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Description
Viktor was young once.
This is a result of the combonation of discovering that Viktor had had a previous serious relationship, and and being inspired by "Perennial" an amazing Viktor/Ivy fic. I made a little drabble to go along with this. I imagine Anita finds this photo in Viktor's bedroom (she wanders in when she doesn't find him in the living room, or the kitchen):

The picture frame was silver, and plain, but shiny, like it was cleaned on a regular basis. The picture itself looked as if it had been through the war, and Anita realized with no small amount of surprise, that it probably had.
It was creased cross-ways, like it had been folded up in a pocket, with water stains, and small burn holes from shrapnel and rain, and probably a few tears—ever acknowledged or admitted to because soldiers don’t cry.
Staring back at her were two faces caught in a perpetual motion of turning and looking surprised, as if a long time friend had called to them by name with warm inflection, and then the moment they turned, plucked a memory straight from the fabric of time like it was their own, and put it on a sheet of photo paper to be clung to in the gloom, and cold of the trenches when no one but God was looking.
They were standing, or, more appropriately frozen in the last turn of a waltz, her skirt flared, caught in a twirl that half hid his legs from the knee down—two perfectly healthy knees that could dance with her and straighten to balance her in elegant lifts, and bend to dip her down for a kiss.
She is all beauty and brightness, and unabashed bliss so vivid that it spills out of the frame, and even if her heart feels like it has been torn out of her chest, Anita can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips. She is tall, and broad, but fits like a puzzle piece with him, like she was the only one that could ever belong there, in the circle of his arms. Her fur is solid caramel brown, her eyes are dark, sharp, and crinkled around the edges with amusement, her smile pure sunshine. Anita thinks that there has never been a moment in her life where she has been as happy as this woman frozen in time.
He is the embodiment of youth, and boyish charm that hasn’t quite left a man’s face. His appearance is familiar and strange all at once. His white brows are lifted in a combination of surprise and joy, above two perfect peridot eyes—warm and shining instead of resigned and glaring. His mouth is turned up in a grin that Anita has never seen on the man she knows, and she wonders if he still has that grin, or if he had lost is somewhere along the way.
And then a floor board creaks behind her, and Anita jumps, and the frame thumps back down on the side table, and she whips around to find Viktor staring at her from the doorway of his room, his expression not quite anger, and not quite surprise, and she wonders if he’ll ever forgive her for discovering the man he used to be.

Description
Viktor was young once.
This is a result of the combonation of discovering that Viktor had had a previous serious relationship, and and being inspired by "Perennial" an amazing Viktor/Ivy fic. I made a little drabble to go along with this. I imagine Anita finds this photo in Viktor's bedroom (she wanders in when she doesn't find him in the living room, or the kitchen):

The picture frame was silver, and plain, but shiny, like it was cleaned on a regular basis. The picture itself looked as if it had been through the war, and Anita realized with no small amount of surprise, that it probably had.
It was creased cross-ways, like it had been folded up in a pocket, with water stains, and small burn holes from shrapnel and rain, and probably a few tears—ever acknowledged or admitted to because soldiers don’t cry.
Staring back at her were two faces caught in a perpetual motion of turning and looking surprised, as if a long time friend had called to them by name with warm inflection, and then the moment they turned, plucked a memory straight from the fabric of time like it was their own, and put it on a sheet of photo paper to be clung to in the gloom, and cold of the trenches when no one but God was looking.
They were standing, or, more appropriately frozen in the last turn of a waltz, her skirt flared, caught in a twirl that half hid his legs from the knee down—two perfectly healthy knees that could dance with her and straighten to balance her in elegant lifts, and bend to dip her down for a kiss.
She is all beauty and brightness, and unabashed bliss so vivid that it spills out of the frame, and even if her heart feels like it has been torn out of her chest, Anita can’t help the smile that tugs at her lips. She is tall, and broad, but fits like a puzzle piece with him, like she was the only one that could ever belong there, in the circle of his arms. Her fur is solid caramel brown, her eyes are dark, sharp, and crinkled around the edges with amusement, her smile pure sunshine. Anita thinks that there has never been a moment in her life where she has been as happy as this woman frozen in time.
He is the embodiment of youth, and boyish charm that hasn’t quite left a man’s face. His appearance is familiar and strange all at once. His white brows are lifted in a combination of surprise and joy, above two perfect peridot eyes—warm and shining instead of resigned and glaring. His mouth is turned up in a grin that Anita has never seen on the man she knows, and she wonders if he still has that grin, or if he had lost is somewhere along the way.
And then a floor board creaks behind her, and Anita jumps, and the frame thumps back down on the side table, and she whips around to find Viktor staring at her from the doorway of his room, his expression not quite anger, and not quite surprise, and she wonders if he’ll ever forgive her for discovering the man he used to be.