Yuri's still gasping, and it's sweet, even if the air is not bitter cold in his lungs, not electrifying the inside of his body into more shock and certainty the air coming in is too thin, too crystallized, not going to hit his blood stream fast enough. Here and now, it's a light headedness, blurring, blending, with the lights bending, rainbow arcing, circle around everything, especially upward, and the noise.

Throwing his arms up with the kid stalks off, not even enough left in him to make a salvageable insult or dirty face. Just slinking away, like he might need something to hold him up just a for a second, until his next wind comes to him, too. While Yurio's is pulsing alive, like the rush, the drain, the sway of everything is only amping up the electricity in his body, thundering and thumping as the music goes into the next song, with little pause.


The crowd starts shouting something that isn't his name, first layered in with his, confusing him momentarily. Then, he catches it.

Victor. And his head swings, his vision blurring the faces across the space betweeen where he was looking and where he ends up. The smiling champion. The world's silver haired prince. He's laughing. His hair fluttering in the air as his head turns to look at different parts of the people cheering his name. He's eating it up. His too perfect smile. Like he has no clue what's being aske--

Wait.

Is that his jacket? And his bottle of champagne?

All collected in Victor's arms like the most awkward bouquet ever?


He's not sure if it's the face or the champagne bottle he's coming for, when those cheers feel like they are a tide rising, louder and louder, pushing him right back to Victor Nikiforov. Both. Both is just fine. His throat is dry and he's not about to give a single inch anymore. To anyone. Not even Victor Nikiforov.

With his perfect hair and collection of shining medals, that have nothing on his face in Yuri's vision.

His mouth is saying, "Well?", even as his hand is just reaching out to yank his champagne bottle back.