M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

111.| bubble bath

cigarettes weren't helping his being tired and irritated and impatient, but victor lit up his third as he stood alone on the balcony. he was flicking his lighter on and off, and didn't want to have to get on that plane in two hours.

los angeles, skating finals; he didn't want to go and was much happier to smoke himself to death whilst thinking about yuri katsuki in his bed. the grey sofa hadn't been as comfortable as it had been when he'd been breathing in bubblegum and soft, dark, dark hair in the dim lights. victor looked at the dim bedroom at 6 a.m, lit only by the ashtray sky overhead. leaning back against the cold metal of the balcony rail, smoking slowly and somehow hating the taste of nicotine between his teeth, victor looked at the picasso swirls of bedsheets gathering over yuri in the dark. he couldn't quite see yuri's hair on the pillow, and knew when he stepped back inside his eyes would have to get used to the cold, early morning light before he could make it out.

victor ran a dreary hand through his hair and watched his cigarette fall and die in the grey pools of old rainwater below; the sky was dry now, unable to cry anymore; too tired to cry anymore. victor breathed in deep and the cold air hurt his teeth. he stepped inside the bedroom with cold hands and breathed in the softer scent of bubblegum and white bedsheets curled around soft skin and dark, dark hair.

victor lay on his back on the cold sparsity of tight white sheets that had been untouched by yuri. he felt empty with yuri being just that but too far away from him, and even put an unlit cigarette between his fingers to distract from the feeling of it. victor could still feel the coldness of the balcony rail through the black jacket and fucking cliché of a white shirt he was wearing. he wanted yuri to want this.

it's not real.
it's not real, victor.

victor turned his head on the pillow so that he could see the hair in yuri's hair, at the nape of his neck, the curve of his shoulders. victor wished he could see his soft lips through the din, but yuri was turned on his side facing away from him.

fucking narcissist.
it's not real.

victor smiled to himself; yuri always slept on his side. the tapes started playing and now he was in that therapist's office again, elbows digging in his knees and hands clasped between his legs.

"...sleeps on his side, hair falls in his eyes wen he's concentrating, when he sits down his legs are always quite close together...listens to the 1975, and hums songs sometimes without noticing that he's doing it..."

victor propped himself up a little, so that he was lying so close to him, before reaching out and brushed the hair from of yuri's eyes. he looked so fucking beautiful whilst he slept it nearly broke his heart.

fucking narcissist.

he'd wanted to do that when he'd looked back at yuri asleep in some guest bed in georgi popovich's house, the night after victor had treated him just like everybody else. victor pressed his eyes shut, refusing to think of it, refusing to think of yuri facing away from him and on his knees. he sat up, and rubbed his face over with both hands.

he knew chris would be there soon, to drive both him and victor to the airport. victor sighed heavily, and sat there in the dark and quiet listening to cars go by and the faintest rustle of bedsheets as yuri breathed in and out, in and out. across the room, victor saw his phone glow - chris. victor leant his head back against the bedhead and willed yuri to wake up; to tell him he wanted this.

victor remembered the tears in the bathroom and codeine pills, and knew it wasn't real. he got up and grabbed his bag, and forced himself closer to the door of the room. he looked back, like yuri had done that once after he'd left victor's big, fucking expensive white house.