#viktor writings

[whatbecomesofprogress]

While keeping a Waverider may be completely impossible within an apartment not much bigger than a full grown one would be. A tank for their similar, much smaller, relatives is something Viktor can fit in his apartment. Still, it is something big enough that he has allowed it to take up nearly an entire wall. It does not need to be that large, but he could not stand to have the bare minimum for the creatures. Housing three within the well cared for tank, rocks and plants sit on dark sand. And in the water three axolotl swim. Moving throughout the tank with simple ease, caring not for any worries of those outside of the tank.  Viktor sits to watch them regularly. Like today. With work spread out in front of him, ink on his fingers, sweet milk beside him, a blanket around his waist while he leans too far forward to look at the books. Eyes wandering up to the tank. Watching the pink creatures float through their tank. Admiring the carelessness of them. Perhaps he should take them up on the offer. The offer of doing nothing. Just for a minute.  Just for a minute.

[whatbecomesofprogress]

The water boils slow as ever in the kettle on his stove. He feels the whistling should have started a good ten minutes ago. But it has not. It has not even been ten minutes. 

His fingers white-knuckled against the counter, holding himself as steady as he can with jumping muscles in his lower back. Pressing it firmly to the edge, pressing until he can feel the bones in his spine pop. Giving him momentary relief from the spasming. His hands loosen, just for a moment. And his head hangs almost against his chest. Breath coming in and out of his nose with shaking shoulders. His teeth pressed tightly against each other, almost making his jaw shake and ache. His breath coming in slow, and out slow. Numbers ran through his mind with each breath. Thinking himself through the pain. Waiting on that damn kettle to start whistling. Eyes so unfocused he can only see the blurred colours of his familiar kitchen. He could walk through it blind, nearly has at times. One, two, three, four… hold. One, two, three, four, five… Again.

And the kettle whistles. Pulling him from repeating numbers and shocking pain. His eyes shot open and his hands let go of the counter. Stumbling for the kettle and the hot water bottle. Willing his hands stable so he will not pour boiling water over his fingers. The bottle is filled. The kettle was set down. The bottle’s top is screwed in place. 

Viktor stumbles back to one of his chairs. Falling into it as his leg gives out even with the support of his crutch. He breathes out with a shake in his lungs. Getting the bottle against his lower back and laid himself into it. The sound left him nearly a sob.