M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

112.| chateau margaux

WHY IS THIS SO BLOODY LONG
(that's what she said)
(how mature em)
(and this story is nearly over oof)

PILLS
ST. VINCENT

the victor nikiforov hated everything in sight.

there was alcohol in his hands - absolut vodka, flavoured, tasteless - and all around him were countless fucking drugged-up rich kids who all made him sick and want to pull a gun on himself.

he took another shot from the bar, let some girl bag her eyes at him - the template celebrity wannabe in thigh highs and obnoxious eyeliner - then took the bottle itself and started downing it like water. one thing from being an alcoholic who cared less about himself than anyone or anything else, that paid off for him.

a tolerance.

as he'd done countless times before under strobe lights, on alcohol-saturated sofas or the floor of yet another apartment he didn't know and didn't care to know, victor watched the bare legs, credit cards smothered in cocaine and shirt collars doused in lipstick stains like gasoline go past him in an unholy dance he hated more than anything or anyone.

less than he hated himself, though. the vodka had less of a taste than water so he handed nonchalantly to some boy going past him in a shirt who's colour he didn't pick up on; alcohol blurring vision, uncaring mindset making things slow and mind-shatteringly boring. he wondered if he'd end up in bed with that boy later on, 3am, with the same god-awful pulsating music blaring from stereos he couldn't see through the dark banging along to a headboard he hated almost as much as crowds cheering, vodka on the walls and himself. the victor nikiforov.

god, did he hate the victor nikiforov.

he wondered where he was going, making his way away from the bar with alcohol soaked hands and his mind on yuri katsuki lying quiet in white bedsheets and whether this time he'd die from the cocaine. he made it chris across the room, top buttons of his shirt undone and talking to some guy who's face victor couldn't see.

chris caught his eye. victor slumped back against the wall and thought of yuri leaning back of the sofa so victor could kiss him, touch the softness of his face, feel his soft, dark, dark on his cheek, breathe in that scent of bubblegum. chris looked away.

victor wondered if he'd end up the next morning with chris by his side and sat down on the floor, swiping a half-empty bottle of chateau margaux from the other end of the bar and holding it between his knees. he could barely taste it. he wanted to feel yuri's body next to him, slip his hand around his waist, feel the smooth curve of his hips and the tightening yuri sleepily held victor's arm closer to him.

it wasn't that victor wanted him. it was more that he wanted him.

wine in hand he shook his head and laughed bitterly at some girl sitting across the room in what couldn't be called a dress, who was looking st him like she wasn't interested; hard to get, eyes sparkling like the glasses of wine and alcohol and credit cards under harsh bathroom lights. victor laughed at her; laughed at how she thought she was desirable to him, at how she seemed to think she drove him mad.

it was his yuri who he wanted more than any fucking thing all the money his parents had forced on him and all the fame could offer him. yuri. victor raked his hair back with one hand, let it fall in his eyes again, and stood up with the bottle in hand.