Winter is in its last days, and he knows that his time has come.
There are not many preparations to make. He still takes care with every single one, performs them slowly, the tremble in his muscles not going away anymore. His strength has left him a few weeks ago. Walking hurts. The world has lost its scent. He finds himself sleeping a lot. His eyes don’t look for adventure now.
The house sleeps in silence, and so does the small poodle on the couch. She’s a shy thing, still, even after being here for almost a month. But he knows that she’ll come around. Her fur is bright, paws stumbling around clumsily, knocking over things. He isn’t worried, though: She loves them furiously already.
And they love her. That will be enough.
He drags himself to the bedroom. There’s not much light, just the moon, and his vision is weak. Climbing up the bed is hard; he manages.
There they are. There they sleep. Viktor is nuzzled deep into the blankets, eyes twitching under closed lids. He’s dreaming deeply, then. Yuuri is curled up, mouth open a bit. He’s grown a lot. There’s nobody else who would love Viktor like that, like a human does, and for as long as he lives.
They’ll be fine, Makkachin thinks as he lies down one more time, and then he thinks: Thank you for being my home, before he lets the last sleep come to him.
Moami 