PRESTO

eight. "infelicitous."

Loving you was the most exquisite form of self—
destruction.

* * *

It is a universally acknowledged fact that all beautiful creatures must make some sort of dramatic entrance.

Viktor takes it to a whole new level. With neon shirt and jeans.

"Viktor!" Yui barked. "Why are you here without a jacket?"

Viktor actually looks perfectly, but Yui would rather not stare at the too-tight shirt that gripes him in a way that should be illegal.

But.

But.

Wasn't Yui supposed to have gotten over teenage hormones a long time ago?

Viktor grins at her words. "The pot calling the kettle black? Why Yui, I never thought you were that sort of person," he said, cheeks bright and perfectly warm. "I'm fine. I'm used to the nuclear winters here, after all."

Yui smiled at his words. "Clearly not enough, considering since you made a whole Instagram rant about how hailing was the cover for aliens invading when you were drunk."

Viktor shrugs, sleek muscles rippling through the thin fabric of the dark shirt. "Details, details," he replied before bending down to tie his shoelace.

She sighs. Scooping up a handful of snow, she hurls it at the side of his face. Yui darts away with a lazy jump after she hears his exasperate "Yui!".

Their fight continues for the next hour or so, and the crowds thick and thin come and go, taking pictures and chattering and spreading rumours about a pair of exes that are together and playing with the snow.

But Yui watches Viktor, most of all. Unlike the days before, she doesn't see the cruel eyes and the silver hair of lies...

What the fuck is she doing?

"You know, Viktor," she said, when they sit on a bench an hour later, the fatigue washing over her again, "can we talk?"

"In my apartment?" he asked, lying on the bench beside her, hands propped under his skull.

Her fingertips numb first. The ice spreads to her palms then to her wrists.

Everything you are... Two hundred and six of a dream that never was.

"Yes," said Yui. "In your apartment."

* * *

Yui liked a type of rum that tasted like chocolate milk. 

But—

The taste of regret. The litost. 

What would have happened if I wasn't Rosaline?

What would have happened if I was Juliet instead?

"So, what did you want to talk about?" he asked, standing by the counter, far from her spot on the couch.

For a moment, Yui stares at him, unsure of what to feel. And realizes she doesn't feel anything. The urge to walk away is gone. But so were the tethering heartstrings, the summertime sadness. The wavering illusion of the crowns and the piece of sky gone from her mind's eye. 

That moment, Yui understood. She could be free. She was in front of the door. And she was no longer scared of taking that step.

Did it have to be like this? Yui wondered. Suddenly. Those days she could no longer look at him, bare to touch him. Those days where being with him was like playing fire and burning out meant death. Those lips she took as cocaine kisses, eyes she saw as smoke and mirrors.