#serious illness | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

machaonreads · 5 months ago

Text

Whumptober 01 : Race Against The Clock

Course contre la montre, Sherlock Holmes 2009

Le docteur John Watson avait commencé sa journée hilare.

Son humeur ne constituait certes pas un hapax : depuis qu'il partageait l'appartement du 221 bis Baker Street avec Mr Sherlock Holmes, détective notoire, il passait plus de temps à rire qu'il ne s'en serait jamais cru capable à son retour d'une campagne d'Afghanistan qui l'avait laissé invalide et fourbu. Il s'était esclaffé des reparties insolentes par lesquelles son colocataire éconduisait ses clients trop prétentieux, il s'était gaussé avec Holmes de la stupidité des agents du Yard et il s'était bidonné à s'en tenir les côtes les nombreuses fois où son ami avait payé d'une gifle vigoureuse son incorrigible impolitesse.

Mais cette matinée n'apportait pas une réjouissance ordinaire, au contraire : servi sur un plateau d'argent en même temps que le petit-déjeuner confectionné par Mrs Hudson se savourait un mets de choix, aussi rare que les perles en vinaigrette de Cléopâtre, sans qu'aucun signe avant-coureur ne fût venu l'annoncer, ce qui n'en rendait la dégustation que plus délicieuse.

Sherlock Holmes, mesdames et messieurs, Sherlock Holmes avait été battu. À plates coutures. Par une femme, qu'il avait largement sous-estimée.

Irene Adler, puisque tel était son nom, non seulement avait conservé les lettres du roi de B***, de nature, osons le dire, assez compromettantes pour avoir incité Sa Très Fière Majesté à recourir aux services d'un détective aussi connu pour son efficacité que pour son mépris des convenances, mais encore elle s'était payé le luxe de narguer Holmes en lui abandonnant sa photographie dans la cachette où il croyait retrouver les imprudents courriers. Non seulement le détective s'était laissé distraire par ses charmes comme un écolier par sa première infirmière en chasuble ajustée, mais encore il avait entraîné dans son erreur l'inspecteur Lestrade et ses troupes de Scotland Yard, devant lesquelles il avait dû exprimer un mea culpa très public – rareté des raretés !

Aussi, depuis que John avait observé, penché à la fenêtre de son cabinet, où il attendait sa première consultation de la journée, la maréchaussée furieuse qui raccompagnait le détective à son domicile comme on dépose dans la rue, en le tenant par la peau du cou, un chat de gouttière trempé qui s'est infiltré dans le garde-manger pour en dévorer le bacon (Holmes avait certes la mine aussi piteuse et le poil aussi dépenaillé), le brave docteur se sentait d'excellente humeur.

Cette joyeuse disposition s'était encore accrue quand Lestrade (lequel, moins dépourvu du sens de l'observation qu'Holmes ne le suggérait, avait aperçu John à sa fenêtre) lui avait fait le compte rendu de la déroute, tandis que le détective filait à l'étage lécher ses plaies. Il boitait de la jambe droite, en raison d'une morsure de chien qui, à rebours du proverbe, ajoutait la blessure à la vexation.

John avait eu le plus grand mal à reprendre un visage sérieux pour accueillir Mrs O'Hara, qui se présenta avec un air traumatisé et dix minutes d'avance sur Mrs Stravinski, le premier rendez-vous prévu de la matinée.

« Ah, docteur, pardonnez mon état ! J'ai été attaquée par la bête la plus horrible ! Un molosse écumant, au poil roux comme le diable ! Des mâchoires grosses, grosses comme, comme... comme toute ma tête ! Et tellement de bave ! »

John passa son bras sous le coude de sa patiente pour la guider vers un siège. Éprouvée mais dotée d'un souffle de coureuse, Mrs O'Hara retrouva son aplomb dès qu'elle eut posé ses fesses sur un coussin. Elle résuma alors son malheur au médecin avec davantage de cohérence.

