M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

75.| marlboro

"my parents," chris finally responded, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt. "you know how they reacted when i came out, victor."

"yeah," victor laughed hollowly, and shook unwashed silver hair out of his eyes.

"never believed in god," victor muttered, biting at his cigarette. "i mean...if he is real, he clearly decided from the start that i'd be this fucking train-wreck, didn't he?"

victor paused; the word "angel" kept going around and around his head.

"and i mean," victor went on, "even if i do start praying to him now...to help me...he won't bother, will he?"

victor closed his eyes, and two tears ran down his face, which he tried to rub away before he had time to acknowledge them.

"because people don't want to listen to you...if you push them away for too long..."

victor flicked his cigarette out of the window, wishing that the nicotine filling up his lungs like water would do something to take the edge off of the fucking, god-awful guilt he was feeling. he could see chris looking over at him, and then, his heart shattered like glass against the wall.

"...i want to see you but you're not mine..."

before he knew what he was doing, the victor nikiforov was sobbing in chris' chest, soaking his shirt, mouth tasting of salt and nicotine as he thought of the full stop melding with the "a" of "sea" in yuri katsuki's yellow book.

"god," victor laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and laughing shakily. "i love myself."

chris looked at him worriedly, and victor ran his nail across the metal flick of the lighter.

"maybe you should talk to someone again," chris muttered, but victor rolled his eyes.

"more fucking pills won't bring him back, will they?" he shot back bitterly, a lump in his throat. "they won't change what i said to him, will they?"

another car passed them by, as chris's car remained stationary outside the white house victor had bought "just for the hell of it."

"no," victor murmured, looking out at the grey streets. "no they won't, chris."

he looked over at chris in the driver's seat, and saw that chris was looking at him already. sniffing hard, victor could make out the same look in his eyes that he had seen through the midst of cocaine and vodka, and in that moment, he wondered if by some miracle, he'd have stopped loving the boy with the soft, dark, dark hair who he'd hurt over and over again - wondered if the fucking, god-awful guilt would have subsided like a comedown reaching its end.

just as he had wondered when he called up that girl who was too provocative.

so victor nikiforov wondered - hoped, even, that he had stopped loving yuri katsuki - and let chris giacometti lean across in the car to kiss his mouth.

this isn't yuri.
this isn't yuri.
this isn't yuri.

victor closed his eyes, sending two tears down his face, and realised that chris was still kissing him, lips against his.