M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

112.| chateau margaux

he doesn't want you.
he doesn't want you.
he doesn't want you.

he didn't want to touch anyone else.

can you blame him?

the music made his head spin and his heart race faster at the thought of yuri walking around his bedroom in his creased white shirt trialing to just above the middle of his thighs, hands disappearing under the cuffs, bloodied bottom lip and hair in his eyes when he looked around the room with one hand trailing along the wall. fucking beautiful.

but can you blame him?

victor shook his head, swarmed by drugged-up rich kids with powdered noses and prozac in their pockets.

"no," he murmured to himself, shaking his head. he sighed, and breathed in cologne and perfume so strong his eyes welled up. "i can't."

he could've sworn the music got louder and sighed again, before he caught some other girl with dark hair masked by the lack of light looking over at him from georgi's side like she was interested in tainted the collar of his shirt. victor didn't want her to; god, he only wanted his yuri to touch his neck with those soft lips, lean his forehead against the warmth between neck and shoulder and trace over his jawline with tentative fingertips.

he felt cold went that tape stopped playing, and felt like he was slowly sinking deeper and deeper with weights around his feet. it wasn't like he tried struggling, watching anya try and make excuses to come over to him in those stilettos and ply the both of them with more alcohol. victor wondered if he was going to cry.

he let her purse her lips and ever-so-subtly move her hair back so her bare collarbones were exposed to him, then that lip bite. she reminded him of the girl he'd paid to come lounge at the end of his bed trying to turn him on until he'd been ready to pay her to leave; both of them too provocative.

not like his yuri.

he's not yours.
he's not.

victor waited until another god-awful round of pulsating, thudding music started up before he slipped away to the other side of the darkened mess he was in. he didn't want to be near chris. anywhere near. he didn't want a cigarette or a hit. he wanted yuri yuri yuri. it was making him ache.

he longed for the boredom he usually had coursing through him at parties like these, ready to drive him mad enough to take one more hit than necessary, just to give him something to do. a party for celebrity skaters. victor didn't even know what fucking position he'd come and didn't care. he looked around the room as best he could for jj leroy to palm him a hit.

and then he wondered if he was already high as a kite, because he could see the boy he longed for more than any fucking thing he could have through the crowds of those god-awful rich kids, wearing victor's denim jacket, black jeans ripped at the knees and looking around the room.

he couldn't breathe.

yuri caught his eye and stood still, then smiled slightly, as if he didn't know if he should, corners of his mouth going up and chocolate eyes shining prettier than any pool of rainwater catching the light at 6 in the morning.

and before victor knew what he was doing he was pushing through the crowd, the music all but got, blurred vision sharpened, and yuri was coming towards him and he was so close and -

they stood inches away from each other, yuri katsuki looking straight at victor nikiforov and victor wanting to kiss all the oxygen out of his lungs more than any fucking thing in the world. everything seemed to stop for him, still as bathwater, with yuri right there opposite him, so close, looking at him with everything he wanted to say and couldn't find the words for. victor held out his hand and touched his face, like a child trying to prove that yuri was real. he brushed a strand of soft, dark, dark out of yuri's eyes and dropped his hand.

he couldn't say a thing.

yuri smiled again, seeming tearful, before he sniffed hard and leant up to whisper in victor's ear,

"i want to be somewhere with you, but not here."