*adjust*

i don’t know if it’s the same for anyone else, but liam was a massive part of why OTRA was so important to me. he went out there every single night and killed it. he read signs. he interacted with fans. he interacted with parents. he danced. he played off his bandmates. he stepped up to the plate and smashed solos that weren’t originally his as they adjusted to touring as a foursome. he just… he really made that tour special. so now that he’s opened up that he was struggling with his mental health during it, i just want to say i’m so proud of him for getting up there. i never would have known he was having a tough time or that he felt like he was forcing it if he hadn’t said so. while he was helping ME with my mental health, making sure i was having the time of my life, being apart of MY happy place, he was also struggling. and i’m just so…. i hope he’s a lot better now and that he’s fallen back in love with being on stage for us again because i sure have missed stage liam and i’ve thrived on seeing him perform his solo material!!!! thank you liam for being so open. thank you for doing what you did on that tour even though it wasn’t easy. i have so much respect and love for liam payne. SO. MUCH.

31. Stop biting that fucking lip.

Despite spending the last four years of his life studying Russia, Yuuri was still greatly underprepared for how cold it was when he arrived. The palace consort had offered his sister, Mari, Minako-sensei and himself a fine fur pelt each to wear; something Yuuri gratefully accepted as the chill had gone through the wool of his mon-tsuki like needles, hakama soaked nearly up to his knees from the snow.

‘Stop biting that fucking lip,’ Mari snapped, Japanese vulgar in her impatience to get into the warmth of the drawing room they had been brought to. Yuuri squeaked, glancing quickly to where Minako-sensei was walking ahead of them. But thankfully, their tutor seemed not to hear them.

‘I c-can’t help it,’ Yuuri replied, barely containing his shiver. ‘My teeth won’t stop shaking.’

Mari rolled her eyes as they entered the drawing room, bowing her head to the servant who held the door for them. Yuuri followed after her, still dwarfed by his older sibling’s height and attempted to do the same, bending his body. Unfortunately, this just had Yuuri stepping onto the front his hakama and stumbling.

At 14, Yuuri was still adjusting to the formal wear, not used to having fabric bundle after him so much. It had taken great practice not to trip entirely over the hakama’s length, the weight of his mon-tsuki making it incredibly awkward to gather any semblance of lift over the whole ensemble. While the pelt didn’t help in that regard, it at least had the benefit of keeping Yuuri warm.

‘I’m sorry,’ Yuuri said in English to the servant, whose white skin and fine hair looked as striking as everyone else Yuuri had met in Saint-Petersburg so far. The servant said nothing, light eyes darting between Yuuri and the tall figure of their consort.

Lilia Baranovskaya was as imposing as she was alien to Yuuri, long nose constantly titled up in a position of great displeasure. Yuuri had only met her once before, four years prior when she had travelled to Japan first with the Tsar and his advisors. She seemed just as terrifying now as she did then, green eyes fixed on Yuuri like he were something she were about to dissect. She straightened the skirt of her Western gown, vivid purple silk which fitted her frame in direct contrast to Minako-sensei’s demure kimono.

‘She won’t understand you,’ Lilia said, her English sounding almost completely foreign in accent. ‘None of the servants speak English.’

‘Why not?’ Yuuri asked, curiosity ahead of his manners. Minako-sensei sighed, Mari rolling her eyes again.

‘It wouldn’t be proper. Now sit by the fire, before you catch cold,’ Lilia replied like it were obvious, before dispatching the servant in rapid Russian.

Yuuri was quiet then, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. Yuuri tightened his grip of the pelt around himself, walking closer to the chairs that were laid out before the fire.The sketches of the Winter Palace did not the do the reality of the building any justice, as far as Yuuri was concerned. It’s grandness gave Yuuri a hollow feeling in his stomach, nervous of the opulence that was gilded to the walls like it were worth the same as wood. Even the fireplace looked to be carved from riches, small gems of greens and reds encrusted along the spiralling gold carvings.

