#except it was me. I was the dead person jealous of the cool gravestone.

[mosspapi]

Watching an r/mildlyinteresting YouTube video and one of the photos was of a headstone that had worn thru in the middle, and my immediate first thought was "dang that's so cool, I wish my headstone had done that :("

...brother you're still alive. Tf you mean "your headstone". You don't HAVE a headstone yet.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Please Talk to Me

When he woke up this morning, he did not know that he would be breaking out into a panic within ten minutes.

Peter Atkins woke up to the nagging of his wife, Stephanie. To be more precise, his alarm clock woke up him first. No minute had passed before Steph hovered over him, fists against her hips in a defiant and angry posture, complaining about something. At first, grogginess fogged up his brain so much that he could not register what exactly. He heard the words and the energy behind them, but his mind was always slow on the uptake every morning.

Life had never quite been the same since the accident.

He sat up and swung his feet off the side of the bed, burying his face in his palms and then sliding them up until he could use the heels of his hands to rub the sleep and blurriness out of his eyes. He had gotten used to the nagging, the moaning, the wailing—day in, day out, all the time, ever since the accident. Just thinking about this repetition, wearing him down as it had been for the past year, made a tired sigh escape his throat.

“Oh no,” she said. The first words that got through to him, in part due to the shift in tone. Going from annoyed to furious. She used to do this a lot whenever he sighed. “You dare, you—you do not sigh at me like that, mister!”

Hunched over and leaning onto his bare knees, he looked up at Steph. She started to pace back and forth and count up every little fault of his. Peter believed he deserved it, and sitting there dressed only in his underwear just left him feeling even more vulnerable.

He now heard and understood everything she said, too. Every comment she made about his past mistakes stung. His womanizing that only masked his insecurities, his reckless driving that came from pent-up anger over his boss at work, his laziness whenever he sat around and just binge-watched shows on Netflix, and his drinking that was his constant method of escape from reality—incidentally a vice that had gotten worse since the accident. He knew she was right. All the therapy and self-help groups and medication never helped. He heard her out as the minutes ticked away.

Then they both simultaneously shot a glance to the clock on the bedside table.

“Come on, get up already. You need to get ready for work,” she said.

Peter complied. Stifling a groan, he got up, got partially dressed in his business attire. Swimming in his daily morning haze, he made his way through the apartment almost blindly. Going through the motions, not paying mind to anything, especially not the corpse by the front door. He would notice that in a bit.

Instead, he started the coffee machine and went to brush his teeth. Standing in front of the mirror and performing this rote task, Peter looked himself up and down and despised the way he looked. Slightly overweight, doughy chin, ears unevenly sized, narrow-shouldered. Meanwhile, Steph was elsewhere, crying. Her sobbing trailed to him from the kitchen table down the hall and all the way through the bathroom door. He felt so bad about the state she was in. The state they were in.

It was all his fault.

Done brushing his teeth, he splashed his face with cold water, sprayed on some deodorant, faked a smile in front of the mirror that quickly turned into a frown, and exited the bathroom. He slung on his jacket and made his way down the hall. Before reaching the kitchen to grab his cup of coffee, he finally noticed the dead body.

There were splatters of blood on the walls. The carpet by the front door had turned completely dark. The angle of the splatters and the amount of blood everywhere suggested that the victim’s throat had been slashed and that she had bled out. The crumpled heap of lifeless body lying face down on the floor was dressed in one of those black delivery-worker outfits with the golden lettering.

Peter’s head began to spin. The dizziness overcame him and he almost fell, only bracing himself against the wall at the last moment, gasping for air. The taste of rust in his mouth made way for bile and he struggled to not throw up. He covered his mouth and had to look away. He could not bear to look at the carnage that had been wrought by the front door.

Shreds of memories returned to his mind. He vaguely recalled hearing the doorbell while in bed and having turned onto his other side, then continuing to sleep because his alarm had had yet to sound, unconsciously blotting out the muffled voices in the distance. He should have known better. Somehow, he must have unconsciously heard the surprised gasp and sound of gurgling, of a human being choking and suffocating on their own blood. If not, he was now imagining it.

Steph was saying something, but he could not make out the words or meaning. Nor did he care to. He staggered through his lonesome home, and took a wide step over the body. The squelching sound of the blood-soaked carpet underneath his shoe made him gag. He slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Steph behind, leaving the corpse behind, and would later wonder if he remembered to lock the door, then swear about it not mattering anyway before slamming his fist against the steering wheel. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

The panic fully seized every fiber of his being.

