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“And if you wait forever?”
“Just—just one more year. If I can fight in this Tournament against the champion and win, then I can be allowed another year to wait.”
The morning of the Tournament dawns bright, but Viktor is already awake, running through last-minute preparations with everyone in the palace.
“How much food should we prepare for lunch, Vicchan?” Hiroko asks him, her forearms already covered in flour when he sticks his head in the kitchen. The rest of her family is already up and moving around the room, and Viktor bites his lip when he realizes that they must’ve been up much earlier than himself.
Yakov has told him that they’re expecting around thirty competitors, but Viktor’s confident that he can eliminate a third with just the first Trial.
“Enough for at least twenty,” he says, hugging her good morning. Hiroko’s eyes crinkle as she smiles at him. “I really appreciate this, thank you.”
“It’s not every day your king finds someone to love,” she tells him, handing him a roll from the pan next to them. “We’ll support you no matter what.”
“Kaa-san, you already know that Vicchan doesn’t have eyes for anyone other than Yuuri,” Mari calls teasingly from her spot next to the oven. “Haven’t you heard? He’s already come up with plans to wreck the Tournament in his favor.”
As Toshiya roars with laughter, Viktor grins sheepishly.
“She’s not wrong,” he admits. “We don’t know when Yuuri’s coming home, but I’ll push off marriage for as long as I can until he does.”
Mari shoots him a sly look. “We’re rooting for you.”
“Thanks,” he says gratefully, biting into the buttery roll as he leaves. It’s still warm.
The Tournament, created decades ago by the royal family, was meant to determine a suitable match for the heir if they hadn’t married within a year after their coming of age.
Viktor, at twenty-seven, is six years past that.
Separated into two parts, it measures a candidate’s adequacy, compatibility, and strength. There’s one mandatory Trial for manners and etiquette that the heir must include within their Test, but the Trials for compatibility can be as numerous as the heir decides. When combined, these ensure that only those deemed eligible enough can proceed to the Duel the following morning.
The entire concept of the Tournament is terribly old-fashioned, and the country would lose nothing from overturning such a stupid rule. But Viktor knows that the people are growing anxious without someone ruling the country by his side so long after his coronation (there was already unease about having a physically empty throne nine years after his parents passed), and Viktor simply can’t refuse to marry.
So, if he has half a mind to—say, rig some of the Trials to make the competitor pool significantly smaller for the Duel? Well, he’s just a stupid ruler with a pretty face. Of course he’d never do something like that purposefully.
And fast forward to a few hours later, Viktor sits primly on the throne, his legs crossed and a golden circlet resembling a flower crown nestled in the silver of his hair. He’s pulled it into a soft bun just for today, with lightly-curled strands framing his face. He looks fae-like. Ethereal. Deceivingly weak.
Georgi and Mila stand guard on either side of him, dressed smartly in their uniform and swords hanging at their hip. They’ve already been filled in on what to watch for when everyone arrives, promising to be his eyes when he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.
The doors to the throne room open just as the clock chimes eight, and then the men begin to pour in. Though the Tournament is open to everyone, he notices that there are mostly noblemen in the applicant pool in front of him.
As his gaze flicks over the crowd, Viktor recognizes only a few. There’s Chris, of course, planted within the group to act as another pair of eyes and ears for him, Seung-gil Lee, who’s a little young for Viktor, but still eligible at twenty, and, strangely enough, Michele Crispino, who Viktor swore was obsessed with his sister.
There’s one man, though, that Viktor’s eyes linger on for just a little longer.
He’s dressed plainly, legs clad in fitted black pants and torso hidden under a loose white long-sleeved shirt, and the most striking detail about him is that he wears a mask. It’s midnight black with red and silver accents swirling throughout, and the only distinguishable feature on his face is his mouth, already quirked into a small smile when their eyes meet. Viktor averts his gaze and flushes slightly, making a note to find out the masked man’s identity at some point today. Yakov wouldn’t let someone dangerous in, but they can’t be too careful.
Then once all the hopeful competitors have entered the throne room, Viktor uncrosses his legs and stands, a hush falling over them all.
Viktor’s clothed himself very carefully today. This particular dress is one of his favorites—blood red and a slit so long that it whispers around his thighs. A few men ogle his exposed leg unashamedly, and though Viktor has the urge to dismiss them immediately, he forces a smile instead.
