M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

107.| je t'adore

CARMEN
LANA DEL REY

victor could remember every detail of it, even though it hurt and made him want to scream and kick at the walls of the white cell like a little child in a tantrum.

he listened to the sliding of the metal bolts across thick white doors, the corridors quiet, the lack of cocaine in his bloodstream leaving him wide awake and aching. his back was pressed up against the wall, his head back, listening to the deafening silence and thinking of yuri katsuki.

thinking of the afterglow that flashing blue lights had stolen from him.

and even though it had happened so quickly, too fast, over as soon as glass shattered and he couldn't stop himself from kissing that mouth all over again. victor rubbed both hands over his face, and sighed heavily. the ceiling above was dark, the only slip of light coming in from the small window in the door to his cell. he was cold, but he didn't care.

he wanted red wine. he wanted yuri.

victor couldn't stop thinking about him, and every fucking thing that akio had done to him. in that split second, victor wished more than anything that he'd killed akio fucking tanaka, along with the man in the boss suit who'd left the lilac watercolour bruises all over yuri's soft skin.

victor hit the wall with his fist behind his head, then let it drop wearily, defeatedly.

because most of all, the victor nikiforov wanted the scent of bubblegum.

•••

standing outside the hotel he knew all too well, cold in that grey coat, breathing in other peoples' cigarette smoke and watching the ash blow into the rainwater, yuri wanted to stop holding his breath underwater.

people were coming and going through the revolving glass doors, rich kids like those who rocked up at those god-awful parties in an array of expensive clothes and with an assortment of others with new money laced in their suits and smirk and silver cigarette lighters.

one.
two.

yuri leant his head back, and tried to forget what he'd come there to do; what he'd done the last time he'd been inside. up another three, maybe four floors, in jj leroy's room that smelt too strongly of cologne, needle in hand, tie around his arm, escape.

breathe.

he'd been to the hospital earlier, and the smell of antiseptic and lemon soap had taken him back to the scent on the lapels of that oversized denim jacket and celestino cialdini dragging him across a parking lot.

breathe, yuri.

akio hadn't been awake. yuri had been glad. he'd just stood by the door for a while, with "paris" still stuck in his head, until it had gotten too late to stay any longer; it wasn't like he wanted to go back to that apartment, to heroin and that man in the blue suit trying to get a party favour along with his next hit.

yuri didn't want to be standing outside that hotel anymore.

breathe, yuri.
breathe.