Elle avait été mordue par un genre de gros mâtin à poil roux tandis qu'elle sortait sur son perron pour récupérer le lait et les journaux (au pluriel car sa fille, Magda, avait des lettres et aspirait à devenir gouvernante). Elle n'était parvenue à desserrer l'emprise des mâchoires du molosse qu'en lui éclatant une bouteille de lait sur la tête. Elle s'était alors réfugiée en catastrophe dans sa maison en claquant le battant de bois sur la patte avant du chien, et n'en était pas ressortie tant qu'elle n'avait pas été assurée, l’œil collé au judas, que la bête s’était choisie une nouvelle victime :

« Je l'ai vue qui s'élançait après Mr Holmes, le pauvre homme ! Il l'a bien assommée avec le bâton de l'un des policiers qui sortaient du fiacre avec lui, mais je crois que lui aussi a perdu un bon morceau de jambe dans l'histoire ! Alors quand j'ai vu qu'il n'y avait plus de risque, je suis tout de suite venue vous voir, docteur, parce que ce chien avait une grosse quantité de bave qui lui sortait de la bouche ! »

Il était donc à peine neuf heures passées lorsque l'euphorie de John Watson prit fin. Sa préoccupation ne lui laissa pas le loisir de consulter la pendule ; seule Mrs Hudson aurait pu marquer l'heure exacte de ce changement, mais l'excellente femme n'ayant plus éprouvé d'hilarité depuis l'attentat de Roderick McLean en 1882, elle manquait de référentiel.

La rage, voyez-vous, impose la plus terrifiante des courses contre la montre.

Pour peu que vous vous trouviez à trop grande distance de la ligne d'arrivée – si vous gardez des moutons à John O'Groats, par exemple, et que vous êtes mordu par un setter, ou bien si vous venez de vous retirer comme postulante au couvent de la Sainte-Trinité de Limerick et qu'un renard tapi dans le garde-manger vous arrache un quignon de pain et l'index gauche au passage – vous n'avez plus qu'à recommander votre âme à Dieu, car l'affaire est perdue d'avance.

Habitez dans une grande ville mais sans sou en poche, comme les allumetières de l’East End ou les chaudronniers de Glasgow, et vos chances ne seront guère meilleures.

Car les hôpitaux qui conservent les vaccins sont rares : même à Londres, John n'en connaît que trois. Barts est du nombre, heureusement, ainsi que Saint-Thomas, où il a cultivé quelques accointances.

Les deux se trouvaient à une trentaine de minutes de fiacre de l’appartement, mais le trajet vers Saint-Bartholomew était plus fréquenté par les chauffeurs, et c’était donc dans cette direction que John s’élançait déjà mentalement, tandis qu’il nettoyait avec force alcool la plaie de sa patiente. Le temps de poser un bandage, de rassurer Mrs O’Hara autant qu’il le pouvait, de fourrer le nécessaire dans sa serviette, et il grimpait les escaliers aussi vite que sa jambe, rendue grincheuse par les pluies de ces derniers jours, le lui permettait.

« Holmes ! s’écria-t-il une fois arrivé en haut, avant même d’avoir ouvert la porte. Holmes, il nous faut partir de toute urgence ! Avez-vous au moins bandé votre jambe ? Venez que je… »

Mais Holmes n’était pas dans le salon. Holmes n’était pas dans sa chambre, il n’était pas non plus dans celle de John, ni même à la salle de bains.

« Il est ressorti, Docteur Watson, expliqua Mrs Hudson, en scrutant le visage décomposé de son meilleur locataire sans parvenir à comprendre les raisons de sa détresse. Il a dit à l’inspecteur que la partie n’était pas terminée, et il a détalé comme à son habitude – enfin, sauf qu’il a failli déraper dans une flaque, avec sa jambe blessée… »

La tête de John lui tournait sans qu’il pût trouver les mots.

« Oh, attendez ! poursuivit la logeuse. Il m’a laissé ça pour vous. »

Et, de l’air vaguement exaspéré qui lui était si coutumier, elle glissa dans la main de John une lanière de raphia.

La suite de la matinée ne fut pour John qu’un long roulement de tonnerre entrecoupé d’éclairs terrifiants. De ses lèvres s’écoulait un flot continu de jurons paniqués, psalmodie reprise en canon par Mrs O’Hara, qui faisait écho à la frénésie de ses pensées.

Si le gardien de Barts est en pause, on entrera directement par la porte de service…

S’il est là, je lui demanderai de prévenir Stamford, pour qu’il reste auprès de Mrs O’Hara pendant que je porterai le vaccin à Sherlock…

Plusieurs cas ont montré que le vaccin était encore efficace après plusieurs heures…

Mais il y a aussi eu des fois où il n’a pas fonctionné…

Mais le préparateur de Barts est excellent, tu le connais, c’est Daniel Eichman, on ne fait pas plus consciencieux…

Mais statistiquement il faut bien qu’il se trompe un jour, et s’il ne s’est jamais trompé jusqu’à présent…

Exactement comme Sherlock...

