Dyfi

Yeah, right. You knew he’d waited for you to let him know you were five minutes out before he told you so you’d be far less likely to turn around. You were almost there now anyway.

Okay, breathe, breathe, breathe. It’s just Viktor. Forgive and forget, isn't that what you were supposed to do? Maybe he would have joined you in that little endeavour. Forgive? Maybe, about as much as you had forgiven him. By the way your heart was hammering in your chest, you had forgiven much less than you thought. Forget? You could almost slap yourself for thinking such a thing. Of course he’d remember, it hadn’t been that long after all. Viktor remembered everything, so did you. You were pretty sure the two of you could put together a second for second play-by-play of the entire four years of your undergrad if you put your heads together. He hates me, I hate him, he hates me, I hates him. It’s a mantra, though you’re not convinced no matter how hard you try. You push through the doors of the pub with difficulty.

You spot them almost immediately, sat at a circular table half-booth half-chairs. Jayce, Cait, some people you don’t know, and Viktor looking just as surprised as you that this is what you’re going to have to deal with tonight. Greetings and introductions are given, and for a second you contemplate pretending not to know Viktor. You push the urge deep down into your gut, because not only would it be incredibly weird, but decidedly rude. No, you wouldn’t start with Viktor unless he started with you. A curt nod will do for now, as you settle into a chair between Jayce and a stranger.

When Jayce becomes inevitably absorbed in conversation with what’s-his-name next to you, Viktor takes the opportunity for some small talk.

“How’s life been treating you lately?” his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You couldn’t say you were invested in whatever exchange you’d been observing, but Viktor’s incitement was unexpected to say the least. Your gaze snaps to him, equally sarcastic with a look that says ‘really?’ while your mouth says “Good, yeah. Very well actually, you?”

And you’re not sure if you actually care. Odd, but not surprising, given your history. He looks well, though, better than he ever looked when you were together. You can’t but wonder where it got fucked up.

“Our work is getting in the way of our relationship.”

“Well our relationship is getting in the way of our work.”

Right. That was telling. You scoff, cross your arms, open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out because you’ve swallowed it before you even know what it is. It’s the price of the high road, to bite your tongue, to allow whatever scathing remark you could have delivered to digest. No matter how much it squirms and kicks in your stomach, you’d promised yourself you’d never stoop so low as to throw it back up in spite.

Crossed arms become a hand aimlessly rubbing at your face as you figure out what to say to him instead.

“We are both neglecting each other, but I don’t think we have anything else to give right now.” The truth is bitter on your tongue, it tastes like Viktor’s generic ‘good value’ instant coffee. You wish you could swallow it instead.

It earns you a scowl from him. But it’s not because of what you said, rather what you didn’t. You were always so reasonable, Viktor would give anything to know what soul-crushing insults you hide in the back of your throat. A reaction, an outburst, a scream, a yell. Anything. But you weren’t going to budge. No, he couldn’t make you budge.

“Is that it?” he spits.

“What do you mean, ‘is that it?’”

“I’ve said something incredibly hurtful, and that’s all I get?” he’s admitting it to himself at the same time he’s admitting it to you.

“Oh, so you’re saying hurtful things intentionally to get a rise out of me?” your tone is annoyingly calm. You should be upset, you are upset. But you’re not mean. “I won’t fight with you, Viktor.”

It’s Viktor’s turn to swallow now, because he despises how right you are. Fighting isn’t productive, isn’t efficient. He turns away from you, hands on hips, whispering curses under his breath.

“Yes! I want a rise out of you. You’re always so reasonable, so compartmentalised. I have to question whether you ever feel anything.”

It comes crawling back up your oesophagus, coated in bile. It tastes vitriolic and you really, really don’t want to hold it back. But whether you let it out or keep it in it’ll still leave a bad taste in your mouth.

“This isn’t working anymore” is what you settle on.

Viktor takes it better than you thought he would, in that you expect him to shout at you but his shoulders merely slump as all recognisable anger falls from his face. Something has given, and it hangs quietly in the air along with the sound of the seam of you ripping for good.

“You’re right. I don’t want to hate you,” he manages. It’s somewhere between resignation, admission, and a plea not to walk out of his life entirely.

For the first time in weeks you agree on something, something punctuated with the wet smack of lips. ‘I love you, don’t leave, I’m not ready to let you go, goodbye’, they say. You swallow down your tears on the walk back to your dorm room, along with any possibility of acknowledging that anything Viktor said might’ve been true. Because this is the price of taking the high road.

