In Yuuri's dream, the plane was gliding over a brightly-lit city, the engines whining as they dropped below the last of the clouds and down towards the runway that stretched out beneath like a river of light. He knew it was a dream, because he no longer felt tired, or impatient, or annoyed; he simply sat and watched as the other passengers shifted in their seats, ready to be on the ground again. His muscles had ceased to ache, and his headache had lifted, leaving an almost-delirious lightness in its wake. It was the best dream Yuuri had had since leaving Russia, and he was in no hurry to part from it. Even the air in the cabin was different, its harsh fluorescence softened to a calm golden glow.

Their descent lasted years, or perhaps no time at all; it was hard to tell, in the flow of the dream, and besides, it hardly nattered. Yuuri was going home. That was a pleasant thought, but there was no need to hurry; dream-Victor would be there to meet him whenever he arrived.

He felt a twinge of doubt as something, some unpleasant memory from outside his dream, shook that certainty a little. But he could deal with that when he awoke; there was no need to let go of the dreamworld just yet.

The pilot's voice murmured through the speakers in warm but incomprehensible Russian as the plane touched down. The other passengers were up on their feet and unloading their things, but Yuuri waited. He had all the time in the world. Finally, when the plane had come to a full stop, he rose and lifted his skate bag down from the overhead locker, and dug his rucksack out from under the seat in front. That done, he joined the queue to leave.

If he were awake, he knew, this stage - shuffling off an overheated plane into a cramped shuttle bus, struggling through encounters with grim-faced immigration officials, waiting an age for luggage which might well turn up battered and broken or not appear at all - would usually leave him an anxious mess, too frazzled to return Victor's enthusiastic greetings even once he finally made it through to the arrivals lounge. But in his dream, nothing perturbed him; not the sharpness of the chill air as he stepped out into the St Petersburg night, not the bumpy ride to the terminal building, not the queue snaking up to immigration. He smiled at the officer who checked his passport and was through to baggage reclaim faster than he ever managed in reality. There was his suitcase, waiting for him on the carousel. It even seemed lighter than it would if he were really carrying it. He took a few steps towards the exit, and stopped.

What if his dream ended once he stepped through the door, and he was greeted not by dream-Victor but the awful realisation that he was still trapped in the stale air of a plane suspended thousands of feet above Kazakhstan, with hours of boredom to endure until he finally landed and found out that Victor, justifiably angry at his outburst, had not come to meet him? What if he found himself stranded at the airport in the last hours of Christmas Day, adrift from everything and too exhausted by his journey even to figure out how to get himself home, let alone patch things up with Victor?

He mustn't let himself panic, or the dream would end even sooner; he wanted to savour these last minutes of calm as best he could. He headed over to the exit and out into the arrivals hall.

A ball of brown fur came flying straight for him and almost knocked him off his feet. Steadying himself against his suitcase, he looked down to see Makkachin - or rather, dream-Makkachin, he supposed - pawing excitedly at his legs. "Hey, girl," he said softly, half-expecting his voice not to work. "I've really missed you, you know."

"Not half as much as I've missed you, my love."

Yuuri jerked his head up in surprise and found himself staring right into Victor's eyes. There was no anger in them; they were as soft and as blue as ever, lit up by Victor's wide smile as he said, "Welcome home, babe."

Yuuri stepped forward and buried his face in Victor's coat, taking in his achingly familiar scent, the softness of the fabric against his skin, the comforting solidity of Victor's chest against his cheek, Victor's arms around him. He wanted to remember every detail of this moment so that when he inevitably woke up - and it wouldn't be long now - he would at least have the lingering memories to comfort him. He lifted his head and gazed up at Victor, cradling Victor's cheek in his hand. "God, I wish this were real."

Victor's smile took on a note of bemusement. "What do you mean, babe?"

"I wish I wasn't going to wake up soon and realise that this was all a dream and I'm still stuck on a plane and you're still mad at me - "

Victor stared at him for a second, then drew Yuuri's face towards him and kissed him.

"Did that feel like a dream?" Victor asked as he pulled away, his eyes twinkling.

"The best dream I've ever had," Yuuri murmured. Waking up from this was going to be a real nightmare.

Laughing, Victor shook his head. "Listen to me, babe. You're not dreaming. This is all real, I promise."

"But of course you'd say that," Yuuri protested. "You're in my dream. You're just telling me what I want to hear."

"That flight really messed with your head, huh?" Victor grinned. "Right. Look. You know how writing always looks weird in dreams? You can't quite read it, or you look away and when you look back, it says something different?"

Yuuri nodded.

"Okay." Victor rifled through his pocket and pulled out a bit of crumpled paper and a pen, and scribbled something down. "What does this say, babe?"

Yuuri squinted at the paper. His eyes felt tired suddenly, and his head was swimming, but he could read the letters clearly. "Merry Christmas, Yuuri."

"Great. Now close your eyes."

Obediently, Yuuri did so.

"And open them again?"

Yuuri felt his breath catch in his throat as he opened his eyes and looked down at the paper, sure that he would see only unintelligible marks. But Victor's writing was still there, as clear as crystal. Merry Christmas, Yuuri.

"You see? You're not dreaming, Yuuri."

"But - "

"Try this one." Victor scrawled something else on the scrap of paper and held it out.

"Happy Anniversary."

"Do you understand? I'm here, Yuuri. Makka's here. You're home. And in time for Christmas, too."

Yuuri blinked, and rubbed his eyes, but the scene didn't change. He reached out to touch Victor's face again, but exhaustion finally overcame him and he stumbled forward into Victor's arms, too tired to hold himself up any longer. "I thought I'd ruined everything," he whispered. "I thought you weren't coming, I thought you were mad at me - "

Victor hugged him tightly, as if to convince himself that Yuuri was real. "Of course I'm not mad at you, babe." He kissed the top of Yuuri's head, and held him there against his chest, his heartbeat strong in Yuuri's ears. "There are some things we need to fix, I think," he said softly. "Some things we maybe haven't talked about as much as we should. But there'll be plenty of time for that now that you're home." He squeezed Yuuri tightly once more before letting him go. "First, though, we have an anniversary to celebrate. How does that sound?"

Yuuri smiled. "That sounds wonderful, my love."

A/N: I originally wrote this in 2018, but I rediscovered it this year and figured it was worth posting. Thanks to the wonderful HDMRox for being my beta reader, and Merry Christmas/ happy holidays to anyone who is reading this - I hope you're able to spend some time with loved ones over the festive season, and have a great 2021!