song: settle down by the 1975
victor couldn't breathe.
he sat beside yuri in the back of one of chris' friends cars; victor had asked chris to send them over because he was too high to drive. he sniffed again, although the effects of the hit were wearing off.
the words hadn't.
outside the rain-streaked windows, the streetlights glowed dim, and shine across yuri's face as they had done as they sped down the motorway, leaving shadows of rain across his soft, delicate, bruised face every time the lights flirted over him.
but instead of a blood-stained denim jacket of victor's, he was wearing the same thin black coat he wore the night victor nikiforov kissed yuri katsuki on his grey couch.
but like that night in victor's car, when he drifted in and out of consciousness under the effects of the heroin and the damage celestino cialdini caused, yuri said nothing to victor. he only looked outside at the hidden shadows of expensive buildings slipping away from them, and didn't bite his lip.
the car pulled up, and just as victor reached for yuri's hand, he moved away and stepped out onto the wet pavement dining under a single streetlight.
and victor leant back in his seat, breathing in deeply, suffering through the déjà vu of when he reached for yuri's hand that night in the motorway, and he moved it away to brush soft, dark, dark hair away from his face.
"you coming?" chris'a friend asked, leaning into the car, a girl by his side in a tight red dress. victor nodded slowly, as if he were still high as a kite, and looked past the both of them to see his yuri in that same thin black coat and jeans ripped at the knees, shanking soft hair from his eyes and heading towards the glass doors and faint, pulsating music.
victor followed him, chris's friend and the girl in the right red dress inside the block of flats, and before he knew it, he was standing under the screaming bright lights of the elevator with his yuri so close to him, but looking away.
the words didn't come; victor was suffocating under that fucking, god-awful feeling. he just watched the buttons of the elevator glow as they passed each floor, as the music got louder, and as yuri continued to focused on nothing in the left corner of the elevator.
before victor could reach for yuri's hand, the doors had opened and he had started towards the open doors of chris's penthouse - towards credit cards, rolled bank notes, media, tight dresses and repetitive, pounding music.
victor sighed, sniffed again, and watched yuri katsuki slip away through the crowds of people and into the darkly lit apartment, and suddenly the fucking, god-awful feeling was too much. he felt terrible, as if he were suffering from the comedown all over again.
every fucking thing he had said played over and over again in his head; everything he had said, only around an hour ago, because he was high as a kite and wanted to hurt yuri for making him feel that fucking, god-awful guilt.
look at what you've done, victor.
he strained his eyes through the swirling lights to catch a glimpse of someone in a black jacket, but it wasn't his yuri. he couldn't breathe; the lights moved too fast, his heart was beating too fast, "a fucking whore" and fucking, god-awful guilt.
victor gave up; he couldn't breathe. instead, he slumped against the counter of chris's kitchen, which he had somehow managed to get to, and slipped a clear bottle of vodka from someone's hand.
"hey, aren't you, like, the victor nikiforov?" the girl he had taken the bottle from asked.
victor shook his head, and downed some more, alcohol starting to numb the pain he had caused.
"victor?"
he looked up, having kissed himself he had heard the soft voice he longed to hear, but his eyes were met with chris giacometti, hands in his pockets.
"christ, you're starting early," he gestured to the bottle, and victor swallowed down more in response.
"ok, ok," chris started, and took the vodka from victor hands. "what happened, huh?"
chris stiffened a little, before he asked,
"where's yuri?"
victor shook his head, looking down at the ground, and before he knew it, the victor nikiforov was on the verge of tears.
"i fucked it up," victor laughed, sniffing and pushing the hair away from his face. "i fucked it up, chris. christ, why did i do it?"
"hey, hey," chris said, hands on victor's shoulders. "look, i'm sure whatever happened isn't as bad as you think. let's just - "
chris raised his voice against the loud music, so that victor could hear him.