Heart pounding, short breaths, world spinning—every moment blurred together. Peter realized he was in his car, speeding away. Fleeing from the scene of the crime. He had recognized the shape of the delivery woman’s body, the proportions of her chest to midriff to waistline and legs, the back of her head and knotted ball of red hair sticking out from under the displaced black baseball cap that matched her outfit. He had always flirted with her—Sue. Steph had always been the jealous type. But not like this. As he pulled up the winding narrow road, the screeching of his car’s tires reminded him of his wife’s sobbing and wailing.

Please, not like this.

Peter had good bad luck. The cops never stopped him for his speeding, and this morning was no exception. The driver’s seat door swung open and he stumbled out of his car. The smell of wet dirt and cut grass and a lingering hint of pesticide filled his nostrils. Today was gray, foggy, but the green grounds stood out in bright contrast. Droplets of rain hung in the cool air. A mixture of fear and adrenaline and seething fury and clammy desperation drove him on, a cocktail as potent as any massive stupor he had ever reached by excessive drinking.

When he arrived in front of Steph’s gravestone, he collapsed, falling to his knees and breaking out in tears.

“Please, you have to stop,” he begged, using his sleeve to wipe the salty wetness and snot from his face.

He looked up at the gravestone where Steph’s full name was engraved. Below it, the numbers of last year stood, the year of when the accident had killed her. The inanimate cold stone just loomed over him there with a profound and accusatory silence. Sounds of traffic felt a million miles away and only his sobbing and pleading could be heard for a mile around. He was all alone in this cemetery, just like he was always all alone in his apartment.

His chest pounded and his short breaths and his panic made him light-headed. It all seemed so surreal, but he could practically taste the blood. He could still recall the way the blood gushed out of the carpet as if it had been a sponge. How he stepped on it and tracked the blood down the hallway of the apartment building, trailing all the way to his car and the rented parking spot. The cops would have questions, and he did not know how he would explain any of it. There was no way to explain it. At best, Peter would be considered clinically insane if he told them the truth—that the ghost of his dead wife had murdered a third person in his home.

He would go to jail. He would have to confess about the other two as well. He hated himself, hated to continue living.

“Please, just stop killing people. I’m not going to be able to hide this body like the last ones. I fucked up.”

What he dreaded the most was that she would continue killing. Like she had killed while he slept, she would kill even in his absence. That all that blood, too, would be on his hands.

“Please just kill me instead if that’ll make this stop. Please, just talk to me.”

There was no response. Her ghost never talked to him, only at him. Always only in their home, in the apartment.

The only place she appeared to haunt him ever since he had killed her in the car crash.

 —Submitted by Wratts

[fangirlshrewt97]

Conversations with Ghosts

Author(s): Fangirlshrewt97

Rating: 13+ for some cursing

Warnings: Major Character Death (by old age)

Summary: Many years after the show, Yuuri and Viktor have lived a long and happy life. Now alone after his husband has died, Yuuri visits his grave to talk to him.

[Victuuri Week 2017, Day 7: Endings, Yuuri: Memories/Moments, Viktor: Promises]

Link to A03: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9705845

The ground was covered in a fresh layer of snow, unpaved as it had only stopped snowing an hour ago. It reminded him of the first time Viktor came to Japan, that fateful day that changed the rest of his life. He trudged up the steep incline slowly, his knees protesting every step of the way. He had a wreath of blue roses in his hands, collected from his garden. The house was so quiet now, it felt haunted by ghosts of those long gone. Yuuri didn’t like being there more than he had to, though his body did not always agree.

By the time he reached the peak, he was panting, heaving himself the last few steps to the small bench there. He sat down heavily, all his bones settling in. The peak of his athletic body had long since passed, leaving behind the chubby tummy and arms and legs he had hated for so long, but now come to like. His hair had receded, leaving him with a full but thin head of hair, the same silver, Viktor’s had been for so long. His eyes were more deep set, lined with laughter lines that showed he had lived a happy life.

Managing to breathe properly again, Yuuri went to the small plot only a few meters from where had sat, leaning on the stone as he went down to his knees. He adjusted himself until he could comfortably sit on his heels, mindful to not stay there too long lest he be unable to get back up. He pushed his glasses up again before leaning forward to brush the snow off the gravestone. Viktor had insisted it be simple, nothing fancy, saying that he had been fancy enough in life.

Here lies

Viktor Nikiforov-Katsuki

Beloved Husband, Father, Grandfather, Brother and Friend

One of the best Ice Skaters the world has ever known.