Mari sat across from Yuuri, her posture less proper than Yuuri expected. Yuuri didn’t imitate, keeping his back straight and hands folded neatly as Minako-sensei and Lilia began to speak in hushed tones at the chaise in the furtherest corner of the room. Discussing Yuuri, he was in no doubt. Yuuri watched the flames for a long while, talking with Mari about the journey, trying to ignore the mutterings behind him. When Yuuri heard the word marriage, the nervousness eating him from within won out.

‘Excuse me,’ Yuuri said politely, standing up from his chair. Lilia and Minako-sensei both looked from their discussion, eyes considering. Yuuri did his best not to blush. ‘But I’m feeling quite heavy-headed from all the travel. Could I be excused to take a turn around the gardens for some fresh air?’

Minako-sensei opened her mouth first, no doubt to tell Yuuri no. But then Lilia was standing, sharp chin pointed down in consideration.

‘Of course. I’ll fetch you a chaperone.’

Which was how Yuuri now found himself back out in the snow he had been so resentful of at first, an armed escort walking five steps behind him. But anything was better than sitting in that small, glittering room like it were anything but the cage it would inevitably be. Yuuri looked around himself, at the towering stone walls of the palace and how they seemed to dwarf out even the white blanket of the sky. The snow falling in the small, snow thick space of the garden courtyard that sat in the centre of the palace reminded Yuuri of the snowglobes the Tsar would send his family at the winter seasons.

Someday, Yuuri would be one of those small glass figures. Trapped behind a wall he could not see and drowning beneath Russian snow.

Yuuri’s turn of the square came to a halt once he crossed the far corner, the central trees passing to reveal a small arena of some kind that didn’t appear to be part of the original garden. It was like the pavement had been dug up to form a small, square pond of sorts. And on the pond’s frozen surface was a boy, a teenager perhaps, gliding across the ice like a dancer.

Yuuri stopped where he was, uncaring of the snow that was eating through his boots. He watched, transfixed as the other boy bent low, his body the delicate contortion of strength, before leaping into the air. Spinning, like string unwoven, and landing back on the ice with a clap like thunder. Yuuri’s heart swelled in his chest, entranced.

The boy was dressed well, or at least he was from Yuuri’s understanding of Russian fashion. He was wearing a coat of leather, fur-lined and thick so some of the movements of the boy’s arms looked unseamly with its bulk. On his head was one of those round, fur hats Yuuri had seen from his carriage to the palace, hands covered in rounded gloves. Yuuri found himself walking, interest and hope coming together like the stitching of his mon-tsuki, approaching the makeshift ice with speed.

Yuuri stopped when he reached the edge, which was lined with a straight wooden fence. The skater turned on his steel, speed ruddering him across the uneven surface of the ice. He looked over to Yuuri, reaching up with a gloved hand to pull the front of his coat down.

He was… beautiful. With a narrow face and straight nose, eyes vivid in their blueness and Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat. Yuuri flushed, whole body quaking as his embarrassment suddenly thawed the chill that had set in his bones. The skater approached as Yuuri tried to hide his quivering under the thick pelt.

The Tsarevich, Yuuri guessed. The boy who would become the man that would inherit this large, strange country. The man Yuuri would marry, as arranged by their respective courts.

The Tsarevich skated up to the fence, his pale skin burnished pink from the cold in a manner Yuuri couldn’t help but stare at. It was so strange, to see skin so stark like it were burnt. The boy was tall, even if he hadn’t been wearing his steel and easily the three or so years older Yuuri knew the Tsarevich to be. Yuuri’s breath was a cloud in front of him, the Tsarevich’s eyes glacial as they regarded Yuuri from beneath his cap.

When the Tsarevich spoke, it was in Russian and Yuuri was struck dumb with the speed of it, the harsh sound of it in his ears. Yuuri stared, unsure how to even respond. Yuuri hadn’t been taught Russian, on the request of the Russian court.

‘So they can hide their secrets,’ Minako-sensei had said with disdain, all that time ago. Yuuri realised too late that he still hadn’t said anything and he panicked, voice squeaking in his throat like a girls. Yuuri winced, embarrassed but the Tsarevich was suddenly cooing soothingly.

‘Prosti, prosti,’ the Tsarevich said, reaching out with a gloved hand to touch Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri flinched from the touch, unsure and the Tsarevich retreated. ‘I am sorry. English?’