“My guests, welcome,” he says, spreading his arms in invitation. The bangles around his wrists, made in the same design as the circlet at his brow, clink together pleasantly. “Today marks your first challenge of merit, and though thirty men stand before me today, only fourteen of you will be proceeding to the Duel tomorrow. And only one will receive the gold rose if he defeats me.”
Viktor watches as everyone unconsciously straightens up at his words, pushing their chests forward and shoulders back, desperate to prove themselves.
And he smiles, razor sharp.
“When your name is called, please come into that room to begin the first Trial,” Viktor says, flicking his wrist in its general direction. “I wish you luck.”
The train of his red dress flutters as he steps down from the platform, and he hides a shudder when he feels countless eyes boring into his back. When he’s safely hidden behind the door, Viktor allows the earlier facade to slip off as he crouches to greet Makkachin, who’s already rushed up and planted herself at his feet.
“Hi, sweet girl,” Viktor coos, squishing her fluffy face between his hands. “I missed you.” Then he glances up at Otabek with a tired smile. “Thanks for keeping her company.”
“It was no problem, Your Majesty,” Otabek says politely, though Viktor can sense that there’s more he wants to say. There’s a frown on his face as he watches Viktor play with Makkachin, and he’s already expressed his discomfort with Viktor’s decision to use his body as a Trial.
“I refuse to let anyone who thinks that kind of behavior is acceptable into my home,” Viktor reminds him, giving Makkachin one last pat on her fluffy head before straightening up. “And I promise that Mila and Georgi are clearing those men out as we speak.”
“Your Majesty—”
Viktor places a hand on Otabek’s shoulder. He’s so much shorter than he is, especially since Viktor’s wearing heels today, but Viktor knows that Otabek is one of his most capable guards despite that. There’s a reason Yura hangs around him whenever he visits.
“You’re a good man, Otabek. I trust you,” he says sincerely. Otabek looks up at him, wide-eyed, and Viktor smiles. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me. And besides, you’re there to help if I run into any trouble, right?”
At that, Otabek nods sharply, mouth set into a stoic line. And when he leaves to call for the first interviewee, Viktor sighs. “Help me figure out if there are actually any good people out there, Makka,” he murmurs, patting the spot next to him. He’s not looking forward to this.
And his dread is proven right with the fact that the second Trial is finally coming to a close, a little more than three hours later. In that time, Viktor has denied four people, considered twenty-three, and according to Otabek, is waiting for one more person to interview.
Makkachin’s tail thumps tiredly as Viktor strokes the soft curls on her back. He can tell that she’s exhausted from all the interaction, but once Otabek knocks, bringing the last person in tow, she lifts her head and woofs. Viktor scritches around her ears to calm her—
Then the door opens, making her leap off the couch.
“Makka—!” Viktor yelps, reacting much too slowly to do anything but watch his sixty-pound poodle barrel straight into the man’s chest and knock him to the ground. Viktor braces himself, expecting the man to become angry, but instead he laughs, clear and beautiful.
“Hi sweetie,” the man coos, reaching up to smother her with affection. His mouth is curled into a smile, and his honey brown eyes seem to glow behind the mask. “How are you, pretty girl?” he asks, then laughs when she responds by licking his cheek.
There’s a pang in Viktor’s chest at the interaction. Makkachin’s never behaved like this in front of a stranger before. Even with Chris during his psuedo-interview earlier, and she’s known him for years. And actually, now that Viktor thinks about it, she’s never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she did since—
Since Yuuri.
Viktor clears his throat and forces himself to say, “So I see you’ve met Makkachin.” He needs to stay focused. “She likes you.”
The man’s hands freeze mid-pet, and the skin around his mask quickly colors when he realizes he’s still on the floor, under the scrutiny of both Otabek and Viktor himself.
“A-Apparently,” he replies, scrambling to his feet and into a bow. “I—um, she just reminds me of a poodle I once knew,” he adds, peeking up.
“Really?” Viktor asks, glancing at his happily panting poodle on the rug before meeting the man’s eyes again. “Tell me about them.”
When they sink into the couches on either side of the coffee table, Makkachin deigns to make herself comfortable by the man’s side instead of moving back to her original spot next to Viktor.
“Betrayed by my own dog,” Viktor laments, and the man laughs again as he runs his hand through Makkachin’s fur.
“She’s beautiful.”
Viktor smiles. “Well, I can’t argue with that. I’m Viktor, by the way.” The introduction itself is unnecessary, but as the man tentatively takes his hand to shake it, Viktor finally gets a name out of him.
