They’re getting married.
With the sweat on his back sinking uncomfortably into his costume, Victor’s first and only thought is that they’re getting married. There are cameras flashing at them at blinding speeds as they hold up their medals, recording their every move, and the reporters yell for their attention. Victor drowns them all out.
Victor can’t exactly spare anyone a second of his glance.
Not when from the top podium, his fiancé holds up his gold medal with pride and just a hint of overwhelming disbelief, still in shock that he actually won.
Not when Yuuri looks down at him with twinkling dark eyes and a breathless, slow grin, sweat beading at his hairline, looking like a masterpiece that has come to life.
Not when he stares at Victor with his chest heaving, beautiful brown eyes shiny with happy tears, as if to say, Look at me, Vitya. Look how far I’ve come.
The sight makes Victor’s throat run dry, makes his gut flutter and his heart hammer inside his chest with the bruising force of his adoration. It makes Victor want to say, Happiness and a gold medal looks beautiful on you, solnyshko.
It makes him want to say, you make me fall in love with you again and again.
It makes him want to say, you are everything I’ve ever wanted.
It makes him want to say, please marry me. Please stay forever. I love you, I love you, I love you—