M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

102.| bittersweet

just imagine their makeup sex

NOTHING'S GONNA HURT YOU BABY
CIGARETTES AFER SEX

"déjà vu. all over again."

victor smiled, and leant against the doorframe. yuri laughed, and kept his hands in his pockets. it was dark outside, like it had been the last time yuri had been in that bedroom with the soft white bedsheets and scent of lemon, vanilla and aftershave.

he could still feel victor nikiforov's soft, slightly chapped lips against his own, and feel that same feeling he had done as they sat in his silver mercedes by the beach.

he almost - almost - told him every fucking thing; almost told him about akio tanaka, the heroin, luca, how he wanted victor to kiss his neck. but then he felt that same shame he had, the night celestino told him he wanted eighty, the night the concealer and the heat of his cheeks as the music pounded, the look in victor's eyes as he called him "a fucking - "

"and hey," victor then said, refusing to let the silence remind him that no, that boy with the soft, dark, dark hair standing so close to him wasn't his; he could still taste yuri's soft lips on his own. "i didn't know you were an artist."

yuri laughed. softly.

"i'm not," he said, shaking his head lightly, pulling down the sleeves of his thin black coat. everything was the same as it had been the last time he'd been there. "not a good one."

"god, you'd look cute drawing," victor sighed, and yuri rolled his eyes with a smile. "when you concentrate, this little bit of hair goes in your eyes."

the pain in victor's chest was almost suffocating.

"is that what you do?" victor went on, having to clear his throat. "do you draw? or paint?"

yuri nodded, and those same strand of soft, dark, dark hair fell into his eyes. another wave of pain crashed over victor, and he wanted to punch the wall with all the force he had in him.

"you draw?" victor asked, before the silence could swallow them while as it had the sunset.

"charcoal," yuri said, his voice no more than a whisper as the gossamer smooth sound of victor's voice was as painful to hear as to touch shards of a glass thrown against the wall. "mostly."

"that's fucking perfect," victor breathed, and he couldn't stop himself from talking toe steps towards yuri - lit by those streetlights, soft, delicate face, soft lips, soft, dark, dark hair and that same black thin coat - and pressing his lips against his own.

victor's mind was a raging sea of charcoal, the 1975, bubblegum, bruises and page 98, and every fucking inch of his body was telling him to stop, his addiction begging him to open his lips, taste yuri's mouth, hands in his hair, pushing him back against the wall. his body wasn't his own, he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe without him.

and god, yuri was kissing him back.

"victor..." he breathed against his lips, and the way he moaned slightly only made the waves crash down harder and harder onto the grey sand, washing away that empty marlboro pack.