Eros is what Viktor is given, and it’s quite obvious that the name isn’t his true one. It’s in the slight hesitance as he says it, the discomfort around the syllables, and yet Viktor can’t look away.
It’s mind-blowing how easy it is to talk with him. Viktor was prepared to close himself off again and push through another boring interview, but he’s actually interested in the conversation. Though Eros is clearly shy, he’s also kind and filled with a dry sort of humor that has Viktor stifling laughter. And it doesn’t hurt that Makkachin adores him; the entire point of this interview was to determine compatibility with himself and the only lady in his life, and Eros has already passed with flying colors.
He can’t be faulted, then, for what happens next.
“Yuu—” Viktor says mid-laugh, but when he realizes, he chokes back the rest before it can escape. Eros’s smile slips off. Even Makkachin stills to look at Viktor.
“Viktor, are you okay?” Eros asks, concerned, and a thought comes to Viktor’s mind. But he pushes it away just as swiftly as it appeared, because no matter how much Eros looks like him, Viktor scolds himself, he isn’t Yuuri.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m okay.”
Their conversation lulls, the atmosphere around them slightly awkward now, and when Viktor glances at the clock in the corner, he discovers that fifteen minutes have passed instead of the usual ten. Otabek offers him a simple thumbs-up when Viktor eyes him accusingly, looking entirely too satisfied with himself despite his expressionless face.
So Viktor stands up, and Eros gets to his feet soon after.
“Thank you for your time,” Viktor says, nodding to Otabek to lead Eros out of the room—immediately. He’s still a little unsettled, and he’s about to signal a resolute no when Otabek silently asks his verdict. But then Eros’s eyes lock with his, wide and vulnerable for the first time since they met.
And like a fool, Viktor hesitates.
While it’s true that Eros has an uncanny resemblance to Katsuki Yuuri, even with the mask on, there was nothing wrong with him during their talk—not like the man who spoke like he was reciting lines, or the man whose gaze slithered over his body and was dismissed after only five minutes, or even the man who didn’t seem to have an inch of intellect about him. He was the exact opposite, and quickly becoming someone that Viktor would’ve liked to consider a friend. It wouldn’t be fair to send Eros away for such a selfish reason, even if Viktor planned that no one but himself would win this Tournament in the end.
So Viktor’s hand moves to tuck a wayward strand of silver behind his ear instead of giving the usual signal. “I—I’ll see you for lunch,” he mumbles, and then he turns around and escapes through another door before he sees Eros’s reaction, Makkachin following close behind.
Lunch is served an hour later.
The circlet still rests in his hair, but since Eros’s interview, Viktor’s changed out of the tight red dress into dark, fitted trousers and a purple button-up shirt.
When Viktor walks in, the competitors obediently stand from their places, sitting only when he does at the head of the table. He glances at Chris for a moment before his gaze flickers involuntarily to Eros, who is seated right across from him.
Viktor knows that Chris was suspicious of Eros, but he isn’t sure how much that opinion has changed since they last talked. Honestly, Viktor still feels like he needs to apologize to Eros for his earlier behavior—he doubts Makkachin would’ve loved someone with a terrible heart, so Viktor makes a mental note to find him later.
As lunch is served, Viktor, Chris, and the servants watch closely how each man behaves, how he treats the servers, and Viktor is displeased to find that some of them aren't as kind to them as they were to him. Poor Natalia looks close to tears after being harshly berated by one of the noblemen, and Viktor frowns as he marks him as someone to dismiss.
His eyes drift over to where Eros is sitting, his posture perfect and utensils used properly as he eats. There’s a warm smile on his face as he talks to Phichit, one of the servers and Yuuri’s closest friend besides Viktor himself. He looks happier than he’s been in a while, and as Phichit howls with laughter, Viktor hides a grin of his own.
The tables are cleared after that. Two men are escorted out for misconduct, and Viktor leads the rest of the men out into the gardens, asking them to please enjoy themselves for the rest of the afternoon before the party that night.
But as soon as their attention is away from him, Viktor calls for Eros to wait.
“I wanted to apologize for the way I acted during your interview,” he says. “I didn’t intend to make you feel uncomfortable.”
Behind the mask, Eros’s eyes widen. “No, not at all! I was more worried about you, to be honest. You—you looked really hurt for a moment.”
Viktor’s carefully-trained smile flickers.
“Ah, no, it’s nothing really,” he tries to reassure, but from the little of Eros’s expression he can see, Viktor isn’t doing a very good job. “I was just thinking of a friend that I haven’t seen in a few years. It’s fine.”
