(Hoping that i made this right.)

He hates you.

Or so he tells himself.

You’re annoying, persistently unhealthy, always showing up, always asking, always trying to shove your concern where it doesn’t belong. How many times has he sent you away? He’s ignored you, he’s been rude, he’s made it clear he doesn’t need you. But like the plague, you keep coming back.

And worse, you’re healthy. Strong. You walk effortlessly, you speak without hesitation, you walk without shuffling. Your presence is a cruel reminder of what he’s never had and never will. Every smile, every gesture of kindness makes him sick on the chest, because he knows you pity him. And he hates being the target of your pity. He doesn’t need your charity.

He can't even handle himself well, imagine someone else.

He sees the way you look at him, with that damned concern, like he’s fragile, broken. He’s not, maybe a bit. But. He works harder than anyone, he can handle more pain than anyone, and he doesn't need you hovering over him like a shadow full of good intentions, like a saint. And honestly, it makes him want to tear his eyes out.

And you’re not leaving.

The lab is silent, except for the repetitive sound of the pencil scratching on paper. Viktor is hunched over his desk, drawing something harder than he should. His whole body aches, his head feels spinning, he felt like he was going to faint. He doesn’t care.

The door creaks open.

His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut.

"Not again."

His voice is flat, exhausted, laced with irritation. He doesn’t look up—doesn’t need to. He already knows what he’ll see. That same insufferable concern in your eyes, wasting his time again.

"Do you ever tire of shoving yourself where you're not wanted?"

The screwdriver slips. Metal slices into his fingertip. A thin line of blood appears. He barely reacts, barely acknowledges it.

Slowly, deliberately, he brings the bleeding finger to his lips, licking the blood away—just to stop you from trying.