ayyyy so uh... sorry for the 3 month wait rip
but like I've said- I'm not abandoning any of my fics! They'll just... not be updated as often. I'm not going to estimate when the next updates will be because I have no idea. I don't want to get anyone's hopes up, but please know that they're not abandoned!
This chapter contains explicit mentions of self destructive behaviour, suicidal thoughts, abuse, your usual angsty shit.
There's not toooo much plot in this, it's more of an emotions dump. But it leads in to the major plot point
Hope its okay! And thanks for sticking around so long lmao
Two weeks had passed since Nikiforov had walked into their lives, and as much as they pretended to hate him, the kids of class E2 couldn't deny that he was the best teacher they had ever had. Sure, he was infuriating, and nosy, and far too cheerful. His constant questions and attempted motivation made them roll their eyes and huff at every command and order. He gave them too much homework, expected so much of them, didn't let them skip lesson or even shout out in class. Any other cover teacher was a walk in the park compared to him.
But he was kind. Understanding. Firm and stubborn when he needed to be, yet also gentle and helpful. When he first walked through the door, he was faced with a group of fucked up kids who barely knew their times tables. Now he was teaching fucked up kids with slightly better coping mechanisms who were finally starting to understand algebra.
Well, 'slightly better coping mechanisms' was maybe an overstatement. Viktor still noticed every suspicious bandage around a wrist, every outburst of anger, the lingering scent of cigarettes coming from the breath of young teenagers. As much as he had tried to gain insight into their lives, he was no closer to finding out the causes of their trouble. That was his next challenge: convince them to see the god damn counsellor.
And he hadn't left. Yet, at least, but 14 days later and he was still going strong. No teacher had ever stayed that long with them before. No wonder they never learned anything- every staff member to set foot in E2 left with a migraine and a newfound hatred of teenagers.
Viktor was different. Whether that was a good thing or not was undecided amongst them. But he had stayed, and he was trying, and honestly, that alone left them in a state of surprise and admiration.
Two weeks since Viktor had arrived at Sandbrook, and nearly one week since Yuuri had started his job as the official counsellor. Having his boyfriend work alongside him was difficult in ways they never expected. They weren't allowed to embrace in the corridor, or exchange anything other than professional greetings and small talk. It was forced and stupid. And mildly hilarious.
Since E2 was home to the notoriously troubled kids of the school, Yuuri was mostly left with those who were dealing with stress problems or anxiety or a small issue at home. For the most part, his job was relatively easy. Give them textbook advice, make a plan, possibly chuck them a pamphlet on 'Ways to Cope with Stress' if the situation required it. Every now and then he'd get a shitty 12-year-old who was acting up too much in math class, but they usually calmed down pretty quickly. Threaten them with after-school detention and they took shutting up over entertaining their friends every time.
Obviously he couldn't share the personal information of students with his boyfriend, however Viktor was good at reading body language and had an idea of who pissed Yuuri off, who left him even more exhausted after a long day. Some days he came home happy and optimistic. Other days he passed out on the couch before even taking his shoes off.
Surprisingly, Wednesday wasn't one of the days that left him half-asleep. The day he spoke with Yuri.
"He doesn't talk." Yuuri had that Wednesday evening. "He just… sat. Played on his phone. Glared at me when I asked him how he was feeling, and that bruise- did you see that bruise around his eye?"
"I did." Viktor frowned slightly.
"He always covers his eye with his hair… Anyway, I asked him about it. Y'know, nothing too invasive. Just 'want to talk about what happened to your eye?'". Yuuri's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I've never seen someone go from one to a hundred so quickly. I thought he was going to hit me."
"What do you mean?"
"He was so angry, babe. Defensive and angry. He literally got off the couch and backed away from me, then told me to fuck off and to open the door so he could leave." The dark-haired man shook his head sadly. "Of course, I couldn't do that, since I knew for a fact he would skip the next period. I apologised and backed off and that seemed to make him feel better. It was just… strange. Kind of concerning, but what can I do? How can I make him trust me?"