« Plus vite, cocher ! C’est une question de vie ou de mort ! »

Ou de mort… Ne pense pas à ça. Pense au raphia… Qu’est-ce qu’il peut bien évoquer ? Une fleuriste ? Un marché ? Réfléchis réfléchis réfléchis…

Et s’ils n’ont plus de vaccin à la pharmacie de l’hôpital, on fait quoi ? Combien de temps est-ce qu’il faudra pour aller jusqu’à Saint-Thomas depuis King Edward Street ?

Mais non, ils en ont toujours en stock.

Mais s’il n’y en a plus qu’un, et qu’il faut choisir entre Sherlock et Mrs O’Hara ?

Je ne pourrai pas en priver Mrs O’Hara…

Mais je ne peux pas laisser mourir Sherlock…

Pourtant c’est ce qui va se passer si je ne comprends pas ce p**** d’indice…

Pourquoi du raphia ? Du raphia du raphia du raphia…

« Vous allez voir que ça va très bien se passer, Mrs O’Hara. Saint-Bartholomew est un hôpital très moderne aujourd’hui, malgré ses bâtiments historiques, et très bien aménagé. Grâce au vaccin, ce sera comme si vous n’aviez jamais été mordue ! Vous pourrez retrouver votre fille dès ce soir. »

John n’aurait pas su dire comment il était rentré à Baker Street (le cocher de l’aller l’avait pris en pitié, et avait patiemment attendu devant l’hôpital le retour de ce médecin boiteux à la moustache propre qu’il avait vu déployer tant d’énergie pour sauver la vie d’une matrone irlandaise désargentée), ni à qui il avait confié Mrs O’Hara (Stamford ne travaillait pas ce jour-là, mais son collègue Listz, grand amateur de feuilletons policiers, avait offert son assistance avec d’autant plus de zèle qu’il croyait faciliter ainsi une enquête du brillant Sherlock Holmes), mais il savait que la demie de dix heures venait de sonner à l’église Saint-Marylebone.

À chaque battement de son cœur correspondait, quelque part dans Londres, un battement du cœur de Holmes qui rependait un peu plus dans les artères de celui-ci la terrible maladie…

À chaque inspiration…

Inspiration.

N’était-ce pas le nom si prétentieux du parfum à la mode en ce moment ? Celui dont Holmes, qui revenait d’une soirée passée à espionner un diplomate corrompu dans le jardin d’hiver du Midland Grand, avait dit en s’écroulant dans un fauteuil devant la cheminée, face à John :

« Si j’avais dû respirer une seule minute de plus ce bouquet infect de chèvrefeuille à la marmelade d’orange, je vous assure, Watson, que j’aurais eu des vapeurs. »

Et John avait évidemment répliqué :

« Si vous aviez eu besoin de sels, Holmes, il aurait plutôt fallu blâmer votre pipe, dont la puanteur est incomparablement plus ignoble. Vous oubliez que nous sommes déjà allé ensemble au Midland Grand, et je sais que l’odeur des fleurs séchées y est plus forte que celle... »

Des fleurs séchées. Des bouquets de lavande, précisément, que John aimait bien parce qu’elle lui rappelait les linges rangés par sa gouvernante française, qui venait de Provence et qui glissait partout des sachets remplis de ces tiges violacées, au grand désespoir de la mère de John, qui n’en raffolait guère… Toutes réminiscences que John avait savourées lorsqu’une enquête précédente les avait conduits pour la première fois dans cet hôtel, et que Holmes avait devinées avec sa facilité si déroutante.

Holmes savait que John avait remarqué les bouquets de lavande, qu’il en avait été frappé, presqu’ému.

Il savait que John se souviendrait de leur disposition sur les tables basses.

Du raphia vert pâle qui liait les gerbes.

Pareil en tous points au morceau qu’il tenait à la main.

De l’appartement jusqu’à l’hôtel, il y avait presque deux milles. John les avala en cinq minutes, juché sur le dos d’un cheval qu’il avait détaché de son fourgon de livraison.

Ignorant la douleur de son genou, auquel tant d’exercice ne plaisait pas, il sauta à terre dès qu’il fut parvenu à destination, abandonnant sa monture à la générosité publique, traversa au pas de course le hall de réception sans même s’excuser auprès de la jeune femme qu’il bouscula par mégarde, et se dirigea à toute allure vers le jardin d’hiver.

Il y était presque quand une voix travaillée retentit dans son dos :

« Docteur Watson, il me semble que vous oubliez quelque chose ? »

Le cœur dans les talons, John pivota alors pour découvrir Irene Adler, qui se tenait juste derrière lui, un sourire triomphal aux lèvres et une fiole pleine de vaccin à la main. Un coup d’œil suffit à confirmer que la serviette que John serrait dans sa main droite avait été ouverte par un habile tour de main dans la bousculade de l’entrée.

