the victor nikiforov was immersed in a an overwhelming feeling of nostalgia as he he looked down from the top of the grey, shapeless, night-lit building at the headlights of cars below catching the rainwater on the streets below.
he shivered in the thin white shirt he was wearing, black jacket discarded on the concrete at his feet, lapels blowing backwards and forwards in the night air, which was blowing the nicotine away from his lips.
god, was it high up there; victor leant both arms over the thin metal bars lining the roof of the tower block he was up on, leaning both knees against the middle bar, cigarette held in fingers, the bustling city with glowing cars and towering apartment blocks lit up like headlights. yes, the city was as still as water, noises below so far down from these eighty stories that victor couldn't make out a thing; so far down that the screech of tyres against rain-gleaming tarmac and the raucous laughter of those findings their way home at 2:04 in the morning were as if a breeze brushing against the surface of water, brushing the surface as yuri katsuki's soft, dark, dark hair brushed his face.
victor stubbed out his cigarette on the top metal bar that was cold enough to numb his fingers, and flicked it over the edge. he watched it catch the night air, send ash towards the cloudless sky before it became lost among the background of cars so small eighty stories below, and streetlights like those outside the big, white house victor had bought in japan "just for the fucking hell of it" that had watched him scream yuri's name over and over, slumped against the wall as he watched that dark-haired boy walk away without looking back once.
victor sighed heavily, and looked up at the cold sky overhead, before he slipped one leg over the metal fencing, then the other, so that he was standing with only his heels on a jut of concrete, grasping the metal bar, body exposed to the shining streets so far below.
there was that nostalgia once again; the memory of being an eighteen year old boy, longer hair catching the breeze from up on a hotel window ledge, jeans brushing back against the hotel's skin, father. and as victor stood there - eighty stories high off of the ground, heart thumping in his chest as he once again, four years on with short hair and red-rimmed eyes, thought of the fall and the pain - he realised that he couldn't have given a fuck about whether some paparazzi with a camera from the back seat of an expensive car down below was snapping shots of him in that dishevelled white shirt up in the roof of a tower block, willing himself to lean forwards, fall, and for it to just end.
just end.
he couldn't have given a fuck; back when he was eighteen, splayed out against the dark stone of that shimmering hotel with a small crowd gathered underneath with their phones out, all his father had been worried about - he knew - under the mask of worry was the newspapers and magazines the next day, and the headlines sure to be printed in bold, along the lines of "teenage figure-skater heartthrob finally tipped over the edge?"
victor laughed a little to himself, shivering with the three metals bars he was pressing his body back against for support cold under his thin white shirt.
no, the victor nikiforov wasn't thinking about the fucking media as he willed himself to let go of that top metal bar and fall down past shimmering headlights and tower block windows lit up like lilac strobe lights; he was thinking of a boy with soft, dark, dark hair leaning against the wall of chris giacometti's apartment in black jeans ripped at the knees, hair brushing his soft, delicate face, biting at his bottom lip and looking around the room with low, chocolate eyes.
"...how much, nikiforov?"
victor laughed shakily at the memory, and took the risk to take one hand away from the bar and roughly wipe his eyes. his body tilted to one side, his chest tightened, eyes spun before he leant back against the bars, unable to breathe, shaking, wondering if it was here and now that the victor nikiforov was going to die.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
victor closed his eyes, hands shaking, blocking out the soft, dark, dark hair, lilac strobe lights, yellow books and glimmering streets below.
he took in one breath.
"i started to wonder...and after what happened...that night..."
"...what it would be like if the sun gave out, and the stars dimmed, and the sky went dark and the world went out like a light..."
"...and took us all with it...and how none of us would be suspecting a thing...and it wouldn't hurt...and every fucking thing would all be over...just like that..."
"...we're listening to the 1975 right now, vitya..."
victor gasped heavily as if he had broken through the surface of water, gasping for air, trying to get the water out of his lungs, clinging to the three metal bars and watching the world spin as if he were high as a kite eighty stories high.
lean forwards.
victor stretched out his arms, as if underwater, fingers stretching out to feel the water on his fingers, heels on concrete, heart still as bathwater in his chest, breath held still as yuri katsuki as he watched him sleep in dimmed bedsheets, light seeping in from beneath the shutters and soft, dark, dark hair against the white sheets.
"...watching me whilst i sleep, are you?"
victor opened his eyes, and stretched it further, blood running cold as the water had pooled under his shirt as he lay on the ice and watched soft, dark, dark hair fall into yuri katsuki's eyes.
lean forwards.
victor stretched out, eighty stories high, willing himself to just lean forwards.