Viktor sighed and closed his eyes. Ever since they had found Yuri sleeping against the door that day, the blond had been acting even stranger than usual. Which was saying something; Yuri Plisetsky wasn't easy to deal with on an average day, let alone days where he was tormented by hormones and weird waves of anger and internalised personal problems. And now the bruise? His hatred of people mentioning anything related to his home life?
All teaching staff had a duty of care. See anything concerning: report it to head office or the safeguarding team. Call home. Arrange a meeting with parents.
A huge red warning sign screamed at Viktor, telling him that doing any of those things would have horrible consequences.
Yuuri wanted to know how to make Yuri trust him? Viktor had much lower standards. He wanted to know how to make eye contact with him without feeling like he was walking on shards of glass.
"I don't know, love. I really don't know."
(line break)
It was the same every day. Every single fucking day, and he hated himself for not being used to it. After so many years of shouting and beatings and disappointment, he thought he'd soon become numb to the slaps, thought he'd be able to roll his eyes at the droplets of crimson and purple bruises. Just another obstacle in his day.
But it didn't work like that, apparently. Yuri found himself struggling to hold back tears more and more frequently, which came as a surprise to him; he never cried. Keep it bottled in, release it later with a razor blade. That was his way of living and it hadn't fluctuated in 6 years.
These past few days, few weeks even, had been different. Instead of the overwhelming waves of anger and despair he was used to, that came out of nowhere and were often forced away by inflicting pain upon himself, Yuri had just felt... so empty. Vulnerable, like a pathetic abused puppy or a child. On Sunday night his mother had called him a fucking idiot and Yuri had cried until 2am afterwards. Any other time he would have shrugged, maybe throw a "yeah, whatever" at her if he was feeling brave enough. No way in hell would he have cried himself to sleep like a fucking pussy.
The only people who had ever seen him cry were his mother (unfortunately), and Otabek (who was often around to take the full force of a rare breakdown). Other times he would shut himself in the bathroom and press his palms to his eyes until his body stopped doing… whatever it was doing. Releasing internalised sadness in the form of tears, he supposed. Fucking stupid. Crying didn't change anything and only gave him a headache.
Which was why Yuri was so pissed off with himself for showing such weakness over things that he usually rolled his eyes at and shoved into the dark pits of his memory. If being insulted made him sob into a pillow, what would happen when he next got hit? When he next cut too deep and had to wrestle with tissues and makeshift steri-strips until he deemed himself taken care of?
To Yuri, feeling numb was one of the worst feelings in the world. But he'd rather feel numb than like a shattered glass statue, haphazardly pieced back together and threatening to crumble at any slightest nudge.
The time was 9pm. He had skipped the last few days of school, not trusting the teachers to stay out of his business- especially not after Katsuki had questioned his black eye and undoubtedly passed the concern onto Viktor. Besides, school was bullshit, and it wasn't as if he was going to pass regardless of his attendance. His mother always called him stupid, and his mother had always been correct. Mostly he showed his face for Otabek's sake and to stop his attendance from falling into 'call home immediately' territory.
(Although he was starting to care less about that, too. Let his mother find out. Let his mother kick his ribs in and make him struggle to breathe for two weeks afterwards. At least he'd feel something.)
Skipping school for three days also meant not eating for three days, something that his stomach was complaining loudly about as he leaned against the wall in a shitty alleyway. Smoking, getting drunk and making himself bleed had been his main sources of entertainment, occupying him well into the early hours of the morning before he would dare to sneak home and steal a few hours' sleep. He had bothered to shoplift vodka from a run-down convenience store on the street corner but had neglected food.
Whatever. It wasn't as if he cared about his health.
He took another swig of the vile liquid, cringing at the way it made his tongue burn, loving the way it made his throat catch on fire and settle like hot coal in his stomach. 'Tipsy' had been and gone with the setting sun; Yuri was drunk, ridiculously so, and continued to drink even though his vision was blurring at the edges and every limb felt like it weighed 100 pounds.