When you wake in the morning, room still spinning, organs both begging and daring you to move, insecurity seeps in. Call it good old hangxiety, but it feels silly to treat the mere act of your going out as revolutionary. It’s not as if sleeping with someone you now cannot remember the name of is some grand rebellion. You practice your reasoning each time you hunt for your clothes strewn across whoever’s room it is this time. You are not trying to be rebellious, per se. You are trying to be human. You are trying to dismount the horse you’ve been sat on, stood atop a hill looking down on the rest of your peers, whether intentional or not. You are trying to allow yourself to be greedy, to indulge in your desires and for once, not feel bad about it.

You don’t want to think. You want to turn off your brain and try feeling instead. Whether you are succeeding or not is debatable.

You’ve chosen a new subject for tonight. The house party of a friend of a friend always provided the perfect pool of candidates; a decent enough peer review and enough distance not to cause too much drama. He gave you his name ten minutes ago, but seeing as he won’t be getting your number you haven’t catalogued that bit of information. He’s broad, tattooed, a classic tall-dark-handsome. You’d hoped to find some brooding there too, but so far he’s all sunshine and rainbows. You are putting him through all the usual tests; leaned against a wall, shoulders back, face tilted up, lashes low. The flush in your cheeks in only on account of the alcohol and you keep your lips persistently upturned as he speaks. He is responsive; blushes easy, laughs awkward but endearing, scratches at the back of his neck when you compliment him. He’s accidentally charming, talks a lot, eager, and yet he doesn’t encroach on your personal space no matter how much you invite him to. Polite. Too polite. You can tell it’s not because he doesn’t want to. He’s nervous, you make him nervous, but it’s more of a boost to the ego than it is enticing.

You could get him to come home with you, you had a feeling he’d go willingly as long as you lead the way. It’s easy to imagine how he’d feel under you, whispering into his ear how sweet and easy he is and all the things you’d like him to do to you. He’d stutter and blush no doubt. You’d have to convince him you weren’t made of glass though and likely field a thousand ‘are you sure?’s with increasingly impatient yeses. It would require thinking, not an insignificant amount. It’s not that you mind being the one to call the shots, but tonight you wanted someone to put all the right words in all the right places. Crudely into your ear, or perhaps in the crease of your groin, you wanted someone to make you blush all over, someone to render you speechless because they found a spot that made your eyes roll back, someone to tell you how sweet and easy and good you were, and all the things they’d like to do to you.

So as lovely as Tall Dark and Handsome is, you will nod idly and be polite and half-listen to his tipsy ramblings on invasive but edible alliums while you scan the crowd for your next candidate.

The fibres of your shirt catch on the matte paint of the pillar behind you, a gentle scratching sensation as you press your back against it. It’s steadfast in the sea of moving bodies. While everyone else finds satisfaction flitting between here and there, you find comfort in staying exactly where you are. You let your candidates come to you when they give into the luring feeling of someone’s eyes on them. And if you want an out, you have Jayce and Mel in your sights too, just one excuse away. The pillar has a perfect view of the door, no new faces could walk in without you noticing. And, oh, how you notice when the next late-comer arrives.

Lucky, lucky you.

Viktor is fashionably late. Being that he is not a candidate, that should be all you notice. He looks good though, unfairly so, and he looks tired. Not the kind of tired you get from late nights at the library, but the kind of tired that you yourself have been carrying all semester; last night’s booze still kicking about in the liver, purple bags under the eyes, wincing at the music till you adjust and tonight’s booze hits you. Even without having visited your old library haunt in months, you know he’s been avoiding it too.

If he was coming here with someone, they should have walked through the door by now. If he’d been dragged along by Jayce and Mel, he would already have been here when you arrived. If he didn’t intend to do more than just drop by, he wouldn’t have put in more effort than just changing his clothes. The only other reason for his being here alone, then, is that he wanted to be. Tall Dark and Handsome’s voice has disappeared into the background as you make your observations.

Then your stomach drops, because Viktor’s gaze has locked onto you too.