Yuuri blinked, caught off guard. Then, his manners returned to him.

‘Yes,’ he replied, word a cloud in the cold. ‘I speak English.’

‘Wonderful,’ the Tsarevich replied, tugging a glove off with his teeth. Yuuri stared, amazed by the lack of propriety and strangely, relieved by it also. The Tsarevich held his hand out, fingers white like the snow. ‘I’m Victor.’

‘Katsuki Yuuri,’ Yuuri said, untangling a hand from where he had it bundled beneath the felt. Victor smiled, a slanted thing that made Yuuri’s stomach squeeze. Yuuri’s fingers were red now, too. Hand shaking. Victor took it, before looking down with wide eyes.

‘Your hand is freezing!’ he exclaimed and Yuuri snatched it back, afraid he’d overstepped. Then, much to his surprise, Victor tugged his other glove off and offered both out to Yuuri from over the top of the fence. When Yuuri didn’t move to take them, Victor took Yuuri’s hand into his own. ‘Please, I insist you take these. That fur won’t be enough, especially once the sun goes down.’

‘T-thank you,’ Yuuri replied, nerves catching on the words like hooks. He took the gloves, slipping them on when Victor waved a hand at him to do so. They were lined in fur as well and Yuuri couldn’t stop the sigh of relief he felt at having them. They were still warm from Victor’s skin.

Victor smiled again, his teeth sharp and eyes bright. Yuuri smiled back, happy to have pleased him.

‘Do you know how to skate?’ Victor asked, gesturing to the ice behind him. Yuuri shook his head, replacing his now gloved-hands beneath the pelt again.

‘No, we don’t really have the sport where I’m from,’ Yuuri said, not hiding the disappointment he felt. ‘But I know all about it. I’ve admired it for a long time.’

‘Perhaps I’ll teach you!’ Victor said boldly and it had Yuuri blushing. So forward, though perhaps Yuuri should’ve expected it. ‘Would you like me to skate for you?’

‘Please!’ Yuuri said, not bothering to contain the excitement he felt. Victor grinned, bright like the moon.

Yuuri wasn’t sure how much time passed between them. Enough for the snow to crawl up past the knees of his hakama, for certain and enough for even the escort assigned to him to cough. But Yuuri found that he didn’t care. He was totally caught by the movement of Victor’s body, the tumbling sound of his laugh. They shouted conversation across the ice to each other, Victor waving when he would skate close to where Yuuri was standing.

Then, Victor’s steel caught the edge of uneven ice, sending his body down. Yuuri cried out as Victor hit the ice, his cap flying off him in the impact. From beneath it, a curtain of long, fine hair spilled out. Silver as the ice it was laying against, Yuuri lost his words and even his panic for a moment at the beauty of it. Victor gathered himself up, brushing the ice dust from his jacket and looking around for his cap.

‘Ah, that was embarrassing,’ Victor said as he approached the fence again, shaking his retrieved cap. Yuuri said nothing, watching the sway of Victor’s long hair like it were a clock’s pendulum. ‘Though, I never have such a charming distraction.’

The compliment brought Yuuri tumbling right back down to earth.

‘I’m so sorry!’ he said, reaching out to touch Victor. He held Victor’s arm, barely feeling him under the layers of fabric between them. ‘You are not hurt, are you?’

‘I have survived far worse, I promise you,’ Victor said, winking and Yuuri was struck again by his brashness. Victor reached up, turning his hair around like rope.

Yuuri remembered when he had had his own hair cut before the journey, Minako-sensei pulling the strands back before taking a blade to it. Cutting it all the way up, to Yuuri’s ears. It was the fashion in the West, Minako-sensei had said. They had wanted to make a good first impression.

‘What do the people think, to have the Tsarevich grow his hair so long?’ Yuuri asked, admiring the way Victor’s hair shone like starlight from his dislodged cap. 

Victor froze, abandoning the replacement of his cap and staring at Yuuri in a manner most uncomely with his mouth slightly open and Yuuri panicked, worried he had offended. 

‘My- my apologies!’ Yuuri stammered, bowing as low as he could. ‘That was uncouth. Please forgive me.’