December 25, 1989 - November 21, 2064

It had been a peaceful death, Viktor had passed away in his sleep, leaving Yuuri to wake up in cold arms for the first time in almost 50 years. Yuuri did not remember that first week too much, except for this hollow feeling that he knew nothing would ever fill. He had always thought that he would not be far behind Viktor when he died, and he was somewhat correct. It had been three months, and he insisted on making the climb to the top of this hill every day, no matter how much his children and grandchildren protested. He could feel his life slipping more each day, but he wasn’t scared. He had lived a full, happy life, the kind of perfect very few ever got to live. He had no regrets, and with his children all happy in their lives, there wasn’t much keeping him tied here.

Hana had tried to argue with her fathers to choose a graveyard closer to town, why did they want to be so far away. Viktor had laughed and said it wouldn’t matter much to him when he was dead. But this cemetery, when Yuuri stood up and walked a few feet below on the opposite side to where he came, you could see all of Hatsetsu. Viktor had said that this was the first town that felt like a home to him, so he wanted to be buried where he could watch over it.

“Good morning, Vitya. How are you doing? I am good. The house is so quiet now. Hana brought over Ayumi-chan and Ai-chan to visit. They are getting so big now, I can’t believe we are great-grandfathers sometimes. They stayed for dinner, so last night was nice. They had to leave today though, Hana needed to get them back to Tokyo, they are still too small to be too far away from their mother for too long.” Yuuri recounted to his husband, leaning forward slightly to shift the weight from his ankles to his knees. All those years as a top world athlete made no difference in his 70’s, his body giving him the same pains as all others his age.

Rearranging the wreath so it was more centered he continued. “Um what else? I made some katsudon yesterday. And I know, I know, the doctor said I had cholesterol and I should eat less fats and sweets. But my great-granddaughters were visiting ok, so hush. I am not going to subject our daughter to that terrible diet plan the doctor suggested when she is barely able to come anymore. Oh! Yurio called, he said that Elena had had her daughter yesterday. He sounded so happy, he sent me so many photos of the baby. It really is a beautiful baby Viktor, you would have loved her.”

Yuuri quietened, the only sound being the faint rustling of the few remaining leaves as a cool breeze whipped past him. Or more accurately though him, even with all his extra chub, it provided no insulation against that breeze. He hunched further into himself, trying to preserve that heat. He pulled out his phone, his knobbly fingers not as coordinated as they tried to tap on the holoscreen. There it was!

The photos showed a generic hospital room and bed, a young woman in the center holding a small pink bundle. To her left were Otabek and Yurio, the former’s hair a dignified gray, eyes just as serious as during his younger years but with a softness to him. Yurio’s hair was short, reaching barely past his ear, the silver making more like Viktor than he had as an up and coming ice skating prodigy. The height helped, with him towering over the two. But the years had been kind to all of them, phantoms of their youthful beauty not quite fading. He swiped to another photo, a close-up of the baby, now awake. She was smiling, her joy infectious even through the screen as her tiny fists were reaching out to whoever had taken the photo.

Through the years, Yurio had soften, not as quick to temper or react as before, and the two Yuris had finally become ‘official’ friends. Viktor had been so happy, commenting loudly to whoever would listen how his boys finally loved one another. Yurio had finally shut him up with a threat to shave what was left of his hair. Yuuri remembered the memory fondly, the twinkle in Viktor’s eyes as he retook his seat, Otabek’s small responding smile, and even Yurio’s unique begrudging and affectionate frown.

“Phichit called me yesterday night, saying that there was a documentary last night on ice skating, and how they mentioned all of us. I guess in the end we were all history makers right? You are still the most decorated ice skater, Yurio a close second. I have my three golds each from Worlds and the Grand Prix. Phichit with his gold and more importantly, his numerous ice shows over the years. He told me the most recent one is starting it’s tour in Thailand as usual but visiting 40 countries. He sounded so happy but also so jealous that he couldn’t travel with the tour. Can you imagine that? A 68 year old travelling in small cramped spaces to 40 different countries in the space of three months? Who else did he say? Oh Chris’s incredible Olympic program was played as well as talking about his following career as a judge. I talked to him too, did I tell you? My memory is starting to fade too Viktor. I searched for my glasses for two hours yesterday only to realized they had been around my neck the whole time.”

