Viktor sat peacefully in shrimp position in the bedroom’s couch, readjusting lazily the brace in his leg, bare, only his briefs clinging to his scarily thin limbs (on which you are both working in thickening), the sunshine hits his pale skin, and he’s just in the right angle were his hair looks ethereally white, as if made of pure light.

but your eyes fix on his back, the braces he built and incredibly, fixes himself as well—embracing his spine and ribcage.

anyone would think it’s an awful sight, not you, not if it’s Viktor.

you walk over, trail your fingers over a couple the moles in the lean muscle where his neck and his shoulder connect, you realize—it looks not very vaguely like the Sirius constellation, if you connect each nearest.

he doesn’t flinch at your touch, not even looks up to see who it is, only you can see him like this, of course its you.

but the coldness of the tip of the marker does, he straightens in place, tickles going down his arms and shoulder blades like ants—he looks back, wide eyed, monotonous voice dripping from his mouth like honey, accent thick.

“what are you doing?”