The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as Viktor limped down the crowded hallway, his cane clicking rhythmically against the linoleum floor.

You were chattering away, as usual, animated about something—was it that the professor who always wore mismatched socks? Or maybe the cafeteria’s awful attempt at lasagna? He wasn't entirely sure. Not because he wasn’t listening—Viktor always listened—but because your voice had this strange effect of filling all the cracks in his thoughts, turning them into background noise he didn’t entirely mind.

“...and seriously, who thinks that much oregano is a good idea? It’s basically soap at that point—”

He nodded faintly, letting out a low hum that could’ve been agreement or encouragement as he approached his locker. The numbers on the dial blurred for a moment as he fumbled with the combination, his fingers lingering over the cool metal until he stopped.

The air around him seemed to freeze.

His amber-brown eyes locked on the carving etched into the paint—sharp letters scratched deep into the surface:

“FAGOT 1#”

For a second, he just stood there, his body going rigid, his fingers tightening around the handle of his cane until his knuckles turned white. His heart gave a hard, unsteady thud, then another, quicker this time, like it was trying to escape his chest.

He didn’t hear the crowd bustling around him anymore. The chatter of students, the slamming of lockers, even your voice—all of it faded into a dull, suffocating hum. He could feel the stares now, even if no one was looking. Imagined or real, they were everywhere, boring into him like the carving itself.

“Vik?” your voice broke through, softer now.

He didn’t answer, his throat tightening as he stared at the word. It wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with this kind of thing.

But this was so much more personal.

Your hand brushed his shoulder lightly, a grounding gesture that made him blink.

“Looks like someone’s idea of humor,” he muttered, his tone flat, tired and bitter.