M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

76.| bedsheets

woman by the 1975

throughout this story, yuri has spent the time with a bloodied lip wearing victor's shirt/jacket

and i love it

the streets outside, lit by the white light of the canvas sky above, looked to yuri like the ice he had lain on beside his victor, wearing his jacket, water pooling under their clothes and bloodied lip freezing cold and tasting of salt tears. and yuri thought that in that one second, he could hear "this must be my dream" starting to play, so he turned back to face akio tanaka to distract himself.

he's not yours.
you're not his.

"what were you looking at?" akio asked,  standing up from the end of the bed with the bedsheets that weren't as soft as victor nikiforov's. yuri shook his head a little, trying to find the energy to say a thing.

"nothing," was the best he could do, and "this must be my dream" was still playing in his head. "nothing."

akio smiled slightly, and scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck.

"are you going to talk to me today, yuri?" he said quietly, looking up at the dark-haired boy standing opposite him in jeans and an oversized baby blue sweater. yuri bit at his bottom lip.

"...don't fucking do that...it's going to hurt you, isn't it?"

yuri stopped, and rubbed at his arms instead when he remembered victor's cocaine laced voice. akio waited patiently, rubbing his index finger over his thumb, waiting for yuri to say something. the day before, akio had shown up at phichit and leo's house to see yuri, by yuri had barely said a thing to him, barely looked at him. so he'd come back the next day, that day, and was up in the guest bedroom yuri was sleeping in, phichit and leo downstairs, yuri standing by the window and illuminated by the streets' cold light.

and when he'd called to say he was coming over that day, yuri hadn't had the energy or the will to stop him.

after all, what did it matter anymore?
what did any of it matter any more?
what did every fucking thing matter anymore?

"what do you want me to say?" yuri said, voice soft and tired, bags under his eyes because no, he hadn't been sleeping all that much, but yes, he had taken his pills that day.

akio smiled slightly, and touched yuri's arm. yuri didn't have the energy to move away; he barely flinched.

"i just want to talk to you," akio whispered, giving yuri the look that would've made his heart beat fast in his chest back when he was fifteen years old. "please, yuri, talk to me."

his voice was soft, and even though he barely felt a fucking thing anymore, yuri still knew that he longed to hear a russian accent smooth as gossamer silk.

"about that party..." akio started off, looking uncomfortable, swallowing hard, looking away from yuri as if ashamed, "...look, yuri, i'm so sorry..."

he ran a hand through his hair, and yuri felt as if he were sinking to the bottom through still water, as if asleep despite his open eyes and ears; words bouncing off of him whilst he stood as still, rigid and unfeeling as glass.