‘No, no!’ Victor said, seemingly finding his voice. Yuuri titled his head up, not entirely comfortable to straighten up fully yet. Victor pushed his fine hair from his face, looking quite sheepish. ‘You did nothing of the sort. I’m afraid it’s me who has been foolish and should be apologising. I swear, I never meant to mislead you.’

Yuuri did straighten up at that, suddenly wary. He stepped back, watching Victor carefully. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not the Tsarevich,’ Victor said, eyes downcast with a look of shame. Yuuri’s heart stopped in his chest, stomach dropping like a stone. ‘I’m his skating coach.’

chameleon-tea  asked:

136 with mileven?

136: “You had a nightmare, tell me what it was about so I can fix it.”
Anonymous asked: Mike comforting Eleven after she has a nightmare, or vice versa. I literally cannot decide which one is better 😭
WC: 577


El awakes with a start, heart pounding, fingers shaking. A droplet of blood streams from her nose, hot and tacky.

Though her nightmare is quickly fading from memory, jarring images are still engrained in her mind. Darkness. Monster. Three-to-the-right. Four-to-the-left. Falling. She can’t breathe. Mike, gone.

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Why Tweek and Craig are Both Important as Representation

Craig is loved as an example of good representation for gay people. He’s the complete opposite of gay stereotypes. But because of this, Tweek is often dismissed even though his representation is just as important. Let me explain why both of these characters come together as great representation.

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46. What if I told you I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.

When Victor had first received the invitation from the Tsarevich, he’d had half a mind to decline.

But then Yakov had scolded him, telling Victor would be insolent at best and dangerous at worst. Victor couldn’t deny that, knowing Friedrich as well as he did. Ever since they were teenagers, Victor guiding the would-be Tsar around the ice, Friedrich had always made his temper known. Victor had often found him unpleasant at times in their youth, the callous way he would treat his servants rankling Victor’s sensitivities.

Once Victor’s coaching had ended when Friedrich entered the political sphere at eighteen, Victor had swallowed his distaste, taken the money he’d been granted and fled further West into the continent. Never in the last decade did Victor think the Tsarevich’s reach would stretch as far as Vienna, but here was Victor being proven unfortunately wrong.

Victor bowed to the doorman at the Hotel Imperial, handing his invitation over with a careful flick of the wrist. The doorman nodded, calling over an escort to bring Victor to what was no doubt going to be one of the more grand ballrooms. Friedrich always had a taste for fine things, even by royal standards. If the Tsar ever did die, (which looked unlikely, as the codger seemed intent of living forever), Friedrich would likely bankrupt Russia in a week.

Not that Victor cared, mind.

Victor followed his escort up the Royal Staircase, adjusting the buttons of his shirt from where the white cuffs sat below the sleeves of his black tailcoat. When Victor had first suggested a short jacket, preferring the more daring fashion of it, Yakov had nearly thrown the kettle he’d been boiling at the time at Victor’s head. While it had definitely been worth it to rile Yakov up, Victor knew that he’d do better to try and emulate the Russian aesthetic. Like a good countryman.

The escort took Victor’s overcoat, bowing low and opening the door to the ballroom for him. As expected, Victor was at first blinded by the grandness of it. Gilded walls, like the palaces of home and ornate chandeliers dripping glass and sparkling light across the room. There was chatter and music, and the smell of wine.

‘Victor Nikiforov!’ the escort announced to the room, Victor just biting his lip in time to stop a sigh of resignation.

The ballroom was full of what was undeniably an almost exclusively Russian crowd. Victor recognised some of the faces from his own readings and the papers- bankers and politicians, the odd ballerina. Russia must be empty, Victor thought to himself, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

‘Victor!’ A voice boomed and Victor pushed his hair from his face, preparing himself.

‘Your highness,’ Victor said in familiar Russian as Friedrich approached, bowing low. Friedrich was reflecting almost as much as the chandelier above him, Imperial military jacket bespeckled in shining brass buttons and gleaming medals that sat proudly against his chest. Knowing Friedrich, he was probably wearing them in the prayer of a war.

