M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

72.| blue

song: me by the 1975

listen to this song with the chapter my heart hurts

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HOW

the person sitting on the bed wasn't yuri katsuki.

victor sighed, and leant his head back against the headboard, turning his light between his fingers.

it wasn't yuri; it was some call girl dialled from the number he had called before - a number he had called when he was bored and all alone in the big, lonely white house he bought in japan "just for the hell of it."

she didn't even look anything like him - sure, she had dark hair, but it was too light and shone in the light of the streetlights outside. her lips were chapped; her lips weren't nearly as soft as yuri's. she didn't have a cut on her bottom lip, or big, brown eyes, and she didn't have the same shape as him; she
was too thin, with her bony shoulders on display.

and she was too provocative, with a low cut dress showing off her chest, face caked in makeup and legs glowing white in the darkness of the bedroom.

"you got a light?" she asked, coyly looking over her shoulder in a way victor knew was supposed to make him crazy for her. but she didn't look away slightly with a slight smile, and her hair didn't brush her face as it did yuri's, and she didn't

so no, she didn't make him crazy for her. he rolls his eyes, although she doesn't see because the lights are off and the evening sky is a thick blue, and tosses her a lighter.

yuri didn't smoke.

"so," she asked, cigarette held between two fingers, and taking a strenuous effort to slide one leg over the other and show off the bare skin. but victor didn't bat an eye; he was thinking of blue crop tops, a small, exposed strip of skin and soft, dark, dark hair.

"how much, babe?" the girl asked, and no, her voice wasn't soft.

victor felt his chest tighten.

"how much, victor nikiforov?"

he rubbed over his face with his hands, and shook his head.

"i'm not going to pay you," he mumbled from beneath his palms, and sighed heavily, blinking into the dingy blue of the dark bedroom.

the girl turned her head with a sharp rustle of bedsheets, and he could tell that she was rolling her eyes through the darkness.

"you what?" she asked, before shaming her head and making to move.

victor grabbed her arm.

"nothing...i..." he started, before he made himself lean forward, and pressed his lips against hers, opening his mouth to taste her lips, "...y-yeah..i'll pay you..."

the girl smiled, and she leant back in the bed too seductively, legs sliding apart, hair positioned over her shoulder sexily.

and victor was trying to kid himself that he was breathing in the scent of bubblegum.

"do you listen to the 1975?"

victor asked, pulling away from her and sitting opposite her on the cold mattress. the girl hesitated, clearly frustrated, and pulled the strap of her dress she had nudged down her shoulder to make him slip green bank notes into the lining of her lace lingerie back into her naked shoulder.

"no," she said, irritated, and victor sat back against the headboard once again.

"i'm not going to pay you," he repeated, and watched her scoff, roll her eyes and head for the door, snatching her coat up from the end of the bed. her hair had fallen over both shoulder, because she was clearly too annoyed to remember her need to look desirable for him.

the bedroom door swung open, and victor barely turned his head at the sound her throwing a "bastard" and "waste of my time" over her shoulder.

victor closed his eyes, and dig the lighter into his palm, and after the front door slammed shut behind that girl in the thigh highs, her last three words were still in victor's sober, salt-soaked bubblegum-tinted mind.

"snap me, nikiforov. if you're willing to pay me. if you just want to chat, i'll block you. i have better things to do."

lighter in hand, moving slowly past dark shapes of furniture and down a hallway towards a still, blue-lit kitchen in a crumpled white shirt stained with blood, victor set down the lighter and put the crystal-clear bottle of vodka out of the cupboard and towards his lips.

he leant back against the counter, and his eyes over to the thin metal light in the corner of the room, where yuri's chocolate eyes had strayed the night he told victor about akio tanaka.

"i didn't want him to...i didn't want him to...i told him to stop. i'm not a fucking whore. i told him to stop. i told celestino to stop. i told akio to stop. i'm not a fucking whore. i didn't want it. i wanted you. i didn't want any of it. i told him to stop. i told...i told him..."

victor swallowed down ice cold vodka, the pain of blue crop tops and yellow books staying strong despite the alcohol. he lit up a cigarette and took a long drag, but even the nicotine was tasteless.

"you know. famous from a young age. destined to end up a hot mess of a junkie in a nice suit with good hair. the usual. so original."

"hot mess, huh?"

vodka and nicotine and silver lamps and the 1975 and blue crop tops were making him want to scream all over again.

"trying to flirt with me? cut it, nikiforov, and tell me how much you're willing to pay. then you can flirt with me all you want."

the victor nikiforov rubbed over his face; he winced as he angered the cut that the man in the boss suit who had hurt his angel has left with ringed fingers.

but the cut didn't hurt a much as this.

victor swallowed down more vodka and breathed in more suffocating nicotine, watching the streetlight outside glow dimly.

it was the same streetlight that had watched him scream his heart out against the wall, watching the boy with soft, dark, dark hair he longed for - the boy he had hurt - cross the street in his blood-stained denim jacket without looking back once.

watching yuri katsuki cross the street in his blood-stained denim jacket without looking back once.