"Fucked up on a Thursday night. You happy, ma?" Words were slurred and lazy and refused to co-operate with his brain. He raised the bottle, in a mock toast. Drank some more. Squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that maybe, maybe, this would be the sip that made his pain go away.
Grandpa was getting worse. His breathing was laboured, more so than usual, and he was forgetting things. Forgetting Yuri's name and age, forgetting how horrible his daughter was to him and his grandson. The doctor said that they had to give the medicine time to kick in and hope for the best. In the meantime, Yuri had to watch the only person who loved him deteriorate right before his eyes.
Mother was getting worse. Hitting more, shouting more, drinking more, spending more money they didn't have. Bringing home weird men who'd fuck her on the living room sofa and disappear by morning. Yuri couldn't bring himself to give a single shit.
Otabek was getting worse. He was such a good boy. Such a lovely, genuinely decent person. The cuts on his wrists were getting deeper and dark circles made their beds under his eyes so much more nowadays. Still he smiled, still he brought Yuri lunch- but those smiles were full of so much sadness that penetrated his dark skin and lay bone deep. Yuri wanted to help.
Yuri didn't know how to help.
(And it would be hypocritical to even bother, wouldn't it, really?)
Yuri was getting worse. Which was saying something, because he thought he hit rock bottom a long time ago. Before, rock bottom felt like a flood of despair and anger, like a million needles were piercing his skin, like millions of voices were screaming for him to just end it already, slit your wrists like you've fantasized about doing, throw yourself off a building, who cares. Just do it.
Rock bottom felt much different than he imagined it to feel.
"So numb." He half-whispered, half-sobbed. "Please. Don't want to be numb anymore."
Another drink. Another satisfying burn.
"Burn my throat out. Never let me say a word again."
Another cigarette lit and immediately extinguished on his wrist.
"Set me on fire, please."
Somewhere far away, a stray dog howled.
"Hurt me. Jus' wanna feel something. Jus' want my skin to feel real."
Hot tears dripped onto the bottle lip and added a taste of salt to his next swig.
"Hurt me. Please hurt me, ma. Hit me and break me and bruise my skin." Yuri was crying now, curling in on himself and clutching the bottle to his chest, accidentally spilling some of the contents onto his shirt. "Please hit me, mama, I jus' want you to hit me. All I'm good for anyway, yeah? Let me be useful. To someone, at least. Let my skin feel real."
He wasn't talking to anyone, not really. Just whispering out into the night and imagining that his mother cared enough to listen to her son's despair. But no, no-one cared, and so he just sat. And drank. And cried a bit more.
All shop lights, street sounds, and signs of human life had disappeared by the time Yuri pushed himself to unsteady feet and began to put one foot in front of the other. An agonising headache was flourishing in his brain and almost sent him collapsing towards the pavement, but he managed to get a grip on the wall next to him and remained mostly upright. Some part of him knew that he should probably go home, or at the very least find a bench to sleep on that wasn't anywhere near shady street corners, however Yuri wasn't satisfied yet. He still felt numb, and empty, and like the alcohol had widened the hole inside of him instead of filled it.
If pain didn't work, then he'd have to use the opposite methods.
He knew the route by heart, even drunk. Many a time had he walked these streets in the pitch black. Every turn, every streetlamp, every silhouette was familiar to him, and his clouded brain didn't hinder the determination that glowed in green eyes. He knew where he was going. And it was ten times better than going home.
The neighbourhood wasn't nice, but it was nicer than the one Yuri lived on. Here, there were druggies and homeless prostitutes, which wasn't out of the norm, however windows remained intact and people could even own expensive belongings without the certainty of being robbed. It seemed like luxury compared to the shit hole he called home. And it was made even more of a luxury by one house in particular.