“If you’re sure,” Eros says dubiously, and Viktor forces another smile. He’s more perceptive than Viktor realized.
“Sorry for keeping you. Please enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He departs again, knowing he’s leaving Eros feeling more concerned than before, yet Viktor can’t keep up this mask any longer. Despite what he said earlier, those words aren’t nothing. Yuuri isn’t nothing.
He could never be.
Alone in a section of the gardens that he’s fairly sure only he knows about, Viktor curls forward and buries his face in his hands. He’s never felt more exhausted in his entire life, and not for the first time, Viktor wishes that Yuuri was here.
Yuuri and his family worked in the kitchens when Viktor was younger. They’d been best friends growing up, even with the four year age difference, and it was no surprise at all that they’d fallen in love.
But they could never marry, no matter how much they wished it, no matter how much they loved each other. Yuuri’s social status was too low, too unassuming to Viktor’s advisors. Only winning something as respected as the Tournament could ever allow them to marry without judgment, so Yuuri left five years ago to become strong enough to do so, taking some of Viktor’s heart with him.
Honestly, Viktor doesn’t even know why he’s doing this. These Trials serve no purpose at all when there’s only one person he’s ever fallen in love with. It’s a gamble to bet the rest of his life on this one day, but if Viktor wins this—when he wins this—there’s only a greater chance that Yuuri will return home in time for the next Tournament, which will repeat year after year until Viktor stands at the altar with a champion by his side.
So for the both of them, Viktor knows he has to win the Duel tomorrow to save another year for Yuuri. To wait until his safe return.
It sounds terrible when he puts it that way, but until this rule is overturned—there’s no way for Viktor to ever get out of this. He hates it. This powerlessness, this false behavior, he hates it. If only there was some way to leave...
He still feels this way during the fourth Trial when he asks each of the competitors to help the servers prepare and decorate for the party tonight. They’ll be judged on presentation and taste, and Viktor’s sure that he’ll reach the amount needed for the Duel tomorrow before dinner.
He let a rumor float around earlier how much he loves roses, but with the number of them in their gardens, there’s no way of knowing which type he prefers. He silently mourns for the inevitable destruction of his beloved flowers, yet he knows that the way these men treat the blooms will decide their standing for tomorrow; if there’s no care for something as delicate as these, then how could they care for something as fragile as a human heart?
They all shoot off into the grounds as soon as Viktor finishes announcing the final Trial, and he gratefully sinks down onto a stone bench once they’ve left.
Or at least, once most of them have left.
Because Eros is still standing there, hands curling and uncurling at his sides, fidgeting in place. Of course he is.
“Aren’t you going to join them?” Viktor asks, not even attempting to mask his exhaustion behind a smile. “Your chance to Duel tomorrow depends on this.”
And yet Eros doesn’t move, or even laugh awkwardly like Viktor assumed he would. Instead, there’s something unreadable in the depths of his gaze, filling Viktor with uneasiness. His fingers twitch for a blade that isn’t there.
Then Eros blurts, shattering the tense atmosphere, “How are you?”
The question startles Viktor enough that an automatic “Fine" slips out, even if he’s anything but. Yet here, with Eros’s stupidly vulnerable expression staring straight at him and Viktor’s hair pulled away from his face and the setting sun shining bright over them—there’s nowhere for Viktor to hide.
So then a quiet “Not great” follows it, hanging in the space between them. The ease should’ve surprised Viktor, but then again, Eros seems to have that kind of power—to make Viktor admit truths to himself that he wouldn’t normally.
And without thinking, he slides over and leaves a spot on the bench in silent invitation. Eros sits down after a few moments of deliberation, but Viktor can see that he’s still tense. “Is this about your friend?” Eros finally asks. “I remember that you mentioned him before, and…”
“More or less,” Viktor says, smiling wryly. Then he brings a finger to his lips, pensive. He didn’t think he’d say this, especially to someone he’s just met, but Viktor trusts Eros. Somehow. “Have you ever thought about the true purpose of this Tournament?” he asks aloud, staring up at the sky. “Of what it means?”
“At times,” Eros says carefully. “I—I know it’s to find a suitable partner for the heir, and to prove that they’ll be protected as long as they stay by the other’s side.”
Viktor’s oddly touched. It’s idealistic, but sweet nonetheless. “That would be nice,” he mulls. “I wanted to marry him, you know.”
“Y-Your friend?” Eros asks, catching on.
