(vaguely inspired by "know better" from sir Chloe. Go give it a listen :) ))

Viktor should really know better.

He wasn't a stranger to these moods of his. The crushing weight on his chest. The eyes following his every movement. He was no stranger to the bursts of panicked breaths, the retching over the sink when he didn't even have anything to cough up. He knew these hands, clawing at his neck. Viktor knew that this happened to him often. Too often. But he never learned how to cope.

Two glasses. A half empty, half full pill bottle. One of the glasses for water, the other for whatever cheap alcohol he could get his hands on, stumbling through his apartment. Pills with alcohol, some dim voice nagged in the back of his mind. It was too late to care, anyways. Some painkillers wouldn't kill him. Probably.

It didn't feel like enough. The hands were still there. The eyes too. Viktor rushed to the bathroom, his stomach turning itself upside down again to cough out the burning mixture of bile and spirits. It was never enough, anymore.

The only thing he could think of was going to your place. You wouldn't mind. It wasn't the first time he pulled something like this. A jacket, the keys, and his cane, and he was out. He wasn't even sure he remembered to bring his phone.

The streets were still lit, but it wouldn't be long before the time they'd turn off. Viktor checked his phone. Eleven forty-five, on a Tuesday night. No one was out except him. Was to be expected, for Piltover.

The stairs to your apartment almost made him reconsider his decision to come see you. It took him a while, but he prevailed, finally knocking on your door rather firmly to alert you of his presence. You opened a moment later, and he could have sobbed in relief.

"Hey."