M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

82.| watercolours

SO FAR (IT'S ALRIGHT)
THE 1975

yuri stepped outside of the therapist's office and hesitated on the pavement, biting at his bottom lip even though he knew he shouldn't be, before he got on the next bus he knew would go past victor nikiforov's expensive white  house in japan.

he sat at the back, as he had done when he'd left that same house a week ago from then, and watched the grey sky without a cloud in sight stay blank and lifeless above him as the bus moved slowly onwards.

the therapist hadn't been the clichéd man with thick glasses looking at him judgementally as his told him everything - he hadn't worn glasses and hadn't looked at yuri in disgust when he had heard of what yuri had done at all those parties charging twenty. it had been that same fear of judgement that had stopped yuri from going to the therapy prescribed by the hospital after he'd decided to cut himself deeper than usual; across his wrists.

yuri rubbed his wrists at the memory, and felt the thicker, tougher skin of the scars under his fingers as he listened to the 1975 and the sky remained lifeless overhead. there was prozac in his pocket and the number of the therapist written in ink on a white scrap of paper in his left pocket as the bus drew nearer to streets he recognised, and had previously passed whilst listening to loving someone with blood on his lips and the scent of vanilla, aftershave and lemon on the lapels of that blood-stained denim jacket he was wearing.

yes, yuri had talked about victor nikiforov in that first therapy session - about the softness of his slightly chapped lips, the way the sheets curled around his body as he slept, the scent of him, the sound of his gossamer smooth accent and the way he called yuri "baby" like he meant it.

had called yuri "baby."

still biting at his bottom lip and pulling at the sleeves of his thin black coat, yuri caught sight of the rows of expensive white houses and breathed in deeply.

he was going to see victor nikiforov again.

the bus slowed to a halt, and yuri slipped his phone into his empty right pocket and started down the streets, breathing getting short and fast at the thought of his scent, his lips, his voice; at the thought of even seeing him again.

he saw the house he'd left with the door wide open and victor nikiforov shouting his name over and over, wearing his denim jacket with bloodied lips from akio tanaka.

yuri didn't want to think of akio right then, as he got closer to victor house, went up the few steps and paused before the door. every word he had said to the therapist less than an hour before in a small office room stared to replay over and over again in his head, with the repetitive, rotating backdrop of "i love you, yuri katsuki" and "a fucking whore."

before yuri could change his mind, he knocked on the door, holding his breath.

"...it's short and beautiful, just like you..."

he knocked again; still no answer. yuri brushed dark hair away from his face, and stepped back, hating the feeling of those blue eyes being onto a door away from him, and that scent, and touch, and -

"a fucking whore? because that's all you are, yuri. a fucking whore. using your body for sex, huh? do you even know what love is, yuri? jesus, yuri, you sell yourself for money. its fucking disgusting"