A quarter of an hour later, standing under a freezing shower with his pants still round one ankle, the bathroom littered with clothing and his lucky socks in a state of utter disgustingness the memory of which would probably render them unwearable forevermore, his realised that that had not been one of his better decisions.
His skin burned, his blood boiled, and there were no words for the state of his cock under his dance belt - the teenager's friend, Victor had once called it - as he made his way to Victor's room. Beads of sweat stood out on his skin and soaked through his T-shirt; he'd had to run up the fire escape to avoid meeting anyone. What thoughts he could summon within the roiling fog that seethed in his brain focused like a laser. He needed help. Victor could help him. Victor would do it for him. He needed it so much, and if only he could reach Victor everything would be all right. He hammered on the door. Victor must be there. Victor would let him in and then he could explain and Victor would help and everything would be all right.
A muffled voice sounded behind the door and a moment later Victor was opening it, clad only in a white towel round his waist, wet hair falling forward over his eyes. Yuri flung himself forward as Victor stood staring. His voice was rough, his throat was dry, the fever in his blood felt as if he would die if he didn't get what he needed. He gasped out the few words he could manage.
'Victor! You have to help me. I've been - someone's - I need help. I need you to - I need - I need - I need a TUE!'