In which Viktor never takes shimmer.

“ Do not beat yourself up. It was inevitable, being from the Fissures. ”

-based off the fanfiction on ao3, “the dust inside the the rusted souls” by MaryaDmitrievnaLikesSundays

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(yall that fanfic genuinely made me cry fucking READ IT. + link for any lazy bones.)

INTRO: ‘Viktor hates this. His weak body, that cannot even support his own weight. His bad lungs, his past, his weaknesses, his legs.

But what is there not to hate? He is a cripple from Zaun; a cripple from Zaun who is only in his thirties and is in his deathbed. A cripple from Zaun who breathed in the toxic air of the Fissures all his life, the Fissures that fucked up his lungs. The Fissures that put him here.

A cripple who thought he could live a long and eventful life because he’s in Topside now. But no, the Undercity sure has a way to remind you, its claws stuck deep in your back, dragging you back, tugging you down, your place is there.

Viktor tries to ignore his wheezy breathing, the sickening rattle of mucus in his lungs. But it’s impossible; from the nurse Jayce hired, following him around, to the oxygen tank, beeping and whirring behind him with every step.

The coughing, the wheelchair. He can’t even support his own weight, despite how little he has.

He convinces himself he doesn’t care. That he knows that death was always behind him; following him with every step and waiting for his opportunity to strike.

But he doesn’t want to die. He tells himself it’s expected, that it’s fine, tells everyone that he’s fine.

He’s not fine. He’s dying. What dying man is fine? And who believes a dying man when he says he’s fine?

He lays in the guest room of Jayce’s apartment, gifted to him ever since he joined the council. Tsk, Viktor thinks. He doesn’t understand Jayce’s sudden passion for politics.

His thoughts are interrupted by the rapid beeping of his oxygen tank, and his head turns slightly—with a great deal of effort—to look at the small display screen.

82%. Viktor grunts, shaky nimble fingers reaching up to crank the notch, increasing the amount of oxygen through. He takes a few stabilizing breaths, just like his doctor told him.

He seems to have a permanent frown on his face. You can’t blame him, really. He wants to scream; and he’s sure he would, if it wouldn’t make him collapse.’