‘Oh, Victor!’ Friedrich said, grabbing Victor by the shoulders and shoving him upright. ‘Don’t be so formal. I couldn’t have that, dear friend.’

Victor blinked, truly surprised at being called dear. ‘Then what shall you have me call you?’

‘Nothing unpleasant,’ Friedrich replied with a wink, dark eyes hooded beneath his thick eyebrows. He had grown a beard in the last ten years, shaven square and elegant like his father’s. He had not grown much over the last ten years, only brushing Victor’s nose. Victor inclined his head.

‘I would never dream of it,’ Victor said with an easy grin, toasting his glass to Friedrich. Friedrich beamed from behind his beard, clapping Victor so hard on the back it had him choke on his sip of champagne. Hiding his cough, Victor let himself be led into the crowd.

‘Everyone, you must know who this is!’ Friedrich announced to a group of rather impressive looking men and women. Dressed in their finery and regarding Victor in his modest tailcoat with mild interest. ‘Victor Nikiforov, the ice dancer!’

‘Oh yes,’ a portly man said, nodding his red face in Victor’s direction. ‘I’ve heard of you. You have that- how do you say- ice show? Is that it?’

Victor rolled his shoulders. ‘Yes, I do. But only during the winter season, naturally. Otherwise, I spend my time with the ballet.’

‘A waste!’ a woman with blonde hair said, leaning into her husband’s side like what Victor had said almost had her swoon with misfortune. ‘To have such talent lost to the continent. I’ve seen your shows. The Bolshoi would be happy to have you.’

‘Victor was never one for patriotism,’ Friedrich said, giving Victor another strong pat on the back. Victor was rather getting the impression that Friedrich wanted Victor to be hunched over as often as possible, perhaps to make Friedrich appear taller. ‘Fled the old country the moment you were free to, didn’t you, my friend?’

‘Call it wanderlust,’ Victor said airily, taking another sip of champagne before he said something he’d regret.

‘I’d say it was lust of a sort,’ Friedrich said crudely and Victor coughed into his champagne, embarrassed. ‘You were always one to follow a pretty face!’

Victor didn’t know what to say to that, glancing around their company for some inclination of what to do. The other men laughed while their wives smiled benignly, which really only further Victor’s discomfort. He did not appreciate being laughed at.

‘Speaking of such, I must introduce you to someone,’ Friedrich said, taking Victor’s arm again and leading him down the ballroom. Victor smiled to those who nodded to him as they passed, guests bending low to Friedrich who paid them no attention. ‘I must say I didn’t even know you were here in Vienna. Ignorant, on my part, I know. But thankfully, my betrothed knew of your show and insisted we attend. He has quite an interest in skating, you see.’

‘I see,’ Victor replied, not really listening as he finished off his champagne. Then, Victor realised what Friedrich had said to him and stopped so suddenly, he nearly toppled them both to the ground. ‘Forgive me, but did you say your betrothed?’

Friedrich looked at Victor with great amusement. ‘I am a twenty-eight year old man, Victor. Did you think me incapable of finding one?’

‘No… No, of course not,’ Victor said, dazed. His mind was racing and Victor looked over Friedrich’s shoulder, paying far more attention to the people around them. ‘I knew you had an arrangement.’

‘A rather fortunate one, as it has proven to be,’ Friedrich said, puffing out his medaled chest. Victor was certain the flute in his hand would break, he was gripping the stem so tightly. Friedrich seemed not to notice Victor’s anxiety, starting to walk again. ‘He’s quite the beauty, though I’m sure you’ve heard already. Japan performed well in that regard. They must be awfully interested.’

Victor was barely listening, following Friedrich like he were dreaming. Victor felt weightless, without an anchor. His thoughts were running ahead of him, all the imagined fantasies he’d indulged in as a young man rushing down him in a wave of nostalgia that his heart reeling.

They were almost to the end of the ballroom, towards the large windows that led to the balcony overlooking the street. And through the fine chiffon curtains, Victor saw a figure.

The man was wearing what had to be the Japanese fashion, similar to what he had the first time Victor had met him as children. Shimmering satin of a deep, blood red with embroidered black and white spirals that crept up the carefully folded fabric like rose vines. He turned when Friedrich approached, dark eyes catching the golden light of the ballroom and Victor felt time stop around him.

