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The first thing Victor does upon entering the territory of Sealand—aside from kissing the ever-loving daylights out of Yuuri, of course—is promptly present himself before the monarchy.
He doesn’t introduce himself as Prince Victor of Woodland—or even Victor of Woodland. Just Victor. Victor, who is here for Yuuri.
That is all.
The king and queen exchange looks of course, knowing full well who he is, but Woodland affairs are far out of their jurisdiction, and thus, they accept him into their kingdom without any further delay.
It has Victor breathing out a sigh of relief.
“You don’t have to cut it, you know.”
Yuuri says it in a whisper, hugging Victor from the back, his forehead pressed in between his shoulder blades. “It’s an archaic practice anyway,” he goes on. “Ridiculous, really. And everyone already knows that you’re—“
“It’s the principle of it, Yuuri.” Victor sends a small smile over his shoulder, even though Yuuri can’t see it.
Yuuri only further noses into the fabric of Victor’s cloak. “But… what if you want to go back?”
“I won’t.“
“But you might—“
“It’s just hair, love.”
Victor can feel the expansion of Yuuri’s cheeks against him as he pouts.
It’s an underplaying of the severity of the act, and Victor knows it. Hair is not something to be taken lightly in elven culture. It requires hundreds upon thousands of years to grow and is only shorn on one of two occasions: trimmed to a short length upon an elf moving from one kingdom to another to signify them as a foreigner, or else forcibly hacked off to mark them as an exile upon banishment.
But there is a hidden third reason, Victor thinks, fingering the sharpened hunting knife he’s lain before himself.
“It’s… a commitment.” Victor turns, taking Yuuri into his arms before he even has a moment to feel bereft. “A statement of intention. My actions may appear rash from an outside perspective, but I want everyone to look upon me and know I made a choice I am proud of and that my feelings for you are very serious indeed.”
Yuuri’s face warms against his neck, tucking himself in further. “Then… if that is what you want.”
“It is.”
He allows Yuuri to do it, in the end: draw the knife through the delicate strands on the back of his neck. As he does so, they detach, scattering around their feet like fallen leaves. When Victor opens his eyes, it feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
Peering into the looking glass then, Yuuri beside him, pressing a smile against his back, Victor thinks for the first time in his life that he finally feels free.