Makkachin, to Viktor's surprise, leapt immediately from the bed to join Yuuri, tail wagging at the sound of her name. It would have done a lot more to convince Viktor that he might just be telling the truth if Makka weren't the type of dog who often did the same thing with strangers. She thought everyone was her friend and rarely played shy... although she wouldn't always come to a call like that, not the way she did for Viktor. In any case, he was grateful that 'Yuuri' didn't push the matter further - his splitting headache was getting worse by the minute and it didn't sound as though there was much to help for it. He could be in for a rough night.
After Yuuri had left, he lifted his hands in front of him, turning them over. He looked the same. He felt the same. Years? Being more careful this time, he reached up to very delicately touch the tender spot on his head, feeling it throb painfully. There was blood in his hair, still, matted and dry. Head wounds usually bled a lot, and it could actually be worse if it wasn't. He hoped there wasn't any internal hemorrhaging. Yakov put all of his skaters through basic concussion testing every year, so in the event of injury, paramedics could put them through a series of questions to determine just how bad it might be. But he didn't have any of that here.
Dom gently nudged his arm, and when Viktor looked down the griffin was blinking at him quietly. His expression was fierce, but Viktor could feel something like sorrow in his thoughts. I'm so sorry. Are you hurt? he asked silently, falling back into familiar Russian. Even the act of translating from English in his head was exhausting.
No, Dom replied quietly. Viktor wanted to search his mind to determine if there might be any truth to the claims, but he also didn't want to push his little protector any further than was necessary. He rested his head on Viktor's forearm, and his shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. I think he might be.
A twinge of guilt twisted inside him, but he shook his head. I don't remember. I swear I don't, he said, more to himself than to Domovoi. What was the last thing he remembered? That was easy. The Grand Prix, Sochi, 2016. It was late November. He'd just won his fifth consecutive gold medal in the series. Christophe Giocometti had come in second, and Jean-Jaques Leroy in third. He lived in St. Petersburg, Russia. He knew his dog's name, his mother's name, his social insurance number, his ISU registration number, the last program he'd skated to that he had composed just that summer. He also remembered arriving here; it was a bit fuzzy, but he remembered Dom (although admittedly it helped that the griffin's memories were bright and clear, easy to draw from). Other than being unable to place anyone named Yuuri, his memory seemed fine, so why did Yuuri seem to think years had gone by?
"I think I remember you," he finally said when the other man returned, glad that he seemed to have managed to recall something. "You're a skater too, da? From Japan. The Italian coach, Celestino, who lives in America, he's your coach, yes?"