Yuuri.

The years had been exceptionally kind to Yuuri. He had grown tall, though not as tall as Victor, and his frame willowy. Like a dancer, Victor thought as Yuuri’s slim arms came together in front of the thick, silk belt that bound his ensemble together. The dark hair Victor remembered seemed a tad longer, combed back over Yuuri’s head quite fashionably.

And though Yuuri’s face was not as round as Victor remembered it being as a child, his eyes were just as warm. Like firewood embers, earth-brown and catching like flint in the light.

‘Victor,’ Friedrich said, holding a hand out towards Yuuri like he were a particularly fine piece of art. Not that Victor would disagree with such an assessment, as it were. In heavily accented English, Friedrich introduced; ‘This is my fiancé, Yuuri Katsuki.’

Yuuri smiled when he met Victor’s eyes. It was a small thing, just the barest curl of his full lips and then Yuuri was bending low, his arms in front of him.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Victor,’ Yuuri said in English so elegant, it was almost without accent to Victor’s ear. As he straightened back up, Victor was still frozen, all manners and protocol slipping from his mind entirely. Yuuri titled his head, dark eyes burnt gold from the light around them.

‘I think you have him quite stunned,’ Friedrich said and Yuuri looked away, his cheeks colouring. Friedrich laughed and it broke Victor from his reverie, looking to the Tsarevich in a panic. ‘Oh, do not trouble yourself, my friend. Even the court quite forgets the look of their own shoes when they see him.’

‘You are too kind, Your Highness,’ Yuuri said blithely, almost sounding rehearsed to Victor’s ear. He doubted Friedrich’s English was strong enough to pick it up, however. Friedrich stepped over to Yuuri, but Victor noted Yuuri’s slight shift. The way his hips angled slightly away.

‘What is the use of you if I can’t inspire jealousy?’ Friedrich asked, touching Yuuri’s elbow. Victor looked down, unable to stop himself. He saw the satin of Yuuri’s robe bunch, Friedrich was gripping so tight. ‘Yuuri insisted we see your show and once I recognised you, I simply had to invite you to our gathering. Only Russia’s finest, I assure you.’

‘I’m honoured,’ Victor said truthfully, looking to Yuuri’s face. Yuuri glanced up at him from beneath his dark lashes, cheeks still pink. ‘If I have ever done anything you found engaging, then I would consider myself achieved.’

‘Such flattery!’ Friedrich cried, releasing Yuuri and stepping away. He patted Victor’s shoulder again. When he spoke, it was in Russian, Yuuri’s face going blank at the sound of it; ‘I trust with such a sweet tongue you can keep Yuuri entertained while I meet with the General?’

Victor could only nod, not trusting himself to speak. Friedrich smiled at the both of them, before stepping back into the ballroom. Victor stayed where he was, too afraid even to move. Yuuri glanced up at him, a true smile breaking across his beautiful features.

‘Hello, again, Victor.’

‘Yuuri,’ Victor said, grinning before he could stop himself. ‘I wish I had the words, but I don’t.’

Victor walked up to Yuuri, impropriety abundant in his boldness but Victor found himself uncaring. Yuuri looked up at him, smiling so widely now his teeth were flashing between his lips. Victor reached out with his free hand, taking Yuuri’s own by the fingers. He raised it up, pressing the chilled skin to his lips.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any gloves to offer you this time,’ Victor said, words kissed to Yuuri’s fingers. Yuuri was watching him, smile faltering only slightly.

‘You cut your hair,’ Yuuri said, hand slipping out of Victor’s grip. For a moment, Victor thought Yuuri might reach up to touch the careful sweep Victor retained over his left side, but then Yuuri’s hand was gone entirely. ‘It suits you well.’

Victor laughed. ‘You remember my hair?’

‘I remember all of you,’ Yuuri replied, before his eyes went wide. He stepped back, hands tight down at his sides. ‘Forgive me, that was untoward.’

