Yuuri and Victor got too drunk in Sochi and decided they really hit it off, so they got married. Right there. Victor cries because his new son vicchan passed away before he even met him...
Victor Nikiforov tries to make it a point in life to not have any regrets.
So marrying Katsuki Yuuri is definitely not going to be one, if he can help it.
“Victor,” the man giggles now, poking his cheek. “Your turn.”
He’s so, so beautiful. A drizzle of champagne drying on his chin, that god-awful tie wrapped around his hair. His shirt wrinkled, half of its buttons gone. His trousers, entirely disappeared.
(Victor likes that. He likes that he’s marrying a man who’s not wearing any pants. He’s so trendy. Always doing things no one’s done before, surely. He can’t wait to tell Yakov, already eagerly anticipating the strangled sigh-groan-combination that’s become sweet music to Victor’s ears.)
“Your vows, Vic-Victor,” Yuuri prompts him, his laughing mouth relaxing into a small smile on his perfect, perfect face.
Victor blinks. “Right.”
He glances at the minister, who is smiling very politely at them. He’s a bit red-faced from having a wad of rubles thrown at him to “marry us right now, пожалуйста, right now, right here, onegai.“ The man had pointed them towards some preliminary paperwork, asking them several times, “Listen, you have to sign here but are you absolutely sure—”
The looks that they gave him shut him up right away.
“I’m marrying this man,” Yuuri had announced. “So hard. I’m marrying him so, so hard, and then afterwards…” He hiccupped. “Afterwards, I get to take him back to the hotel and-and…”
Yuuri went on to describe in full detail—or in as full a detail as a man pumped full of two bottles of champagne can go—several lovely, intimate, exhaustive courses of action that he also swore he would do so hard. It was perfect (everything he does is so perfect), the minister said he appreciated it, and Victor found himself nodding along tearfully and crashing hard, the impact greater than any fall he ever made on the ice but softer than the thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton comforter he falls into every night that he’s back home in St. Petersburg.
Which reminds him.
“St. Petersburg, Yuuri,” he says excitedly, grabbing both of his hands and pulling him close. “Can’t wait to take you home, show you around, you’ll get to see Makkachin and—you have a dog, right? You’ll bring your dog, and we’ll…”
Yuuri’s eyes fill with tears. “Vicchan is dead.”
“Vicchan? Oh, that’s so cute, that’s like my name, maybe we can make Makkachin’s middle name Yura, then, except—” Victor stops. “Did you say dead?”
Yuuri nods, clutching fistfuls of Victor’s shirt, tears streaming steadily down his face now. “He… there was…”
Perhaps the only regret he’ll have of tonight, then, is learning the news that he’ll never get to see his son and namesake, but he includes in his vows several animals that they’ll raise together, along with the names of four children that he’d decided on since thirty-eight minutes ago. Yuuri sloppily wipes his face with his wrist, pushing his glasses up adorably before adjusting them back on his perfect, perfect nose and saying with a cracked voice and a perfect, perfect smile—