Tunnel vision is one of Viktor’s strengths, though he’d rather not admit it. He would like to think, sometimes, that he is good at seeing the bigger picture, that he is as good at compartmentalising as you seem to be, and that he does not apply the scientific method to dating. He has tried other people. He has fucked other people, he has even dared to date them. But you are his control group. He looks for you in the gaps between teeth, beneath layers of cotton and polyester, in the crook of an armpit. He looks for you in locks of hair, a crown tucked under his chin, as if you are a piece of fuzz he could groom from the head of another, as if his looking is enough to make your existence come true. Hell, he has even tried to find you in the touch of a man, imagining the lips wrapped around him as yours and expecting to hear some muffled quip about how much he’s enjoying this. The man had said something along those lines and Viktor had laughed — actually laughed — when he couldn’t match the cadence to yours and realised his own ridiculousness. Unfortunately, the man didn’t share your fondness for laughing during sex. So Viktor had finished himself off in the bathroom, looked for you, as he most often did, in the palm of his hand. He hasn’t decided whether he wants to replicate results or find evidence against the theory that men never get over their first love. Either way, his findings are not promising.

For a second — and it is quite unfortunate that it’s within the first minute of his arrival — tunnel vision kicks in and the room narrows to you.

What he had failed to account for in his collecting of evidence is that he might see you. And that you might not be alone. You might, for instance, be leaned against a pillar in the middle of the room where everyone could see you, and you might be flirting with an objectively attractive man, showing him off like a shiny trophy. Look what I can do, he imagines you’re thinking. It is even worse that you’ve chosen to look back at him, forcing him to keep whatever curses he wants to mutter to himself until you finally decide he’s not worth looking at anymore.

Black cotton and tour dates stare back at Viktor as he tries to bore a hole through the man with his eyes, if only to get a proper look at you. You're showing off, it seems, and he'd like to get a look at how you're taking your victory.

He hears his name called out from across the room, warm and bright, accompanied by Jayce's enthusiastic wave beckoning him over. His inquiry will have to wait.

“Hey, Vik! Thought you might bail on us after last night,” Jayce greets with a firm clap to his shoulder.

Viktor pretends that Jayce's hand landed too heavy and mocks an unsteady sway. “I am no weakling, Jayce. I can handle a few nights out in a row.”

He watches Mel trace his eye line, throwing a glance over her shoulder in your direction. She seems unsurprised by your current situation.

So, this wasn't new for you then.

"It's good to see you," Mel says with her la bise. "We could've given you a heads up."

"It's fine," Viktor replies too quickly.

It should be fine. It should provide him with some closure. You were both moving on, as you both should. Mel eyes him with a level of scepticism possessed only by someone who knows too much, but does not push.

"Jayce was just telling me that you've moved up from teaching assistant to associate lecturer. Congrats, you deserve it," she continues.

Viktor smiles awkwardly, accepting the pat on the back with a small nod. He is about to say something about how the increase in workload is necessary evil of this development when Jayce swoops in and saves him from downplaying his achievements. Or really having to make any conversation at all.

Which is good, because conversation is proving nearly impossible.

Because Viktor cannot stop looking at you. He cannot stop watching you, he cannot help himself but to study the way you try and coax this other man out of his shell. He cannot help but notice how you hide your frustration at the man's inaction behind an unmoving smile. There is part of Viktor that feels bad for the guy, because he is either a fucking idiot who can't read your fuck-me eyes, or he just can't handle being on the receiving end of them. Neither option will end in you having a good time. The other part of Viktor wants to show the man how it's done. If it was him over there, he'd have you a blushing mess in seconds. In fact, Viktor's positive he'd have dragged you away from that pillar you're clinging to and bent you over the bathroom sink. He'd fuck you from behind, make you look at yourself in the mirror while he tells you to be quiet, and how pretty you are, and you good you are, and how you plague him, and how he cannot stop thinking about you and how he almost hates you for it.

A head's up would have been nice, actually. That way he might not be stood here, staring at you half-hard, while Jayce blathers on about- Viktor realises he has no clue what Jayce is talking about because he hasn't been listening. And he cannot listen because you are driving him insane from all the way across the room without having so much as looked at him in the last five far-too-long minutes. There must be something, something divine, something supernatural, anything that explains why he cannot help but be drawn to you whether he should be or not. He is convinced you must be putting out some kind of siren call designed specifically to torment him and him alone.

Your eyes seem too trained on the man, as if you are trying not to look back at Viktor. He knows if he looks for too long you will give in and return eye contact, and he's not sure that's what he wants but he doesn't get a choice when he proves himself right.

You look. He stiffens, grip tightening on his cane, holding his breath.

Your stare is blank. And in spite of himself, he thinks you are beautiful.

