tw: self-harm
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yuri's tears mirrored the raindrops running down the glass window of the taxi that was pulling away from victor nikiforov's house and was about to turn the corner that yuri had watched celestino's black porsche turn earlier that night, whilst he stood on the doorstep of victor nikiforov's house with a glimmer of hope that he would never have to look different men up and down with acted seduction in order to give celestino his money.
he never loved you, yuri.
celestino was right.
you should have listened to him.
now look at you.
as the car pulled up outside the dingy grey block of flats yuri hated having to return to every night, he paid the driver and dried his eyes hurriedly, phitchit's mascara staining his fingers as he pushed the key into the lock of the ground-floor flat celestino had bought two years ago and squinted in the lemon-yellow light of the living room.
"he's back," phitchit smiled at yuri from where he was curled up on the sofa with leo by his side. "how was the party?"
"great," yuri smiled, hoping that the rain on his face would mask the tears that refused to stop. "yeah, it was great, phitchit."
"are you ok, yuri?" leo asked, drawing his knees to his chest. yuri nodded. and wiped the salt and rain away from his big brown eyes.
"yeah," he sighed heavily, discarding his coat and heading down the hallway to his bedroom. "yeah, i'm fine. don't worry about me. i'm just tired, leo."
he never loved you.
celestino was right.
he never even replied to that text.
sugar🍭: do you love me, victor nikiforov?
he never loved you, yuri.
he was bored.
he was rich and bored.
you're just a "fucking whore" to him.
yuri tipped the final pill from the plastic orange container labelled prozac; 20mg by his bed into his palm and swallowed it down, before he pulled out the wad of bank notes he had under his mattress - beside the picture of his mother in her pink apron with a chubby toddler mari by her legs, covered in flour - and counted out eighty dollars for celestino.
he added in the extra twenty that celestino would have wanted him to get, because whenever celestino said "at least," he always wanted more. and if yuri didn't pay up, he'd be using phitchit's concealer for the next week.
and with the television blaring from down the hall and the low murmur of phitchit and leo de la iglesia's voices barely audible, yuri katsuki lay down on his bedroom floor, his one cheek pressed against the rough grey carpet; as grey as victor nikiforov's sofa.
you ruined it all, yuri.
you ruined you fantasy.
you ruin everything.
akio was right.
you're a disappointment.
you're father was right.
you're a disappointment.
and celestino was right all along.
right about victor nikiforov.
with his conscience screaming in his ears against the backdrop of phitchit and riverdale, yuri put both hands over his head and pushed his face into the ground, and allowed himself the ecstasy of sobbing his heart out over the silver-haired boy he had been foolish enough to believe could love him before he heard celestino's boots echo down the hall.
"yuri?" he heard phitchit say softly, knocking on the door with leo behind him. the television had stopped, and the only sound to fill their dingy apartment was yuri's sobs from his bedroom floor.
yuri wanted to tell them both that he was alright; he couldn't find his voice, and it was so goddamn hard for him to breathe. all he wanted was to feel the warmth of victor's arms around him once more, to breathe in the scent of vanilla and lemon and to hear the russian accent glide over his name, smooth as gossamer silk.
but he could only smell jj leroy's strong cologne and hear a canadian accent in his ear, warm and smelling of alcohol. and even the thought of that silver-haired, ocean-eyed victor nikiforov reminded him of every fucking word that had passed those soft, chapped lips that had uttered pretty little lies to yuri katsuki on a grey sofa.
"a fucking whore."
yuri got to his feet and wiped both eyes roughly until they stung with salt, and slipped past both phitchit and an anxious leo without a word.
"i'm going to take a shower," yuri said in a hoarse voice, locking the bathroom door behind him and cutting off phitchit's voice.
"did someone hurt you, yu - "
yuri stripped off the clothes that were tainted with jj's touch and yuri's shame - the same shame that he had felt when he heard that words of victor nikiforov in that guest bedroom against the white noise of loud voices and pumping music.
yuri turned up the heat off the water, scrubbing at his skin hard as he could, turning up the heat until it burnt his soft skin and made him cry out.
you deserve this.
you don't deserve akio.
you don't deserve victor.
you deserve this.
you only deserve this.
you deserve every fucking thing he said.
yuri hesitated, leaning his head against the cool tiles of the shower and wondering it what he was about to do would really make any of it better; it sure as hell wouldn't make it go away.
you're a disappointment, yuri.
you saw akio's face when you fell on the ice.
disappointment.
yuri lifted up the razor blade and cut across his thigh, where celestino wouldn't see a thing. the water ran down his body stained scarlet, and yuri bit his lip and sliced across another strip of soft, wet skin.
he cut across his forearms - he knew that celestino would be angry if he saw the lines of ruby red afterwards but yuri wanted to feel the pain and willed himself to cut harder; to end it.
failure.
you failed last time.
do it.
cut upwards.
cut deeper.
end it.
no one wants you, yuri.
yuri's tears ran down his delicate face with the scarlet water whirling around the plug hole from his forearms and thighs, but he set down the razor with trembling hands against the will of his conscience.
you don't want it all to end?
coward.
failure.
end it.
it will all be over, yuri.
yuri pulled a blue towel around his body, and the dark material was stained darker with the streaks of blood soaking in from the top of both thighs. yuri winced in pain but bit his lip to avoid either leo or phitchit overhearing him.
no one wants you, yuri.
akio didn't want you.
the men at the parties don't want you.
your victor nikiforov doesn't want you.
"where's my baby boy?" he heard a man with heavy boots call out from the doorway, and yuri knew that he would never hear a russian accent smooth as gossamer silk whisper those same two words in his ear again.
no one wants you, yuri.
and they never will.
and that's what you deserve.
i'm not crying you are
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