saviour • viktuuri ✔️

TWELVE

WE'RE NOT JUST FRIENDS
🥀PARKS, SQUARES AND ALLEYS

rip someone needs to hug victor

if the cops had somehow worked everything out in the space of an hour with nothing more than an art teacher's burnt car and watered down coffee from their only office machine, they would've broken down that front door to find "blue jeans" playing from a basement, a dead sixteen-year-old boy bleeding out around two metres from a previously missing boy now wanted for a school shooting, holding in his arms the boy who'd in fact taken a handgun from the same locker as his gasoline whilst wearing victor nikiforov's stolen jacket.

the two of them stayed like that beside a dead body for a while longer, with yuri clinging to victor as if he were a lifeline - as if he were it he let go, he'd end up cutting victor's throat just like the voices were urging him to do.

he's going to fucking kill me.

victor's conscience didn't have much of an effect on him as he held yuri tight, tear-stained face buried in his hair, breathing in that cheap candy cherry smell of him (and blood, and chewing gum) and feeling his chest rose and fall rapidly against him.

he tried to fucking kill me.

there was a faint memory of the blood-stained carving knife clattering to the ground, followed by yuri practically collapsing into victor's arms.

"this is a fucking mess."

victor was almost reluctant to let him go, and watch yuri get to his feet; to watch him go down the hall in those dirtied white-trainers and out of sight - without a word - with phichit chulanont still lying bleeding in the hall and lana del rey playing from the basement downstairs. it took victor a few moments of staring at the blood pooling beside him slowly like strawberry syrup before he too got up to his dirty-trainered feet, and deliberated between going after yuri or going downstairs again, back to that broken blue-painted chair in the basement corner.

he knew better than to go after the pretty psychopath in mom jeans and cherry soda socks, so unlocked the door of the basement and allowed the dulled music to fill the hall. it was on "blue jeans" now, the first song of lana's that victor had listened to. a brief, very brief nostalgia bubbled in his chest like flat coke, and he found himself resting one hand on the door handle and craning brought the kitchen to try and make out where yuri had gone.

but still, he knew better than to follow him again, and with one last glance at the boy on the carpet like a red-painted barbie doll, victor started the descent down into the dimly-lit basement. he hummed the lyrics lightly (and out of tune) to himself, and shivered in the thin t-shirt he'd been wearing for the past few days; short-sleeved, white, plain. chris's wrists looked sore whenever the handcuffs shifted like bracelets and exposed the red, bruised ring of skin at the hem of either hand. victor stood on the bottom step and looked at his boyfriend for a little while, before he quietly bent down and turned off the music.

"thank fuck for that," chris breathed raggedly, writhing achingly like an animal caught in a net, starting to slow down when it became clear escape wasn't likely.

victor didn't say anything still, and simply sat down on the cold stone floor with his back against the wall - dead opposite chris - hugging his faded (and slightly blood-stained?) denim knees to his chest. the bruises caused by the cuffs on chris's raised wrists reminded him of those mr delaney had left him with after that day in his office. he realised he was still slightly humming under his breath, but too quietly for anyone but him to hear. chris moves again, grimacing, uncomfortable, handcuffs clinging against the metal of the cold radiator.