The wind that had previously been a breeze was stronger now, the chill starting to seep into Yuuri even with all the layers. The Japanese man was lost in memories of brighter days, of flashy costumes and many years left. He chuckled as he was reminded of the email he received from JJ. Although Viktor did not care for the Canadian, Yuuri empathized with him, the two forming a good friendship after that Grand Prix where he failed. JJ was actually the first from that group to retire. A too ambitious program ending in a fatal mistake during a jump that resulted in a broken kneecap and an early retirement. But he had found happiness in music, going on to produce music for many years, Isabella by his side.

He had sent all the skaters from that group a digital scrapbook(or the ones alive, even after all these years that car crash that took Georgi a dark memory. He had been so young, not even thirty, but lost in one of his daydreams, he had been hit by a drunk driver when he had gone to buy a ring for his girlfriend, so sure that he had found the love of his life. The doctors said he had died on impact, not even knowing what hit him. It brought Yuuri some small comfort, he had died thinking about his lover, happy. Not in pain). It was a collection from their various Instagrams and Fan photos mixed with videos and press photos.

Looking at those images, from Phichit’s bright smile during his short program on ‘We Shall Skate’, to Seung Gil’s ridiculous mambo shirt to even Georgi’s ripoff Elsa costume, Yuuri recalled The Year. And it was capitalized in his mind because it was the year that marked a turning point in his life. And there were the podium pictures, god Yurio had looked so miserable after making history as the youngest person to win the Grand Prix, as well as winning it during his first season in it. It changed to The Photo. The one with Viktor and Yuuri on the ice after his free program in China. Looking at it, Yuuri felt tears come to his eyes. He tried to wipe them off, but they kept coming.

“You know Viktor, you told me that year that I was so selfish when I told you I wanted to end this. But now who is the selfish one huh? I wake up every morning to an empty bed, Hana told me to get another poodle, but I said no. You know why? Because I didn’t want a poodle without you. I didn’t want a poodle who would be with me till I died than had to be a burden to someone in our family. So I wake up to an empty bed, to an empty house, to family who is a city away. Yuu-chan is gone, Mari Onee-chan is gone. Nishigori is not all there, he did not even recognize his grandson the other day. Our friends are in different countries. You told me I was selfish for trying to end our relationship before it really had a chance to go anywhere. Well what is your excuse. You stupid man, you made me fall in love with you, marry you, spend almost 50 years with you by my side. You made me make you the center of my universe and then wihtout a care you just left in the middle of the night. I want to hate you but I can’t because I love you too much.” The tears were coming stronger now, the grief that was always just below the surface these last few months boiling to the surface so easily. Yuuri’s cries were the only other sound in the empty cemetary, at six in the morning, the town was barely waking up.

“I miss you Vitya, I miss you every goddamn second. I still find myself making coffee for two when you aren’t there to drink it. When I read something funny or interesting, I turn to share it with you but you aren’t there. The house is filled with your ghost Vitya, I see you sitting in your rocking chair, squinting at the book because you had too much pride to wear your glasses.I see you in the backyard, tending to your precious roses, inviting me to come see them. I see you dancing in the living room with a baby Hana. I see you everywhere but you aren’t there. And it hurts Vitya. It hurts so much that sometimes I think I will die of heartbreak. And when I don’t I wonder why I haven’t. Hana and I celebrated Adoption Day two weeks ago, do you remember when we came to visit you? It is because it felt so fucking wrong without you there. I hate this, I hate waking up every morning without you around. I hate that it worries Hana so much and she is always checking up on me to make sure I don’t do anything stupid. Fuck!” Yuuri said as he thumped the ground, not even trying to control his tears anymore.

The skater cried for what felt like an eternity, the sun slowly rising higher in the sky, the bright day almost mocking the sadness in his heart. His phone went off, a message from Hana telling him that she was leaving the house to come pick him up. That was what finally prompted him to stop, his heart still aching as the perpetual sadness seeped back into his bones. He tried and failed at wiping away the evidence of his tears.

“I love you you stupid Russian. I love you more than anything in this world ok? You hear me? I am coming, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. So promise ok? You told me when we got married that you were going to spend the rest of your life, till death separated us together with me. Well I call bull, it’s my turn to be selfish. I want to spend eternity with you, so when I join you better be there, you hear. I am expecting you to be there when I come, waiting for you. And I know you are hearing me because you promised to never take your eyes off of me, and you never did. So what’s to say that death made that promise invalid?” The small shot of adrenaline in his system left, making him deflate. Pressing a kissing to the gravestone, he whispered a soft “See you soon,moya lyubov” before turning and heading down the hill, to where his daughter was waiting to pick him up.

moya lyubov: my love

If you liked this, please check out my other fics at: http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlshrewt97/pseuds/Fangirlshrewt97