The gate creaked as he pushed it open. All lights in the house were off- no surprise there- so Yuri had to be very careful to not attract unwanted attention. That was okay, though, he knew what to do. In his drunken state he grinned to himself out of excitement and began to pick his way through the shrubbery that separated the front garden from the back, until finally, he was standing below the window he had been looking for.
And like something out of a dumb teen film, Yuri picked up a small rock and threw it at the glass. It landed with a quiet tap.
No reaction.
So he tried another. And another. Then several at once, all slightly bigger, and suddenly a light came on inside the room and there was a face at the window and-
And Yuri started crying, again, overwhelmed with emotion and a body full of vodka. Otabek backed away from the window and reappeared a few minutes later by the back door.
"Yura? God, Yura, what happened to you?" His arms had never felt so comforting as they did in that moment. Yuri collapsed against that strong chest, let himself inhale that familiar scent, let himself be held.
"I.. I w-want to… Oh, fuck, Beka."
"Shhh. It's okay. Tell me what's wrong." Otabek ran his fingers through blond hair and whispered comforts, ignoring the stench of alcohol for the time being.
"'m so drunk." Yuri simply said. The rumble of Otabek's deep voice was helping him calm down, but not enough to allow him to form coherent thoughts. Guilt and shame were coursing through his body and were slowly manifesting into what felt suspiciously like nausea.
"I can tell. Yuri, you need to tell me what's going on, okay? Is it your mother? What did she do?"
"Not her. Me."
"You? What do you want to do, Yuri?" Otabek pulled away and took the blonds face between his hands, thumb stroking gently over the yellowing bruise around Yuri's eye. It was such a simple, delicate gesture, and Yuri responded by crying harder.
"I want to kill myself so bad, Beka, so bad. I j-just want to feel something." He messily wiped his eyes and looked up through wet lashes. "Pain didn't work, and I've missed you so much, and you're so warm, so I… I…"
Understanding and realisation flickered in Otabek's brown eyes. And instead of anger, or disgust, or annoyance, the only emotion that Yuri found in them was sadness.
"No."
"Beka, please-"
"No. Yuri, we're not having sex when you're like this." The hands either side of his face didn't move. Otabek leaned in closer and Yuri saw that he, too, was covered in bruises. "I'm not fucking your pain away."
"I just want to feel real. I just need you to-"
"No, baby. I wouldn't be able to live with myself." There was something so raw in those words and Yuri had to avert eye contact. "You need to rest, not be bent over something and fucked. You deserve much better than that, okay?"
Yuri didn't believe that. Of course he didn't.
"Where have you been these past three days?"
"Out. Drinkin'. Hurting myself. Crying." He shrugged lazily. "Trying not to die."
"Have you eaten?"
"Nah." Another shrug. "Don't need to. Already full of sadness. Don't need food."
Otabek sighed, but it was a sigh of sympathy and not frustration. He bent down, hooked an arm under Yuri's legs- and suddenly Yuri was horizontal, and the world was spinning, and the sky had switched with the ground and everything was scary and-
"Shhh, Yura, it's okay. I'm going to carry you to my room. You're going to stay here tonight. We can skip school tomorrow, yeah?"
Yuri nodded. All fight drained out of him and he was a dead weight in the Kazakh's arms.
His Grandpa wouldn't last much longer. His mother could burn in hell for all he cared. Soon, Otabek would be all he had- and Yuri couldn't bother him with his issues forever.
It'd be a miracle if he made it to age 18.
Now all he needed was for Nikiforov to fuck off and mind his own business so Yuri could die without anyone following his every move.
Though making him fuck off was much easier said than done.
next few chapters will include a lot more viktor and yuuri vs yuri action. Will they get him to open up? Or will he isolate himself even further and do something he regrets? WAIT THREE MORE MONTHS TO FIND OUT!
(only kidding. but reviews and feedback do produce chapters quicker... especially since i have a break from college soon... hint hint..)
love yall gdnight
