Get out

Slipping away

Nobody really noticed Victor slipping away to the guards' break room just after stepping inside. He wasn't feeling great. The moment Alex' lips touched the back of Eddy's hand was the moment the uneasy feeling became too much for him to stick around with. His stomach hurt, his head hurt. It felt like he wanted to crush something and punch the wall, but at the same time like he needed to just curl up in bed and sleep for a few days.

Right now, though, his hands were just itching to do something, something to distract him, something that let him use his muscles and energy, and making coffee wasn't filling that need. Instead, his hands just shook, making him spill the coffee grounds for the coffee he was planning to make all over the counter and drop the packet of filters to the floor.

"Fuck this," he said loudly, slamming the pack on the counter. He ended up abandoning it as he stomped across the hall, too frustrated to do anything to fix his mess. He needed to get the negative energy that made his hands not work out of his system, out of his mind.

Doors were slammed behind him, but he honestly did not care. He wanted to scream or puke or tear something down. Basically wanted to act like Boss had while Eddy was captured. The difference was that Victor did not have the money for new furniture if he did break something. Sure, Boss would probably understand and give him some, but what good would it really do anyway? Would he really feel better doing that, or would it just be more frustrating having to clean that mess up as well?

As a less destructive and thus more productive solution, he found the boxing bag in the exercise room. He didn't even bother changing into an outfit more suited for exercising before making the first blow.

"Fuck... everything... Fuck... this... " Victor muttered in between punches, not finding better words in English to express himself. If he really thought about it, though, he would have known he didn't have the words in Russian either. The feeling was completely unfamiliar and new to him. Not once in his life had devastation taken this form.

The worst part was that the hurt he was feeling wasn't going away with the punches. It was just slowly eating him from his stomach and up to his throat, making it feel all tight which in turn made his eyes fill with salty water that marked his cheeks as they slowly fell.

It wasn't until he was forced to pause as his now bruised knuckles hurt too much that he really realized he was crying. Crying and shaking, with quiet sobs interrupting his shallow breaths and forcing burning oxygen down his lungs.

"Fuck this," he sniffled, trying to wipe his tears as he sunk down on the cold, wooden bench in the middle of the exercise room. He hid his face in his hands as the anger and frustration finally revealed itself to be sadness.