Fics like the art of picking up the pieces

Before he can stop himself, he picks up the phone. Every ring seems to last for eternity. Please, he thinks, be there, pick up, don’t be dead, don’t be gone… “Viktor?” His heart jumps. Silco’s voice is muffled, sleep-thick, but oh so achingly familiar. He had not realised until now just how much he missed it. “You do realise it is 2 o’clock in the morning?” He tries to speak but no words come out. The guilt, perhaps, has stolen them. “Has something happened?” “Papa,” he finally whispers. “Papa. Papa.” And then all of a sudden he is bawling his eyes out, horrible, heaving gasps and sobs torn from his throat, wracking his thin frame, and distantly he is embarrassed, but he cannot seem to make himself stop. Worn down by the crushing weight of (not actually) unrequited love, workplace disputes, past trauma, and the existential dread that comes with being an overachiever in your twenties, Viktor finally breaks. Papa Silco comes to pick up the pieces. Returning to his childhood home in Zaun for a long-overdue rest, Viktor must reckon with his past, his future, and the terrifying prospect of allowing himself to be loved and cared for.

Fics like the art of picking up the pieces

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