“And so then- what are you looking at?” Jayce furrows his brow and looks over his shoulder. “Oh,” he pauses, and Jayce's looking causes you to look away. “You should go talk to her.”

“Jayce,” Mel warns gently, a hand on his back.

Viktor finally comes back to conversation. “No it’s okay, she’s busy.”

“Hah, busy is one word for it,” Jayce jokes, good-natured yet poorly placed.

“Jayce” Mel warns again with a quelling look.

Viktor's eyes flick to Jayce and his brow twitches slightly. “My point is proven, then.” When he looks back at you, your eyes are fixed on the floor and you fiddle with your necklace.

"She's going through a phase," Mel offers as some flimsy explanation for Jayce's joke.

Phase. Right. Viktor couldn't say he didn't know what you were doing. It was obvious, for one. He'd heard talk that you had broken out of your usual goody-two-shoes routine. This was merely confirmation. And it was written all over your face when you saw him. Guilty, yes, but for once you didn't look like you were going to throw up about it. It almost suited you.

Viktor clears his throat. "I got that."

Jayce and Mel give him sheepish, apologetic looks that Viktor decides he can't bear. "I need a drink," he tells them before slipping past them.

The drinks are in the kitchen. To get to the kitchen, he has to walk past you. He could give you a wide berth and slip right by you, but where would be the fun in that? No, you have been setting him adrift since he got here and it was unfair that he be the only one affected.

Viktor calculates his trajectory. A bump to your shoulder, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to hopefully dislodge you from that goddamn pillar you clung to like a barnacle.

Your poker face has never been one of your strengths, but you muster up everything you have to give away as little as possible as you stare back at Viktor. You wish sometimes that you didn't say as much with your face as you did. It had gotten you in trouble on more than one occasion, catching you out in a lie or revealing your amusement in what is supposed to be a serious situation. God forbid Viktor saw you were affected at all by his being here. Getting over someone in theory is one thing, but seeing them in person tends to feel like picking at a scabbed over wound. You had done a decently good job of avoiding him; between the last time and now, all you'd seen of him was a glimpse in university hallways and cafes. Other than that, your self-experimentation went on without disruption. You just hadn't found what you were looking for yet, whatever that was.

Viktor should have no choice but to believe that you feel fine about him being here. You were both free to do whatever you liked. It wasn't that you felt bad for flirting with someone else in front of him, you thought, but that it was simply awkward to see you ex like this. Yes, that was it, that was the queasiness that had come over you. That or the mixing liquors in your stomach.

The self-experimentation was about you, and you could take constructive criticism. 'You think too much and talk even more'. Viktor hadn't been wrong. There was no harm in trying something different, something out of your comfort zone, something to push you.

You put your blinders on as you decide that ignoring Viktor is the best course of action for tonight. But Viktor's stare is piercing and unbearable, and you'd like to use it to your advantage and put on a show for him he'd hate. Tall Dark and Handsome will do for now, because even though he might be more effort than you're usually willing to put in, he comes with the added benefit of pissing Viktor off. You play the part of interested, bare your teeth in your smiles, get touchier, make it look like you're going to do more than get this man to walk you to a taxi rank so you're seen leaving together.

The only reason you look back over at Viktor is to check whether it's working. Though he is still staring back unwaveringly, there's very little you can see in the way of a reaction. Maybe you should give it up. Maybe this is more effort than it's worth. When Jayce joins in with the looking it's your cue to put the blinders back on. This time you actually try to listen to what the man before you is saying.

And then it happens, the glorious catharsis of being right, of winning. Viktor's shoulder collides with you, sending you a stumbling step to the left. Never in your life have you been so delighted to be pissed off.

The triumph is short-lived, lasting as long as the dull ghost of him at your shoulder. It is replaced by a phantom on the back of your hand. Barely there, so faint it might not have been real. You could've sworn you felt the graze of his knuckles. And if you did, it must've been accidental, he wouldn't have done that on purpose-

Tall Dark and Handsome puts out a hand to steady you and says your name as he waits for you to answer him.

"Sorry, zoned out there for a minute," you reply, trying to shake Viktor off and attach yourself back to the pillar. He was just bumping you in retaliation, what else could it have been?

"Oh, you alright? Need some water?" Tall Dark and Handsome checks, bless his heart.

"Yeah, I'm okay." When you look up, he is watching Viktor go, and it's not with the mild annoyance you expect, but intrigue. The poor boy obviously thinks it was an accident.

