M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

78.| skyline

the victor nikiforov was immersed in a an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia as he he looked down from the top of the grey, shapeless, night-lit building at the headlights of cars below catching the rainwater on the streets below.

he shivered in the thin white shirt he was wearing, black jacket discarded on the concrete at his feet, lapels blowing backwards and forwards in the night air, which was blowing the nicotine away from his lips.

god, was it high up there; victor leant both arms over the thin metal bars lining the roof of the tower block he was up on, leaning both knees against the middle bar, cigarette held in fingers, the bustling city with glowing cars and towering apartment blocks lit up like headlights. yes, the city was as still as water, noises below so far down from these eighty stories that victor couldn't make out a thing; so far down that the screech of tyres against rain-gleaming tarmac and the raucous laughter of those findings their way home at 2:04 in the morning were as if a breeze brushing against the surface of water, brushing the surface as yuri katsuki's soft, dark, dark hair brushed his face.

victor stubbed out his cigarette on the top metal bar that was cold enough to numb his fingers, and flicked it over the edge. he watched it catch the night air, send ash towards the cloudless sky before it became lost among the background of cars so small eighty stories below, and streetlights like those outside the big, white house victor had bought in japan "just for the fucking hell of it" that had watched him scream yuri's name over and over, slumped against the wall as he watched that dark-haired boy walk away without looking back once.

victor sighed heavily, and looked up at the cold sky overhead, before he slipped one leg over the metal fencing, then the other, so that he was standing with only his heels on a jut of concrete, grasping the metal bar, body exposed to the shining streets so far below.

there was that nostalgia once again; the memory of being an eighteen year old boy, longer hair catching the breeze from up on a hotel window ledge, jeans brushing back against the hotel's skin, father. and as victor stood there - eighty stories high off of the ground, heart thumping in his chest as he once again, four years on with short hair and red-rimmed eyes, thought of the fall and the pain - he realised that he couldn't have given a fuck about whether some paparazzi with a camera from the back seat of an expensive car down below was snapping shots of him in that dishevelled white shirt up in the roof of a tower block, willing himself to lean forwards, fall, and for it to just end.

just end.

he couldn't have given a fuck; back when he was eighteen, splayed out against the dark stone of that shimmering hotel with a small crowd gathered underneath with their phones out, all his father had been worried about - he knew - under the mask of worry was the newspapers and magazines the next day, and the headlines sure to be printed in bold, along the lines of "teenage figure-skater heartthrob finally tipped over the edge?"

victor laughed a little to himself, shivering with the three metals bars he was pressing his body back against for support cold under his thin white shirt.

no, the victor nikiforov wasn't thinking about the fucking media as he willed himself to let go of that top metal bar and fall down past shimmering headlights and tower block windows lit up like lilac strobe lights; he was thinking of a boy with soft, dark, dark hair leaning against the wall of chris giacometti's apartment in black jeans ripped at the knees, hair brushing his soft, delicate face, biting at his bottom lip and looking around the room with low, chocolate eyes.