À l’horloge de la gare sonnaient onze heures.

#whumptober 2024 #no.1 #race against the clock #sherlock holmes 2009 #fanfic #bite #serious illness #john watson #irene adler #mrs hudson #sherlock holmes

0 notes

ihopeinevergetsoberr · 3 months ago

Text

— i’m in love with a dying man

rating: mature. or explicit? i’m not sure. angsty study on grief in unconventional forms. (mild) smut purely for poetic reasons

word count: 4,1k

pairing: viktor x gn!reader

cw: terminal illness. several mentions of death. everyone is horny in a heartbroken way, so grab a napkin—but not for the reasons you think. and yes, you may dox me for making you even sadder after whatever happened in ep 6.

—

He licks a tear off your cheek, and it seeps in between the bumps on his tongue, all prickly salt running down your face in two glossy trails of sorrow. Stinging, when his calloused thumb swipes over a puffy eyelid, only to inevitably fall to your lip and tug, nudging your mouth agape. His desperate grip softens when you oblige and arch, letting him grunt over the slope of your throat; wheezier than you remember, raw, rhotic and ravenous. The hard shift of his lungs is palpable under your hand, ruckling heavily in his sternum. It almost breaks down to a cough when he cants his hips into you, slanting one last slow, weak slam. Spilling all his pent-up frustration deep inside you through that bitter orgasm, leaving a clumsy mess of stickiness to dry on your inner thigh. Stilling for you to hold him through that collapse, grateful for the shaky hand that you firmly fist into his hair. Not receding until at least a few kisses are strewn upon your shoulder.

It’s always like this now. Viktor clings to you, and you cling to him, nails digging into handfuls of him hard enough to draw blood, each embrace so tight your ribs might just break if he doesn’t retreat in time. And god does he wish to let it linger, to drag it out until eternity tumbles in—even if his eternity is reduced to a question of mere months at best, even if he must crawl out of a casket to have your touch back.

The night you almost lost him still has you in shambles. You remember it all too well—hell, it’s almost like that acute smell of hospitals and doom still coats his skin, more slimline than it ever was, its once ivory shade fading to chalk-like disaster. The utter horror of crushing verdicts, endless heaps of bloodied handkerchiefs and palms so cold that even the heat of your breath fails to make the feeling of him any less chilling.

The dark humor of sneaky death: she’s right around the corner, the cruelest of all mistresses. Ready to snatch him away whenever your fingers ghost over his spine, stroking a languid count over each prominent vertebrae. And no matter how tight you curl up beside him, she will supplant you, and her proximity can’t be measured in miles, feet, or inches. Because death is a termite—she gnaws at his very heart. And blooms metastases everywhere you still have him. She’s inside him. She’s merged with him into one.

At first, you denied it. Knuckles drummed against the wall in a frustrated fistfight, painting that scabrous canvas bright with your frustration. White and crimson—the speckled pattern of your hysteria. You recall how bad it stung, and how shame creeped up your spine—frightening and so, so sticky. Throttling, when he tended to that self-inflicted disaster, bandaging your smashed hand in motions sick to the core with gentleness.

And it felt so ugly. Like you’ve grown to loathe everything around you: the doctors, for their disgusting prognosis; life itself, for being hardly fair. And even Viktor. Especially him—for slowly slipping out of your pale-knuckled grip. Well, red-knuckled, more like. That angry stunt did cost you a decent injury. White and crimson, remember?

Naturally, grief doesn’t always progress by the book. However, denial always comes first. It’s an axiom, an invariable component, and you’re sitting on Viktor’s hospital cot, hand in trembling hand, eyes snapped wide and ferocious. Wrapped up in fear while the silence rings in your ears.

His doctor addresses the quandary. It doesn’t feel vicious—at least, not yet. Flimsy, more like. Deceptive, too. Like if you just blink it away hard enough everything will snap right in place, and you’ll find yourself at home again—where that aseptic smell of medication can’t reach either of you.

Well, of course, there’s always a possibility of postponing the inevitable. Winning over a year or, even, two—if Viktor’s lucky enough, that is. But you both know that he’s lacking in that department.

And yet, you grab your little hope by the throat: to look into later, when your comprehension is intact again. Surely, it’s just not plausible: so what if Viktor’s cough pulls you out of sleep every night, so what if every shirt he owns has tiny blood stains on it? Yes, he spends more time in bed than he does at the lab. He’s simply tired. He needs the rest. Not in peace.