You put your smile back to steal his attention back to you. "What were you saying?"

You don't get to find out what it is Tall Dark and Handsome was saying, not for lack of trying, but he may as well be talking gibberish because that's all you can hear. He talks enough that your hums and nods and yeahs sound like active listening as you finally relinquish the idea of sleeping with him.

He must finally have realised he'll get nothing from you, because at some point he'd left. You don't remember when, but you notice that he hasn't come back. Some sweet girl that must've seen the whole thing comes to check on on you, pressing a glass of water into your hand, making small talk, attempting to pull you out of the shell you've retreated back into.

You have been set adrift, the pillar doing little to anchor you now. The sensation of Viktor's knuckles against yours haunts you. You're still not convinced it was real, and still not convinced it was on purpose. Because what reason would he have for doing it on purpose? It's not like he wanted anything from you. He probably just wanted a reaction. That is, if it was on purpose, he probably just wanted you to feel bad for flirting in front of him. And, if that was the case, he really shouldn't have come to a party. People flirt at parties, he'd have to get over it since he was the one who didn't have time for you. Yes, a reaction, that's what he wanted. Because if he didn't want a reaction, if he wanted something else, that was a whole other kettle of fish. Maybe he wanted to shake that guy off you, but then he shouldn't have bumped you. He might've wanted you to follow him, but follow him for what?

The girl checking on you is saying something about how guys suck while you're thinking yourself into an early grave. Viktor's laugh puts the final nail in the coffin.

Viktor is standing in front of none other than Tall Dark and Handsome, who is leaning against the wall while Viktor twirls his cane idly. Viktor has him blushing deeper than you ever managed for the forty-five minutes you had him, and he looks more at ease somehow despite how heavy you know Viktor's gaze is. Maybe the he finds the weight of it comforting. You always did. Viktor had this uncanny ability to make a person feel seen just by looking at them. It was less like being looked at and more like being disassembled to see how you work, then put back together.

You realise you have not won. No, Viktor's reaction was a consolation prize, a distraction so that he could do this. Confusion spoils, turns ugly and boils over.

"Sorry, I think I see someone I know," you tell the girl who is still trying to reassure you.

You're moving before you can even think about it.

Bas, as Viktor had learned the man's name was, was far too sweet to be used as bait in this game of who-will-break-first. Admittedly, Viktor had first approached him to find out what you'd seen in him. He'd been right to think that Bas couldn't handle your fuck-me eyes, evident now that he was positively melting under Viktor's. It was cute, really, Viktor felt a little bad that Bas had been lured in and caught up in all this nonsense between you. Viktor could hardly blame him, you were not easy to resist by his account. None of this had been Bas's fault, and it had turned out a bit too much hassle for Viktor too. Perhaps it would be welcome if Viktor made it worth both their whiles.

There is a hand on Viktor's shoulder. And then you are looking up at him with a saccharine smile. Bas is giving you an awkward but polite nod in lieu of acknowledging he ditched you. And Viktor cannot think of what you'd possibly want now other than payback for displacing you earlier.

"Can I steal him from you for a minute?" you ask Bas, but Viktor knows it is not really a question.

A stuttered 'sure' is hardly out of Bas's mouth before Viktor is being dragged away. He doesn't have time to protest the matter. You have pulled him away from the party, into the darkened hallway reserved for chatting while you wait for the bathroom or making out.

His back hits the wall with a thud, but there are no needy lips on his. Instead, you are pointing a finger at him and demanding answers from him like he's committed a crime.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Am I not allowed to talk to people?”

“You’re stepping on my toes, you’re doing it on purpose.” Ah, so you have decided what he is doing for him.

“You weren't exactly having the best time with him,” he points out.

You snarl. “Oh, I see, you’re jealous.”

Viktor has to admit, he is amused at all the hoops you are jumping through to blame this entirely on him. “Yes, I’m the one that’s jealous,” he mocks.

It sets you off. The words come spilling out of your mouth, hot and venomous and bitter and mean. Viktor should be upset at the interruption, worried about causing a scene, shocked and angry that you'd say anything as nasty as what you're spewing. He is impressed by the sheer volume of it, and none of it lands close to hurting him. He is too focussed on the way your lips curl around every jab, the way your teeth gnash at the air and pierce vowels. Consonants cutting, scarlet creeping up your neck, and a line between your brows he wants to lick flat. Viktor has never seen you like this, not with anyone. He knew it was there, simmering underneath your skin, waiting to be seen. So many times he had asked you to show it to him, tried to provoke it. So many times all he had wanted was to see you free from the vice grip your strange morality had on you, and have you show him how you felt instead of packaging the feelings all pretty with an apology note attached.