‘It’s flattering to know you’ve thought of me,’ Victor said honestly and Yuuri blushed, turning to face the street from the balcony wall. Victor walked up beside him, his hand brushing against the silken edge of his robe. ‘I’ve thought of you as well. More often than I’m sure is proper for me to admit. Seeing you again is… Like something from a dream.’

Yuuri went nearly as red as his robe, blinking up at Victor with such shock that Victor was sure he’d overstepped. He was just about apologise when Yuuri laughed quietly, pushing a stray hair behind his ear.

‘You’re a skilled flatterer. No wonder you dance so well.’

‘It is truth,’ Victor said earnestly, placing his empty champagne flute down on the balcony wall. He watched Yuuri, careful not to push. ‘I find myself wondering if you kept the gloves I gave you. If you ever tried skating. If you ever think of me. To know at least one of those things for certain is more than I could ever have imagined all these years.’

Yuuri said nothing to that, eyes back down on the street below. Victor saw Yuuri tug on his lip with his teeth, almost like he were concentrating. Perhaps on the carriages that were making their way through the snow that lay across the cobbles.

‘Tell me, Yuuri,’ Victor said, trying to charm and stepping back to appreciate Yuuri’s dress once again. ‘Are you actively seeking a poetic death of cold? Every time I meet you, you seem intent on standing out in the snow.’

‘I must confess a secret,’ Yuuri said, looking up with a bashful nervousness. Yuuri inclined his head behind them. ‘I don’t care much for these political parties. I don’t really perform well with an audience, despite what His Highness says. I’d rather be out here alone and cold, than warm and with those people.’

Victor laughed, charmed as he had been at seventeen. ‘I certainly can’t blame you for that. I ran from the whole country. But I can tell you a secret, so you don’t feel too bad for it. Might be a dreadful secret though.’

Yuuri smiled, eyes coy. ‘I’m sure I could pardon you.’

Victor stepped closer, waiting for Yuuri to meet his eye. He watched Yuuri’s face, traced the lines of the cheeks Victor remembered and the lips he’d dreamed of.

‘What if I told you that I have been in love with you since we were children?’ Victor asked, voice low with an emotion too dangerous to name. Yuuri looked at Victor, his brown eyes round.

‘Then I would say you were a fool,’ Yuuri replied, breathless and it put a fire in Victor’s heart. ‘Who says such things?’

‘Fools, I’m told,’ Victor teased back, cautious but not adverse to the tension that gathered between them. It reminded him of the thunderous clouds that would roll over Vienna in the autumn time, promising split skies and flooding rain. Yuuri looked as devastating as a storm.

‘Or liars,’ Yuuri said, voice suddenly cold. He stepped away from Victor, hands before him again in perfect posture. He stood tall, regarding Victor warily. ‘It was good to see you again, Victor.’

Before Victor could say anything else, Yuuri turned and headed back into the ballroom, leaving Victor standing in the snow, wondering if he’d ever misstepped so badly before in his life.

some old wench on my charles manson post was like Oooh you Didn’t know mister manson had a swastika on his noggin? even though that doesn’t negate your point? Silly tumblr user… and obviously i didn’t know that info i’m a sane well-adjusted human being who’s too busy eating pussy on a daily basis to pop in serial killers in ye olde google image search to study their ugly hog bodies and mangled faces. My plight!

Step one: Denial.
they’d never hurt you on purpose. they’re different, it’ll be okay.

Step two: Anger.
they said they’d stay. it was supposed to work out this time. they’re just like everyone else. they never cared.

Step three: Bargaining.
maybe it was a mistake. they’ll come back. they didn’t mean to hurt you.

Step four: Depression.
they aren’t coming back. and it hurts. when does it stop hurting please come back i need you I’m sorry.

Step five: Acceptance.
It was never worth the effort you put into it. they will never be able to give you what you need. it’s okay. you’re okay.

3

Visited Cape May last Sunday :D It was so nice to see the beach again even if it was only a few hours ;;v;; ♥

Also, I have personal IG :D ((hhhh i’m still wondering what else I should upload there hahahazzzzz))

090217 - spanish review; (1/100 dop)

  aaah so im really excited because im starting the 100 dop today :,D i had a busybusy first week of school so this will kind of help me motivate myself for the school year !