Yuri’s social media activity. Yuri’s Angels have been waging an internal war for the last two years over whether they love or hate Otabek Altin. Yuri's rooting for an epic implosion with irreversible effects that last decades.
Yuuri, because he’s just as soppy about animals as Yuri is, figures it out. “You’re making Potya food, aren’t you?” he asks with a playful smile.
Before Viktor can say a word, Yuri decides to go on the offensive. “Well, yeah, he gave me that doctor's number.” Which reminds him. He points a viciously accusatory finger at Viktor. “Why the fuck did you give me her private number?”
Viktor seems baffled. “Why not?” he asks.
Yuri stares back at him, uncomprehending.
After a brief and unsatisfying staring contest, Yuuri says, “Be sure to upload a photo when you’re done!” and tugs Viktor away.
Thirty seconds later, they’re practicing lifts and spins and laughing in each other’s arms.
Yuri scrubs his face with both hands and decides he’s done with people for the day.
Well. Except one.
•
He steps out of the shower at home to a flurry of white noise that wasn’t there when he turned the water on. He wraps a towel around his waist, shakes some of the water out of his hair, and wanders into the living room.
Otabek is on the couch watching a movie with Potya asleep in his lap.
Yuri’s smile is automatic and warm. “Hey.”
Otabek smiles back and extends an arm, making an adorable grabbing motion no one outside this room would believe him capable of doing in earnest.
Yuri places his hand on Otabek’s and drops onto the couch next to him, the fabric of Otabek’s shirt clinging to Yuri’s damp skin. Otabek’s warm hand splays over Yuri’s back as his lips close on Yuri’s top lip.
“How was it?” Otabek asks, his breath warm on Yuri’s skin.
“Fucked up my leg,” Yuri says. “It’s fine now, but I didn’t want to push it too much.”
Otabek makes a low noise. “Want me to massage it?”
Yuri reacts without thinking and he knows whatever his face is doing must be excessively bright judging by the affectionate tug on Otabek’s mouth. “Please,” he adds, just in case it’s not obvious how badly he wants what he wants.
Otabek moves Potya off his lap without a shred of guilt—something akin to superpowers in Yuri’s mind—and pulls Yuri’s bare legs onto his thighs.
While Otabek works to find the knot Yuri suspects to be at the root of his misery this morning, they talk about Otabek’s hunt to find Dr. Adelaide’s recommended list of ingredients. It only took him an hour of actual searching to get everything, but the trip required walking and buses to three different stores in vastly different parts of the city.
The last one was an import store where Otabek encountered a young fan of Yuuri.
“She thought I was dating him,” Otabek says.
Yuri stares at him and lets the thought play out, just to enjoy the ridiculousness. What his imagination produces is a puzzled Otabek and an uncomfortable Yuuri, then Viktor pouting and Yuuri tripping over himself to get back to him. “The fuck,” Yuri concludes.
“Mm,” Otabek agrees. “Not that he’s not—”
“Stop right there,” Yuri says.
“You don’t think Nikiforov might sense that his husband might have been slighted?”
“Even if he could, he doesn’t defend Katsudon’s honor,” Yuri says. “Any time he hears anything even sort of insulting, he just says some smug shit instead.” He pitches his voice more nasal and croons, “‘Look how jealous they are, zolotse. My treasure, my literal angel of the ice.’”
Otabek’s hands have gone still, his face a portrait of disbelief.
It isn’t a direct quotation or anything but—“I know. My life is an endless fucking tribulation.” He wriggles his legs in Otabek’s grasp. “More, please.”
After all he goes through day to day with the two of them, the very least they owe him is free use of their excessiveness for sympathy points from his boyfriend.
•
When the strain in Yuri’s calf feels significantly lessened, he thanks Otabek with a kiss to the neck and returns to his bedroom for an outfit he can wear while cooking.
The few recipes he’s deigned to try at home usually only require a maximum of three ingredients and the assistance of a microwave. And whenever Viktor or Mila make fun of him for that, he points out that he’s twenty and he has better shit to do with his life than chop vegetables for forty minutes.
But for Potya, he would chop vegetables for actual hours. He doesn’t need to share that with anyone, of course, it’s just a fact.
He decides on a fitted T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, frayed jean shorts, and a black cloth headband to keep his hair out of his face. He strikes a masculine pose in his doorway. “Let’s fucking do this,” he says.
Otabek grins at him and pushes off the couch. He intercepts Yuri on the way to the kitchen and slings an arm around his waist, kissing his cheek with an intensity that promises at least some deeper kisses later.
•
Yuri feels somewhat less like a rock star when he finds out he has to wash the rice four times.
“Four times?” he asks, once he’s washed it twice.
Otabek picks up Yuri’s phone, dashed with flour, and reports, “Or until the water runs clear.”
“Why isn’t this shit prewashed?” Yuri grumbles. He fills the bowl again and scrapes his hand over the grains with probably more force than necessary.
He’s starting to think that choosing the recipe based on the number of ingredients as opposed to…literally any other criteria…was maybe shortsighted.
The rice is optional, and according to Dr. Adelaide’s notes, only really there to assist with any potential stomach issues and to add more substance to the kitty stew he’s making. But he’s not going to skimp on anything here; he’s committed to this, and he’s going to do it right.