The retraction doesn’t linger, though. It survives a few more blood tests and a lengthy, dreadful discussion of his calamity—most strikingly frightening when the doctor talks him through each option. And not a single one manages to appease you. To stop your fury from retching out and causing an ugly scene.

So you fling the door to his room ajar and leap inside with a bitter scowl, teeth gritting hard enough to crumble into powder. Arms a tight crisscross over your chest, step wide and listless—punctuated with a muffled clack of heels. Viktor’s eyes follow your tremulous circles—a lazy, sheenless flick of pupils, each widened into a bleak void from the rancid dose of painkillers. He lays supine, with his hair ineptly slicked back, umber waves awry, loose and sweat-damp. He’s almost mellow, tongue barely a glide over his chapped bottom lip—a martyr-like stiffness, the carrion of a man.

But you don’t look at him. You pace, and pace, and pace—in that same tiring route, all around his creaky cot. Viktor rasps something indistinct—a muffled plea that tickles the back of his throat, rupturing yet another coughing fit. You silently hand him the speckled handkerchief.

He looks up, eyes the saddest shade of buckwheat honey—dark with remorse; seeking comfort. But you don’t have any to give. You stare past him, gnawing at your tongue hard enough to draw fleshy copper. Dodging the kiss he tries to press to your wrist—pulling yourself back and out of his loving grip, igniting a staring competition full of glassy eye-daggering. Blink slow and borderline drowsy.

“Milackú,” he pleads. Pulls at the corner of his mouth to wipe the bloody evidence of his withering.

Your tear catches in your bottom lashes.

“Milackú,” he rasps again, kicking the blanket aside. Stepping one bare foot on the cool tiles and reaching for you: arms, legs, and heart—all yours for the taking. If only you consider crawling under his minty sheets again.

You don’t.

“Why?” It’s so meek you barely recognize it as your own. Taut throat tightens even more, and, suddenly, you’re choking on a gasp. “Why did you turn down the treatment?”

“Please, if you could just—“ He husks, but you can’t hear him through the ringing in your ears; the room already smudged into wattery, astigmatic lumps, Viktor’s face but a bunch of fuzzy dots you’re struggling to make out. All missing jigsaws, blurry little fractions.

“What did I ever do to you?” You yell, shielding your eyes. Turning away from the arm he extends, his weak fist clenching to grab thin air, then tumbling as he stares at his palm in sheer dubiety, upper lip trembling.

He winces. Ceases you by the hand and tugs as hard as it gets—frail enough for you to easily nudge him away—but you don’t bother this time. Your knees ungainly bend into shaky arcs, drifting apart when he clasps around you and pulls until you finally land on the sheets next to him, your tears mingling with his cold sweat—a salty fusion of mutual suffering.

Then comes a sequence of guttural, squealing whines and you stay twined with him for a while. Lithe fingers run through your hair, spreading to untangle an occasional knotted strand—up, and down, and over your shoulder in a caress. His lips purse on your temple, sucking an indistinct kiss. His heartbeat trails off under your fingertips the second you rake them over his thin hospital gown, growing frenetic again when you tug at the fabric, demanding closure.

“Please. Please don’t do this to me.” You exhale your choked up entreaty into his neck and it pours over his skin in a rigid breath, aftertasting of stinging desperation. His hand seeks your face, taking a forcefully gentle hold of one puffy cheek, drinking in your unsightly, woebegone rebuke. Looking at you like a repentant devotee, his timid eyes meeting your fierce ones.

“This is not about you,” he wheezes, too stern for your liking. Presses his forehead against yours and holds you through yet another shudder—and there’s no avoiding his pleading stare. “I’m not trying to get away from you. I merely want to escape my conundrum.”

“These aren’t mutually exclusive, Viktor,” you hiss, voice simmering with betrayal.

“Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?! Is that all you have for me right now?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He sighs like he means it. His words keep slipping away from him, drowned in coughs and ambiguous humms. You get it, though. Your semantics became sparse the minute Viktor almost died in your arms.

You melt into one-another in a teary, sniffling twine—simply breathing, trading tense silences. His stately stance collapses into a lifeless hunch, straightening a bit only when your fingers billow over his shoulder-blades—chiseled like ones of a famished dog. There are plenty of dog-like things about him now—the pleas lodged in his glances, the newfound hunger for your touch. Especially for the way you’re holding him; every embrace like a loving headlock—and the pressure soothes him.