"let's get you out of here, ok?"
victor lit up a cigarette as chris lead him up down the hall, to someplace where the music wasn't so violent.
he looked over his shoulder for yuri katsuki, but was only met with young adults in expensive clothes flying high and giving each other their bodies "just for the hell of it."
•••
yuri leant against the wall, and realised that he was standing where he had first talked to victor nikiforov. he lifted the bottle of champagne he had taken - half-empty, from some girl sitting on the couch with one of her dress straps bothered with- in his hands and drunk a little, to numb the pain.
the damage on his body caused by the man in the boss suit he knew all too well was moaning in pain, as if victor had caused them to start to bleed and ache.
"because you were just a fucking whore, weren't you?"
yuri sighed into the loud, suffocating music.
he doesn't love you.
yuri drank more champagne.
celestino was right.
yuri drank more.
who could love a fucking whore?
yuri felt tears welling up in his eyes, and was glad for the low lights to hide them from anyone else's view, because he was unable to stop two solitary tears make their own, departed wats down his cheeks. he rubbed his eyes dry, drank more champagne and leat his head back against the wall.
he could still here the shattering and splintering of glass against the wall, over the music and loud, raucous voices, and was waiting for someone to recognise yuri katsuki, for some drugged-up, half drunk rich boy still making his name in the celebrity world with meaningless sex written all over his face to ask him for a price.
yuri couldn't breathe.
he closed his eyes, and lifted the bottle once again, so that alcohol would wash away the taste of chapstick and cigarettes which was threatening to shatter his heart like the glass he had smashed against the wall, only an hour or so before.
yuri hoped for a single moment that when he opened his eyes, he would see his victor - silver hair, blue eyes, white shirt undone at the top and soft, slightly chapped lips.
"yuri?"
he opens his eyes straight away, but it wasn't victor nikiforov who had called his name from across the room, amidst a crowd of drugged-up rich kids in expensive clothes.
yuri froze.
yuri couldn't breathe.
yuri heard the bottle in his hands that had been in his hand smash against the floor, masked by the noise of the music so that no one so much as batted an eye.
yuri could see akio tanaka, in a dark suit jacket and trousers, looking at him with the a smile from across chris giacometti's penthouse, and before yuri knew what he was doing, he was pushing through drugged-up rich kids who the magazines loved to ruin to get somewhere - anywhere - away from him.
•••
"you were high?"
victor rubbed his face wth his hands, and tried to run away the look of hurt in his yuri's eyes, only an hour or so before.
"i fucked it up," victor repeated, looking up from where he sat on chris's bed to see chris leaning against the door, arms folded, shirt sleeves rolled back. "i really, really fucked it up."
chris looked down at the ground, paused, before he sat down on the bed beside victor, and put his arm around him. victor could feel his heart shatter like the glass yuri had smashed against the wall, and he couldn't breathe, suffocated by that fucking, god-awful feeling.
he leant against chris, into his shoulder, and missed the scent of bubblegum and the soft skin that he longed for.
"hey," chris soothed, and victor clung to him, as he had done over the years when his parents had pushed him over the edge.
now it was himself who had pushed him over the edge, and hurt his angel once again.
just because he was angry and high.
"i'm worthless," victor laughed tearfully into chris's shirt, and tears feel from his eyes when he felt chris's hand on his back, because it wasn't the soft touch that he longed to feel.
"no you're not," chris said, holding victor to him tighter. victor sighed, and sniffed.
"i don't deserve someone like him," he breathed, "because i'm just some cokehead who got so high and angry that i wanted to hurt something as beautiful as him."
chris said nothing, and victor looked up and into his green eyes, dimmed in the darkness of the bedroom.
"i'm worthless, chris," victor repeated, and before his alcohol-coke-guilt-bubblegum-glass filled head could do a thing, his lips were locked with chris giacometti's, his mind was swirling like water swishing in the bath across soft skin and he was trying to wash the hurt in his yuri's eyes away with chris giacometti's lips.