A glob of saliva flies from your mouth in your rage and lands on his shirt. Right now, you are so angry, and you are so free. And somehow, it makes you more beautiful than you already were.

"You think you’re so clever, you think you know me so well, don’t you? Well guess what? I’m different now, you don’t know anything about me-”

Viktor kisses you. It's not a smart decision by any measure. He gets the angle wrong, lips meeting your teeth instead, resulting in a blooming, bruising pain. He half expects you to bite down and draw blood, push him off you and call him an asshole and tell him to stay away from you.

You correct the course. Shift into him, use his shirt to press him further into the wall as you lean your weight forward. Viktor opens his mouth to accept your barbed tongue, sucks on it gently and swallows all that venom down for you and relishes the bitterness. He grabs at your hips, pulling you against him by the belt loops.

The hands fisted into his shirt drag him towards a bedroom, and Viktor goes without resistance. He would follow you anywhere, and if it meant he could continue receiving your wrath he'd let you trawl him along the ocean floor. If he had known this is what your ire looked like, he might have tried harder to provoke it. He offers up his lip for you to gnaw on as he backs you up to the bed, cane abandoned by the door, and falls down with you.

Viktor kisses down your front, pulling your jeans down with him. He buries his nose against the dampened cotton of your underwear and takes a deep inhale there, breathing in the sweet musk that heaven must smell like. He could die happy here between your thighs, nose pressed to your clothed cunt, your hand loosely in his hair. He would live here if you let him. He licks you through the fabric, his taste buds catching on cotton. He knows the most you’ll feel is the heat of his flat tongue, that you’ll think he’s taking his sweet time just to drive you crazy. But it’s not for you, it’s for him. He needs literally anything to pace himself right now, to not come in his pants like a teenager from just the taste of you. You’d find it hot, no doubt, might even let him fuck you because of it.

“Vik, your leg-” you protest. The nickname is not new by any means but he files it away for later regardless, along with your brief moment of concern.

“Is fine,” he assures, but his knee argues. “Throw me a pillow.”

He peels your panties off so they joins your jeans at your ankles. Finally, he can kiss lips that do not claim to hate him. Viktor is measured at first, gentle as he licks from opening to clit. He slides a hand under your shirt to brace both you and himself as he settles back into the feeling of you.

The little gasp you let out spurs Viktor on. He is pleased you are not angry with him anymore, unfiltered fury bleeding out of you as you soften, tense, pull his head further into your crotch. He licks it up, fucks you with his tongue first and his hips rut into the bed frame.

When you whine, he knows you want more. He gives you his fingers, because he would give you anything, pumping them inside you as he flicks his tongue over your clit steadily. Your thighs tighten around his head and make it harder to breathe, though this is less of a problem than how it muffles the sound of your voice. Every whimper, every moan of his name, every plea is kept from him by the very flesh he reveres.

He listens to your body instead; the scrape of your nails against his scalp, the way you pry his hand off your stomach and interlace your fingers there and squeeze. Your hips cant into his face. He hums into you to answer the question your body is asking him. Then you are coming around his fingers, and he is lapping at you to savour every moment he has of you like this.

Viktor catches his breath against your thigh. He presses a kiss there tentatively, and you are either too boneless to brush him off, or — if he lets himself hope — you like it as much as he does. He chances at another, then another at your hip, another at your navel, then your sternum through your shirt, collar bone, neck-

His nose traces the shell of your ear, he can smell your perfume emanating from where you tucked it under your jaw.

"Lásko…" he breathes.

The next kiss he places lands on thin air.

Viktor opens his eyes to find yours averted, your whole face turned away from him. The hope he had just barely nurtured withers. Somehow, somewhere, he has made a mistake, and you are angry again. This time it is the kind that you bite back and swallow down for fear of anyone seeing it. He wants to rest his forehead to yours, make you look at him. He would take it if you started shouting at him again, but you are already squirming out from under him.

He lets you go because he doesn't know how to stop you without making this worse. He doesn't even really know what he did wrong. The door slams behind you and Viktor collapses into the hollow you left in the sheets. He wants them to smell of your sweat but they only smells of whosever room this is.