“I’m tired of taking risks,” he finally whispers against your temple. “All these… labored efforts for mere fractions of peace. Decaying steadily. Constantly hurting. I’m spent.”

“Exactly. Which is why you need the treatment.”

His lashes shudder against your cheek in a prickly tickle. They keep fluttering when he recedes, shaking his head with a bitter frown.

“But its success is… highly improbable.”

“Yes, but there’s still hope—“

“It’s running thin as we speak. I shouldn’t squander it on… the imminent.”

Viktor’s irksome choice of words had you springing backwards in glossy-eyed delirium. Staring in disbelief as if he’d requested something inexorable: which he did, inherently so.

He curses when tears slice your face again—tends to them with the softness of a man most contrite of his omission, shaky hands already catching holds of your waist, using your temporary pliancy to swiftly nudge you into his cot. Curling up close enough to have your weeps reverberate in his sternum.

“I’m sorry,” he repents with a deep rasp. “Please, don’t cry.”

He held you in reticence again: this time horizontally. Offered you every solace his body could provide: your fingers in his hair, fumbling mindlessly (he put them there himself). Tangled legs. Apologetic neck-kisses. His head heavy on your shoulder, its weight a welcome tranquility. And only when your last tear soaks his pillow does he commence with his explanation.

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left miserable,” he tells you, drawing a breath. “Yes, the treatment might win me a year—a year I would spend bedridden, nauseous, and weary. A travesty of life. An illusive salvation. I’ve had enough of those.”

Your hand stills in his hair, nestled within unkempt strands. You’ve run out of tears, so this bitter truth is met with nothing but a piteous sigh—the only thing you can still master after crying your heart out into his skin. Now you can only stare at the ceiling, chewing on your cheek in cruel denial.

He’s right. He always is.

Viktor sees the shift in your face—knits his eyebrows together in tender pity, tucking himself firmly against your face. Wincing, when he feels the aching tension in your temple.

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Too much, even.” He’s sincere when he says that, and you can sense the gratitude in his voice—for even allowing him to utter this excruciating of a thing, for attempting to understand.

You simply nod. Yes. It is a lot. But you want to hear everything he has to say.

So Viktor continues.

“I would hate for your last memories of me to be tainted with despair and hospitals only for all the struggle to go to waste when I inevitably pass away. I have no desire to postpone this torture at the expense of growing indifferent towards everything that makes me feel alive.”

“But what if we manage to cure you?!”

“That’s too much of a ‘what if’ to risk dying a grim death for. I want to die…content. I want to enjoy myself before I do. Please. Don’t take that choice away from me.”

His eyes brim at you with every ounce of guilt he possesses, big tears wallowing in his eyes like an earnest plea—tacit, weary, earnest. Yes, it’s not like you have a word in his terrific decision, but Viktor wants your blessing. It’s only right that he includes you. Even if he’s intending to refuse the treatment regardless. As absurd a bid as that is.

You clasp his face like it’s about to vanish. Like you won’t be able to make it out when he’s gone if you fail to remember it right this instant, your gaze frantically jumping from one feature to another, seeking to embroider the image into your very eyeballs. Roaming over the artifically-white hospital light hallowing every streak of his hair. Indulging in a bittersweet smile when you note how prettily it spills over the pillow. Lingering on the patterns in his ochre irises—almost fully swallowed by his void-like pupils. Observing how they match the insomniac, mauve shades under his bottom lashes. Tracing every convex little thing—two lovely moles, thick eyebrows, the pointy mouth. Everything you’ve grown to love so dearly. Everything his illness keeps taking away from you.

You wince, cradling his cheeks, your thumbs dipping into the hollows of them gently. Urging him to scoot closer—eye to eye, lips on lips. Breath over shuddering breath.

“Are you sure?” You mouth the question on his skin, barely even uttering it. Hot pressure meanders into your head like a prickly impulse. It’s timid like motion sickness—borderline nauseating, too—all murky splashes of trippy lights under your closed eyelids. And the unease is diluted only when he finally kisses you—an approbatory, guilt-ridden thing.

He’s certain. And for that, he’s so, so sorry.

You try not to think of it, focusing on the feeling. No tongue, no teeth: just sheer tremor and so much rawness. A soft, soothing exhalation straight into your mouth like the gentlest of placebos—and yet, it works for you, slaps your pulse out of its frantic antics, and the stiffness slowly leaves your limbs under his touch.

