M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

81.| deadroses

"i love someone," victor then said, as his mind had wandered from cocaine and "a fucking whore" to how good it had felt to lie next to yuri under the same bedsheets, and how the light illuminated the soft, dark, dark hair brushing against his face as he sat up on the window sill, reading that yellow book.

"go on," the therapist said, setting down her pen. "tell me about them."

"i don't think i can," victor said with a sad smile, "begin to tell you about them."

"and why might that be, victor?"

"because - "

victor didn't know where to begin talking about yuri katsuki. he sighed, and leant back again to put off talking. the therapist waited, expectant.

"i think about him a lot," victor said after the slight, held pause, his voice getting softer. he smiled a little. "not especially about how he looks or anything...or about sex with him...or the taste of his mouth..."

victor sniffed as if he'd just snorted cocaine off of his dashboard.

"...i just think about anything to do with him..."

victor could feel a lump in the back of his throat. the therapist rubbed her lips together to smooth out her newly applied lipstick.

"...he had this yellow book..." victor carried on. "he forgot it when he left - "

"why did he leave?"

victor bit at the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

"he was a prostitute," he then said, bluntly. "and i called him "a fucking whore." more than once."

he swallowed hard, and the therapist didn't say anything. nothing at all.

"aren't you supposed to fucking talk to me?" victor demanded, and swore he could hear the swish of bathwater, feel yuri's soft, wet skin against his own, hear the echo of his voice as he snapped "i don't have to tell you a fucking thing" and see yuri tense up at his tone of voice.

and hearing those three words coming out of his mouth again took all the air out of his lungs. 

"a fucking whore."

"victor," the therapist started off, uncrossing her legs, "tell me about him."

victor didn't reply. he focused on the dark carpet under his feet. he was thinking about yellow books and thin black coats again.

"it'll be good for you," she added, crossing her legs again.

"dark hair," victor started off slowly, as if testing the waters, as if walking over shards of broken glass on his living room floor, "he has dark hair. soft dark hair."

the therapist gave a small smile, indicating him to carry on. victor laughed, and sniffed. he didn't realise that there were tears in his eyes until he started to speak again. he wiped his eyes roughly.

"eyes like chocolate," he laughed a little, a smile on his chapped lips, "and soft skin. he wears this thin black coat, and when he gets nervous or doesn't know what to say he bites his lip...which he shouldn't do because it's cut..."

"don't fucking do that...it's gonna hurt you, isn't it?"

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

victor stopped talking, and had both hands in his hair, leaning forwards in the chair and looking down at the floor. he sniffed hard, and looked up at the therapist once again, who he saw hadn't been making any notes like he would have expected her to be.

"and he smells like bubblegum," victor added, chewing at the inside of his cheek again. the therapist smiled again, and changed the position of her legs.

"victor," she said, and leant forwards to get closer to him, "why did you say what you said to him?"

victor closed his eyes, and was trying to get the sight of yuri's soft, dark, dark hair against his white bedsheets out of his head - because right now, with what the therapist in the dress suit was asking, that memory was sure to kill him quicker than the cocaine he kept snorting.

"do you blame yourself for it ending?" the therapist went on, and victor could feel himself getting wound around tighter and tighter like a band about to snap. "is that why you - "

"tried to kill myself?" victor said bluntly, making the therapist jump a little, before shaking his head and getting to his feet. "look, i'm sorry, this was a stupid, stupid idea of mine. i do fucking stupid things when i'm sober."

he headed for the door, and the therapist stood up to stop him.

"no, don't," victor said. turning back to her and shaming his head. "look how fucking narcissistic this was of me. i hurt him because i'm a spoilt fucking child who couldn't get his way and wanted to hurt him, and then i cry when he leaves, try throw myself from eighty stories and then rock up at therapy so you'll feel sorry for me, i guess."

he laughed, and ran his hand through his hair again.

"here," he laughed bitterly, and threw a few and notes from his pocket into her office, and left them fluttering in the air as he slammed her office door behind him.

you fucking cliché, nikiforov.
get over yourself.

victor got outside into the grey cold of the day, lit up a cigarette and leant back against the outside of the blank building, grey streets hidden by yellow books, black coats and the scent of bubblegum. 

and now he wanted to feel yuri katsuki's lips, and god, those three words going around and around his head coupled with that feeling was sure to kill him quicker than any drug he used "just for the hell of it."

he wanted meaningless sex. to take his mind off it. to take his mind off of yuri katsuki and the scent of bubblegum. like some sort of drug - to pass the time.

he pulled out his phone, and tried to taste the nicotine filling his lungs.

"hey...chris..."