“Okay, done.” Yuri sets the washed and strained rice to the side and gives it a sneer. “Now what?”
As Otabek dutifully reads off the next set of instructions, Yuri notices the sun is setting, so he reaches past his boyfriend to switch on the kitchen light.
He catches sight of Potya sitting on the back of the couch in the living room, staring at the two of them with what Yuri thinks might be confusion. Since they moved in here last year, Yuri’s visits to the kitchen usually only last as long as it takes to put things into and take things out of the refrigerator or microwave. Potya probably spends more time in the kitchen than he does, curled up in a square of sunlight on the floor or practicing jumps onto the refrigerator.
Yuri gives Potya a slow blink and Potya returns it, adding a soft mewl that Yuri chooses to hear as a spontaneous “you’re awesome”.
Sudden silence has him realizing that Otabek’s stopped speaking. Yuri’s been hanging onto Otabek’s shoulder for the last several seconds, not listening, while he communicates with Potya through feline body language.
Yuri offers Otabek a sheepish grin and kisses his cheek. “Sorry. Repeat that? Please?”
Otabek does, clearly amused, his fingers tickling at Yuri’s side while Yuri squirms and pretends not to feel it.
•
Once the extra servings are boxed up in plastic containers, three of them in the freezer for later in the week and three in the refrigerator for the next few days, Yuri carries Potya’s bowl out to the living room with a generous portion inside.
Normally, the feeder in the corner dispenses dry food twice a day, with Yuri occasionally giving Potya half a tin of wet food. Potya doesn’t have any reason to associate the kitchen with his meals, so while Yuri and Otabek were cooking (and making out against the refrigerator), Potya napped and chased nothing around the living room, unaware that their cooking had any connection to him.
Perhaps, then, it shouldn’t be a surprise when Yuri sets down the bowl, testing the temperature one more time with his little finger to make sure it won’t burn Potya’s tongue, and Potya doesn’t react.
Otabek braces his arms on the back of the couch and Potya, curled on a cushion, lifts his head to peer upside down at him.
“Hungry, little rebel?” Otabek asks, and Yuri rolls his eyes at the familiar nickname. His boyfriend honestly thinks his cat’s cockblocking is intentional.
Potya meows back. Probably telling him, “I don’t speak your language. We’ve discussed this.”
Yuri calls Potya again, kneeling next to the dish and shaking it in case it makes the scent travel farther. It smells great, and it even tastes good. Surely he’s at least curious why there’s something new in his dish?
When Potya just keeps staring, however, Yuri decides to speed up the process. He picks up Potya off the cushion and says, “I know, I’m sorry,” when Potya makes a low, displeased noise. Struggling to be patient, Yuri puts him down in front of the dish.
Potya doesn’t even look at it, turning immediately back toward the couch.
“Seriously?” Yuri groans. “I did all that and you don’t even want it?”
Potya hops back onto his cushion and curls up again to sleep, this time with a chiding look at Yuri before he closes his eyes.
Yuri throws up his arms. “I cooked for you!”
A few seconds pass, then the feeder makes a soft chime and pours flat, dry pellets into the dispenser. Potya barely gives the time to a lithe stretch before he’s sprinting to the dispenser to gobble down the dry, inferior, prepackaged, boring food.
Yuri sighs. He can empathize a little with his grandpa now, at least.
“You know,” Otabek says, as if the idea has just occurred to him, “he can’t follow us into the shower.”
Yuri hums, reluctant to show how much that’s cheering him up, and says, “Lead the way.” At least in the shower, he won’t be able to hear the chomping.
•
After their joint shower (during which they didn’t even attempt the pretense of washing up), Yuri checks the bowl, but it appears to be untouched, and Potya is now on the bed awaiting the next item on their daily schedule.
“I shouldn’t leave it out overnight,” Yuri says, eyeing the dish. “But what if he decides to try it when we’re not looking?”
With only eyebrow movement, Otabek manages to suggest that Yuri’s maybe projecting too much of his own personality onto his cat.
Yuri leaves the dish out, just to prove that he’s not.
Potya wakes up when they slide under the blanket. He’s in a playful mood, so he decides to chase their feet around for a while as they settle in. Otabek moves his quicker and quicker, likely reacting to how it makes Yuri laugh. Potya’s eyes dart left and right each time before he pounces, but he never manages to land his prey.
At last, to calm him down, Yuri picks Potya up and cradles him against his chest. Potya stares up at him patiently, and only puts up token resistance when Yuri bends his head to kiss his belly. Yuri knows it looks like the ultimate show of courage, but Potya’s always let him touch his belly ever since he was a kitten.
“He lets you do that?” Otabek asks.
Yuri says, “Yeah,” and gives Potya a warm smile. “Roommate privileges.”
Ten minutes later, his back to Otabek’s chest and Otabek’s arm tight around his waist, Yuri tries not to melt when Potya lies down against his chest and washes Yuri’s forearm with rough, careful strokes of his tongue until Yuri drifts into sleep.
•
In the morning, the dish is empty, and Potya is in the kitchen licking his whiskers, curled inside a bright square of sunlight.
Yuri sits with him on the floor, pleased, sipping water from a gold and turquoise mug while the sun rises.