M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

69.| champagne

song: settle down by the 1975

victor couldn't breathe.

he sat beside yuri in the back of one of chris' friends cars; victor had asked chris to send them over because he was too high to drive. he sniffed again, although the effects of the hit were wearing off.

the words hadn't.

outside the rain-streaked windows, the streetlights glowed dim, and shine across yuri's face as they had done as they sped down the motorway, leaving shadows of rain across his soft, delicate, bruised face every time the lights flirted over him.

but instead of a blood-stained denim jacket of victor's, he was wearing the same thin black coat he wore the night victor nikiforov kissed yuri katsuki on his grey couch.

but like that night in victor's car, when he drifted in and out of consciousness under the effects of the heroin and the damage celestino cialdini caused, yuri said nothing to victor. he only looked outside at the hidden shadows of expensive buildings slipping away from them, and didn't bite his lip.

the car pulled up, and just as victor reached for yuri's hand, he moved away and stepped out onto the wet pavement dining under a single streetlight.

and victor leant back in his seat, breathing in deeply, suffering through the déjà vu of when he reached for yuri's hand that night in the motorway, and he moved it away to brush soft, dark, dark hair away from his face.

"you coming?" chris'a friend asked, leaning into the car, a girl by his side in a tight red dress. victor nodded slowly, as if he were still high as a kite, and looked past the both of them to see his yuri in that same thin black coat and jeans ripped at the knees, shanking soft hair from his eyes and heading towards the glass doors and faint, pulsating music.

victor followed him, chris's friend and the girl in the right red dress inside the block of flats, and before he knew it, he was standing under the screaming bright lights of the elevator with his yuri so close to him, but looking away.

the words didn't come; victor was suffocating under that fucking, god-awful feeling. he just watched the buttons of the elevator glow as they passed each floor, as the music got louder, and as yuri continued to focused on nothing in the left corner of the elevator.

before victor could reach for yuri's hand, the doors had opened and he had started towards the open doors of chris's penthouse - towards credit cards, rolled bank notes, media, tight dresses and repetitive, pounding music.

victor sighed, sniffed again, and watched yuri katsuki slip away through the crowds of people and into the darkly lit apartment, and suddenly the fucking, god-awful feeling was too much. he felt terrible, as if he were suffering from the comedown all over again.

every fucking thing he had said played over and over again in his head; everything he had said, only around an hour ago, because he was high as a kite and wanted to hurt yuri for making him feel that fucking, god-awful guilt.

look at what you've done, victor.

he strained his eyes through the swirling lights to catch a glimpse of someone in a black jacket, but it wasn't his yuri. he couldn't breathe; the lights moved too fast, his heart was beating too fast, "a fucking whore" and fucking, god-awful guilt.

victor gave up; he couldn't breathe. instead, he slumped against the counter of chris's kitchen, which he had somehow managed to get to, and slipped a clear bottle of vodka from someone's hand.