M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

3.| la poésie est dans la rue

UGH!
by the 1975

"inside pocket, there should be...fuck, i don't know...a twenty or whatever i owe you..."

yuri katsuki was so tired; of the feel of different bedsheets, the feel of jeans creased from nights on the floor, the feel of cologne that was too strong on his neck, hands, skin. he pulled on his coat, before he found the wallet the man amid the sheets was talking about and pulled out two tenners.

he left him with a comedown and the unappreciated taste of his mouth on his lips as he shoved the banknotes into his back pocket, headed down the stairs and stepped out into the 6 a.m. streets.

it was cold, but he didn't mind. he was thinking about how different the hall of that big, expensive house had looked the morning after, without the waves of armani suits, lipstick stains and chardonnay. the streets were prettier too, prettier than they were at night; grey and still, without the glare of headlights or feel of somebody's hand on his thigh in the back of a black porsche. the night before hadn't gone the way it usually went; he usually earns the twenties in his back pocket in a white-tiled bathroom or dark bedroom. he didn't usually get taken from one party to another.

no on usually made such an effort, he laughed to himself.

he could see himself in parked car windows as he went further down the streets, but he didn't pay much attention; tight black jeans ripped at the knees, whit cropped top, thin black coat and thin choker. he hated it. he hated being attractive like that. he didn't like the looks he got, illuminated by strobe lights; looks of lust only, a want to last a few minutes only.

and he hated the pout of his own lips, the way he slowly crossed his legs, stretched a little so that their eyes drank in the right muscles and bare skin, the doe-eyes and seductive, teasing, lustful voice, soft and sweet as cherries.

an act that had drawn that victor nikiforov under, yuri thought to himself as he turned and walked down another row of big, expensive houses that seemed so fitting when he was thinking of just another drugged-up rich kid, intoxicated by their own appearance, high as a kite on the position they held of attractiveness and bank notes and wine.

yuri breathed in cold air and the faint trace of cigarettes, and slipped his hands into his pockets. he liked the quiet liked this; harsh streetlights and rain on the pavement like glass. he always felt like he was underwater, for the head-pounding music from the night before left him dazed and sounds blurred when he walked down the streets frozen like cold champagne.

he was thinking about that victor nikiforov again as he got closer to the grey block of apartments he was headed for under the grey sheets of light above him. the victor nikiforov, coke round his nose like sugar, blue eyes wired and god-awfully beautiful. he was attractive, yuri thought, closing his eyes for a moment and taking in the silence. too attractive.

he crossed the final street, hands in his hair to shake away any trace of the night before. not that it would brush away the lips he'd tasted the night before, or the palette of cologne and touch of alcohol. the ground floor of the apartment block was dark like the hall of chris giacometti's penthouse and first floor of that second house, screaming rivers of money and fountains of white wine and "meaningless sex." yuri took a moment to lean his head against the door marked 14 and close his eyes.

god, the streets were pretty at 6:13 a.m.

the apartment was silent, and yuri smiled a little to himself when he saw phichit asleep on the sofa, eyeliner smudged, head to one side. it was a small smile, one of relief that he was back and safe, nothing more. he could smell the chardonnay and hugo boss cologne on him from the doorway.

yuri threw his coat over the back of the sofa and headed down the hall, the silence of the streets gone and leaving him with nothing but a face aching from late nights and strobe lights and ears ringing with the dregs of that pulsating music.

"what did you make for me, hm?"

arms around his waist from behind made yuri jump, and his heart still kept up its fast, sickening beating when he realised who it was. he could smell alcohol on him too, but it only blended in with that on his clothes and soft skin.

"fifty," came yuri's response, in a voice he was trying hard to keep steady. celestino cialdini hummed in approvement, kissed yuri with rough lips on the side of his face, then stepped back so that e leant against the wall. yuri shook off the urge to rub off the feel of him, and dug out the creased bank notes from his jeans.

"well," celestino mused, one eyebrow raised, still in that drunkenly, dangerously playful mood that left yuri on edge, back pressed up against the bathroom door, hand on the cold metal of the handle. he knew that celestino could switch in the way a lighter flicks on and off. "you never do let me down, do you, baby?"

yuri swallowed down disgust in the way he could swallow white wine and bat his eyes. he smiled like he knew he was supposed to do. phichit put his arm over his head in his sleep.

"alright," celestino huffed, sniffing, and yuri slackened a little. "you go wash off whatever the fuck they made you do last night."

he laughed, and yuri but at his bottom lip to stop his cheeks burning. he waited for celestino cialdini to continue down the hall, past phichit, then out of the door of the apartment and into the pretty, grey, still streets.

yuri sighed.

with the bathroom door shut, he stood for a moment leaning against it, so fucking tired, looking and the pills of his own the sink. blue, "prozac, 20mg," painkillers. yuri rubbed his wrist at the memory of what celestino had done the week before, when he'd only made thirty; at the memory of how useful those painkillers had been.

he left his clothes on the white tiles and stepped into the shower, although he knew the water would do nothing to wash anything away. he felt dirty, even under the spray of hot water. he turned it up so that it was hotter, verging on unbearable. still nothing.

yuri sat down in the bath under the shower, knees to chest, staring at the white tiles going up the wall opposite him. the water kept on running. phichit turned over on the sofa in his sleep.

yuri could still smell cologne and chateau d'yquem on his soft, wet skin. he wondered if victor nikiforov was out cold on that same sofa in chris giacometti's apartment.