When it’s over, he winces at you in that sleepy, adoring way of his. Attempts a wry, sad smile. The cold light besieges his head into an even clearer halo—a foreshadowing of what is to come, an inconspicuous little thing. But everything about him is conspicuous to you. Loving Viktor has made you wary, and you wanted to hold onto that attention to the detail before it eventually slips away alongside him.

“Are you sure?” You repeat, tightening the inadvertent chokehold around his neck. The grip weakens only when he pulls away to clumsily clear his throat.

“Yes.” And you know he means it when his face turns just as solemn as when he confesses his love to you.

“I’ve had a nice life with you,” he adds, hoarsely. “I want it to feel nice when my time comes, too—whenever that might be. Sooner than later, I presume.”

The figurative knife in your stomach twists anticlockwise.

“Will you stay with me?” He dares to inquire. Meek, shaky hope tingling in his throat. “For however many months I have left?”

And when you look up at him with a hurt frown, he’s reminded not to ask you rhetorical questions.

—

A few days later, Viktor is discharged from the hospital and insists that you both go back to normal. Well, to the new, tainted definition of it—where one spoiled napkin less is considered an ephemeral improvement and grief is a fixed variable by your side.

Your slow-paced, quiet life that keeps turning even more timid in a frail attempt to savor what’s left of it. Faux preservation, but he allows it—savors it just as earnestly as you do, and your weeks weave into a darling, familiar routine. With some minor, necessary changes, no less: rest comes before the lab now, all deadlines fashionably late to accommodate this newfound tempo. Mandatory hourly breaks. Weekly check-ups. Four days off for every three he spends bent over the parchment. But this time, he doesn’t protest. His body demands it, inconveniently so.

You don’t tell anyone about your horrific arrangement—not yet, at the very least. It’s all you can think about, and the words threaten to slide out every time you speak—but you’re forced to swallow them with a smile so lopsided that everyone around you can only suspect the worst. A mantra of countless ‘What’s wrong’s irritating your ears with pure sincerity.

What is wrong with you, indeed? You’re a spectator to death—not just any death, but the one you dreaded most. And not only are you witnessing it in the making, but this decision was never forced—you handed Viktor the choice and accepted whatever he went with so obediently that it felt absurd, and it had your skin crawling every time someone vaguely mentioned anything even remotely related to his condition.

But they—whoever that refers to—could never get it. They wouldn’t know what it’s like: to be stripped of your selfishness for the sake of Viktor’s peace. Defying your needs. Forcing yourself to find relief in demise. You might’ve failed to intimidate her into allowing you to keep him, but you could still accompany him into her arms and make it glorious. Here it is. Your new, appalling reason. It’s all that you want now.

Or is it?

There’s plenty of nobility in being his chaperone—welcoming him into bed every night, painfully aware that it can become his death one. Treating every new invention of his like a soon-to-be postmortem legacy. Mourning the living. Anticipating the inexplicable. Marking every shared kiss the last, just in case.

But then it came—unabashed and sudden. That blurry line where mourning merges into something dubious, a confusing paradox that leaves you full of filthy carry-over somewhere within your gut. The scorch his lips engrave into the column of your neck. The way it ignites a swell you can almost convince yourself is actually tangible, running your fingers over it recursively like a tactile little prayer. The gaze he throws at you across the lab ever so sneakily—a figurative punch that feels surprisingly close to a kiss. And you never resist turning it into one. Escalating. Claiming. Indulging those ambiguous, yet-to-be-defined things and having them wash over the remnants of your decorum.

You try to fight it when it first happens, but it doesn’t last. There’s no place for restraint in grief—not when it turns into a beautiful desire to be all over him, to take everything life has to offer before he runs out of it. And Viktor doesn’t judge you. He encourages it. He craves it, just as bad—if not more—than you do. How many more undoings can he claim before the final one absorbs him? You’ve already lost that count. So much for having your love bleed on every inch of his skin.

Tonight you let it bleed mouth to mouth—a sweaty, heartfelt thing that commemorates your hunger for him in a kiss so dizzying that he has to lean back with a silent, breathless plea for brief interlude—foggy eyes staring up at you so devotedly. Shuddering, when your arms wander over his chest to feel the rasp, pointed lips bruised full of spit-slick swell. He’s a beauty—exquisite, albeit worn-down, his lines and angles blurring together into one eager, contourless essence, and you cage him in a firm straddle—your bare thighs over his clothed ones—grinding in a whiny attempt to reach him through his pants.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, leaning back to let him breathe. He’s sprawled out beneath you, tortuous hands already busy with tugging his tie off—impatient, clumsily nervous. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” you say at last, averting your gaze almost shyly. His fingers lurch to your hip, locking it in a gentle cradle, stilling above your backside in hesitation—asking for a laze caress, pushing your flimsy limits. As if forgetting that you never set those for him. Or, perhaps, he simply likes hearing your excited ‘yes’ every time. You can’t quite figure out which it is.