Viktor smiles softly. “Mmm. He left almost five years ago, but… I still hope.”
Night starts to fall as their conversation continues, and now that Viktor’s finally opened up to Eros, there’s nothing holding him back from talking about Yuuri. The gardens are a mess from where the competitors drudged through it (they quickly reach the quota of fourteen Duelers because of that), and Viktor and Eros are still sitting on that stone bench as the staff quietly prepares the grounds for tonight’s dinner.
“I think I fell in love with him first,” Viktor muses, but Eros surprises him by vehemently shaking his head.
“Are you kidding me?” he asks, looking at him in disbelief. “Seeing you around the palace since he was born? There’s no doubt he fell in love first. It’s impossible not to.”
There’s a surprising amount of force behind Eros’s words, and Viktor can’t help but smile. “If I didn’t know any better,” he says coyly, “I’d think you were in love with me yourself.”
“Ah, well—” he stammers, and Viktor laughs.
It’s refreshing, having a conversation with someone who treats him like himself. He hasn’t felt this free since Yuuri was home. Sure, Chris is a great friend and someone Viktor trusts with his life, but he isn’t as comfortable with him as he was—is—with Yuuri.
“If I manage to make it to the final round,” Eros says suddenly, something burning within the depths of his gaze, “do you want me to duel you seriously?” When Viktor doesn’t immediately reply, Eros asks, “Or would you rather I hold back?”
Viktor grins. “I want to earn my win,” he says, and Eros’s answering smile is blinding.
The sun beats down on the stadium the next morning, with barely a breeze whispering through. Viktor sits under the canopy, watching the matches with a critical eye. Three duels have already gone by, and Viktor’s confident that he’ll win the final match.
It’s clear that each competitor is skilled. Some are more proficient than others, but none of them have ever experienced even a fraction of Lilia Baranovskaya’s tutelage. Lilia’s expertise is unmatched in all the kingdoms.
Eros’s match is up next, and he smiles up at Viktor before he walks onto the pitch. They didn’t get a chance to talk that morning, but Viktor has no doubt that Eros is the one he’ll be facing at the end. He fights like he’s dancing, moving to the tempo of a song only he can hear, and it’s enough to throw every one of his opponents off guard.
Soon, Viktor is standing on the field himself.
“The rules are simple,” Georgi says as he does before every match. “You will duel until one is unable to battle any longer. Bloodshed is permitted, but maiming is not. Understood?”
“Yes,” Viktor says as Eros nods, shifting his weight in the dusty ground.
“Shake hands.”
Eros’s hand is warm and firm in his, fitting perfectly. “I won’t hold back.”
“Neither will I,” Viktor promises. “I’m going to do all that I can to make sure only I choose who I’m marrying.”
Then they let go and turn on their heels, the dusty ground whispering beneath their feet. When they’re on opposite sides of the field, they face each other again and bow.
Eros’s smile is visible even from twenty feet away, and Viktor can feel a smile of his own growing. The sword is a familiar, solid weight in his palm, blade dulled to avoid serious injury, and excitement begins to rush through his veins.
Viktor barely hears Georgi’s start signal as he springs forward, the hilt gripped firmly in his hand. Eros visibly braces himself for Viktor’s attack, and the shock of hitting Eros’s blade reverberates up Viktor’s arm.
“Still like to strike first, Vitya?” Eros teases, eyes glittering behind the mask.
He whirls around to deliver a blow of his own, and Viktor parries the attack with only a bit of trouble. Viktor’s already breathing heavily, which isn’t good at all if Eros is still taking this as seriously as he promised. Missing lessons with Lilia because of these past few days have made him slower; Viktor can’t afford to be slow in such a high-stake match.
Then he realizes—
“Vitya?” he asks incredulously, and Eros winces.
“Apologies for that, Viktor,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Viktor wipes the sweat from his forehead. It’s hot enough that his hair is beginning to stick to his face, but he’s sure that Eros is much more uncomfortable than he is underneath the thick mask. This needs to end now.
“Never mind that.” He settles back into a stance, raising his sword. “We’re dueling, aren’t we?”
Eros’s grin widens. “Yeah. We are.”
Then their swords meet again in the middle of the field, sparks flying. The shouts of the crowd around them fade to a dull roar, and Viktor’s focus tunnels until only Eros’s face is in his line of vision. No words are exchanged between them this time—not when Viktor’s heart is pounding as quickly as it is.
He hates to admit it, but Eros is fast. Even with the handicap of an entire morning’s worth of duels, even though fatigue must be hanging off his body like a chain, he matches Viktor blow for blow for blow. Viktor dreads imagining what could have happened if he’d faced Eros when he was at his strongest.
Even so, this is for Yuuri, he thinks, sidestepping a thrust that surely would’ve torn through the skin on his side. I need to win. I have to win.
Viktor takes advantage of Eros’s unstable center of gravity and drops down to sweep his legs out from underneath him. Eros goes down hard and the crowd screams, but he rolls out of the way when Viktor tries to get another blow in. When they face off again, it’s clear that the fall has shaken him. His breaths are shallower now, his movements just a second slower than they were before.
And it’s all Viktor needs.
Eros lunges again, slashing the sword in a wide arc, but Viktor blocks it. He twists his wrist within the next second, forcing the blade out of Eros’s hand, and the next few moments are a blur.
They’ll tell him what he did after that, but Viktor won’t remember any of it until he sees the image of Eros’s large brown eyes blinking up at him in shock. He’s on the ground, limbs splayed, and the tip of Viktor’s sword is at his throat for one, two, three seconds until their duel is proclaimed over.
Then Eros laughs, reaching for the ribbon securing his mask. “You’re still as amazing as the day I left,” he says, uncovering his face, and Viktor’s breath hitches.
Impossible.
There’s no way.
“Yuuri?” he whispers, tears springing in his eyes. His sword drops to the side as he takes a step back. “All this time—”
Katsuki Yuuri gets to his feet and holds out his hand. He smiles. “It was a good duel.”
But instead of taking his hand, Viktor pulls Yuuri into a hug and cries. His sobs are muffled by Yuuri’s dusty shoulder, and he only cries harder when Yuuri’s arms wrap around him as well.
“Why?”
There’s a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest, ranging from joy to anger to hurt, and he pulls back to look Yuuri in the eyes.
Yuuri reaches up to brush Viktor’s tears away, his smile a little sad now. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but…”
Georgi’s addressing the audience now, but Viktor couldn’t care less about that. “But what? Why couldn’t you?”
“You know what they said about me,” Yuuri says desperately. “How I wasn’t good enough to marry someone of noble blood because of my upbringing. Anything I did would be reflected off of you too, and I didn’t want that.”
“I don’t care about that—”
“I know you don’t!” Yuuri cries. “But I do. I wanted to become someone worthy of standing by your side, and the only way that I knew how was by winning this Tournament. I love you, Vitya, and I missed you every single day I was gone.” Tears begin to spill down his cheeks. “I couldn’t wait to come home, but I needed to be strong enough so that no one would ever challenge my legitimacy if we were married.”
Viktor’s heart pounds. “When,” he says. “When we’re married, because as the winner of this Tournament I can choose who I want to marry. And that’s you.”
“But—”
“I know we still have a lot to talk about,” Viktor promises, seeing Georgi approach them out of the corner of his eye, “but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
The golden rose promised to the Tournament’s champion is lying on the little red pillow that Georgi brings over, and Viktor gently takes it. He goes down on one knee at Yuuri’s feet and presents the cushion. “You’ve already proved yourself—as Eros, as Yuuri—no one could ever think you aren’t enough,” Viktor murmurs.
“Vitya—!” Yuuri’s hands fly to his mouth.
“Please marry me.”
The words hang in the space between them, holding Viktor’s heart in their embrace. This is far from the first time that Viktor’s asked this question, yet there’s a vulnerability present that wasn’t there before. And though it’s terrifying to offer Yuuri every single part of himself after years of being apart, Viktor knows he’d do it a thousand times over just to make him stay a single day more.
“Please,” he repeats, and then the sun shines through, brightening Yuuri’s smile and making his eyes sparkle like gold in the light. Viktor’s mind suddenly flashes back to a morning like this one, when they were young with futures full of sunlit dreams and soft promises of I love you, wait for me, I’ll be home soon—
“Of course I will,” Yuuri breathes, taking the rose and pressing it to his chest. His expression is impossibly warm as he looks at him. “Did you even have to ask?”
Then Viktor laughs and gets to his feet, touching his forehead to Yuuri’s. “I suppose not.”
Within him, something begins to slot back into place as he feels Yuuri’s heart beating next to his, constant and steady and sure. Their fingers twine together between their chests, skin whispering against skin, and Viktor holds back a smile when he realizes he should’ve recognized these hands the first time he held them.
But it’s no matter now. Not at all.
Because for the first time in five years, Viktor’s soul feels whole again.