He grabs a handful of you with reverence, and yet there’s something resilient about that grip—like he dreads that you might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on possessively enough, staring up at you with his head thrown back in a curious, admiring droop. Aiming to dispose of your shirt in a nimble pull. Plotting a sequence of kisses from neck to collarbone.

You expect it when he rises on his elbows, then grips the bedframe to shift beneath you in a silly leap. Inelegant, but he couldn’t care less, releasing his hips from the hedge of your legs to make you slide up his crotch instead—a most welcome, brusque change that you adapt to in a squealing instant. Your moaning mouth agape under his grin. His hips thrusting through restraining fabric. Shaky. Erotic. With your arms tumbling astride his shoulders.

“Don’t apologize,” Viktor insists in a lulling whisper, switching to a cautionary nip on your ear. “I’ve missed you, too,” he confesses somewhere into your hair, brushing through it with a tip of his nose—breathing you in through a tender whiff.

Your words get lost in a deep fluster, rolling back into your throat and lingering there in a suffocating lump. They have you stiffening, heavy eyelids squeezing shut—a voluntarily blindfold to help you explore him through touch only. An invitation to feel you where he pleases. And, well—it just so happens that your whims align with his—a cohesive, welcome collateral.

Viktor starts at the slope of your shoulder. Pulls the shirt down and traces that lovely curve—fingers first. Throws a brief, askance glance at your face to make sure that your eyes are closed, and, when met with the flutter of your lashes, gets back to his lovely tease. Tender, warm lips taste your skin with delicious, savoring sounds. Getting wetter when his tongue makes a fickle appearance—leaves a slick, capricious lick in the dip of your collarbone, fluffy hair tickling your face when he bends to tend to your chest, too—and you shiver as he sucks a plum love-stain that you’ll proudly wear under your shirts.

“See,” he cooes. “Whatever gets into you must be contagious.”

You give in to a half-lidded peek and find him begging for your assistance—a sweet request that you understand in half-nod. Arms up in the air and over your clouded head when he unleashes your skin from the thin garment—throws it on the floor for you to find later in the morning.

“But it feels wrong.” You sigh. “Ever since we found out…”

“I’d rather you quit talking about that in bed, please,” Viktor reproaches, eyes heady with want. His fingers slide into your underwear, contemplating its fate—should he make it join your shirt or pull it to the side in hasty fashion? Either approach had him shivering at the thought.

But the sudden sorrow stops the rush, rendering your urge for consolation. It wraps you around him all over again, legs locking in a tangle around his waist, drooping hands combing through his hair in a brusque, fervent tug. Seeking succor. Heart to heart and thumping an anxious march.

“I’m afraid,” you admit, but it’s not a revelation. All shuddering shoulders under his idolatrous caress, and you pang with guilt at that, too—it’s you who should be fondling him this delicately, warm reassurance seeping into his ears—not yours. But Viktor wants to be your comfort. If anything, it’s the only thing on his mind.

“What are you afraid of, beloved?” A little shiver at the unforeign endearment—a rare occasion. His thick brows still drawn together in a concerned arc. They relax only when you rake your fingers down his body—counting ribs, toying anxiously. The hurry is gone, there’s only caution now: his enamored eyes, waiting for you to find your slippery words.

“Of losing you before I get to show you how much I love you.” You whisper, suddenly tasting teary salt in your mouth. His thumb comes to the rescue, swiftly flicking the wet trails. So you chuckle at the affection in a silly stagger to bump sweaty foreheads together.

“Nonsense,” he insists. “You’re showing me right now.”

“Indeed.” You shrug. “But… Is this the right way?”

And when he puts your palm over his eager heartbeat, you’re reminded not to ask him rhetorical questions.

—

tags: @zaunitearchives @blissfulip @nausicaaandhermouth @thehistoriangirl @vyshnevska

#viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #arcane season 2 #viktor x reader #arcane season two spoilers #viktor angst #viktor smut #viktor x reader smut #viktor x gn!reader #viktor x f!reader #viktor x m!reader #viktor x any reader really #not specified AT ALL #wrote this in severe writers block so please be nice to me #im serious ill cry #arcane fanfic #arcane angst #viktor arcane angst

2K notes · View notes