"...a fucking whore..."
victor leant backwards against the metal bars, shivering in that white shirt, before he let out a shaky laugh, up so high, took out a cigarette from the marlboro pack that smelt like incense and lit one up, hands shaking so much that the flame shook like the candles in the altar in the night air, making the "high voltage" warning on the nearby fuse box stand out.
lean forwards.
and victor remembered thinking of yuri katsuki illuminated by morning light up on his bedroom window sill, and how the "a" ran into the full stop after "sea," and how his body looked under those curled white bedsheets.
lean forwards.
he remembered how much more beautiful yuri looked catching the daylight in that oversized woollen sweater than thousands of those lit candles at the altar in the dark chair h that smelt of incense.
"you gonna do it?"
victor's heart caught in his chest at the sound of the soft voice he longed to hear, and turned his head against the night'a biting air to see a boy with soft, dark, dark hair in a thin black coat tapping two lilac-painted nails against the top metal bar outlining the edge of the eighty-story tower block.
victor🚬; i loved that thin black coat you wore
"really?" yuri asked, with that same teasing smile he had given victor that night he leant against the same wall in chris giacometti's penthouse and leaning both arms against the top metal bar. "so this is it, huh? this is where the victor nikiforov dies?"
victor said nothing, blue eyes fixed on the dark-haired boy's soft lips, the edge of his hair, the way he was biting at his bottom lip and gazing out at the skyline stretching out before them from eighty stories high.
"you're not real," was all victor could manage to say, breath visible in the freezing night air. yuri didn't bat an eye.
"funny," he laughed a little, in his same teasing way, kicking at the lowest metal bar with on foot. "i always thought it would be the cocaine you snorted because you had nothing better to do that would be the end of you."
victor longed to reach out and touch him, but stayed clinging to the metal. yuri shook soft, dark, dark hair out of his eyes.
as the cars zoomed by below, nostalgia washed over victor like waves of creased white bedsheets.
"i don't do this with junkies"
"i'm a hot mess, huh?" victor said aloud, shakily, remembering the pulsating music and chocolate eyes under dark hair. he managed a laugh, the wisp of a smile on his lips, as he fought off cold tears. yuri only shook his hair once more and rolled his eyes, still leaning against the top bar wearing black jeans ripped at the knees.
"cut it nikiforov, and tell me how much you're willing to pay. then you can flirt with me all you want."
victor leant back his head a little, giving a laugh, but it caught in his throat as the nostalgia replaced water and began to make it hard for him to breathe, taking control of his lungs.
"you're not going to say anything, are you?" he whispered softly into the night air, breath catching as he looked over at who he knew wasn't his yuri.
he's not yours.
victor laughed weakly, and leant his head back.
"because you're not real, are you?"
yuri only kept on looking out at the skyline of shapeless buildings glowing bright like lilac strobe lights in the night air. nostalgia made victor remember the hot, thick air of chris's penthouse that night - the alcohol, smelled of sex and cocaine on bathroom tiles.
and before victor knew it, he was smashing a vodka bottle against the wall in that same apartment, only days ago.
"yuri - " victor started off, and dared to lift one hand from the metal, body tilting, heart stilling, reaching out to touch him.
he sighed heavily, and watched as another car turned the corner eighty stores below. he still couldn't see that girl in the black coat.
"i can't live with this any more," he said under his breath, as if he were back in that dark church with candles burning before his eyes and the smell of incense, whispering "just kill me."
yuri said nothing, only looked at victor with the chocolate eyes that had caught his across a swarm of drugged-up rich kids in expensive clothes smelling of alcohol and sex.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
"i can't live with this fucking, god-awful feeling any more..."
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
"i can't live without you..."
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
victor🚬; i can't live without you
message not sent!
victor🚬; what a fucking cliché
message not sent!
victor🚬; i've heard it in movies before and always rolled my eyes
lean forwards.
lean forwards -
"...and god, do i love you, victor..."
victor dropped his hand back to the top metal bar, catching his breath as his body slackened after the panic of the tilting world and bright lights below began to subside like a comedown. yuri clicked his tongue, running one finger softly across the metal, backwards and forwards, as victor's finger shad moved across the soft, wet skin of yuri's arm with the swish of bath water only days before.
"god, you're beautiful," victor murmured, tears drying on his face in the night's icy atmosphere, but yuri said nothing; he only looked at the fuse box, eyes focused on the "high voltage" as they had been in that thin-stemmed metal lamp that night he told him all about akio tanaka.
victor swallowed hard, and dared to lift his hand once more to reach out and at least feel that yuri was there.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
lean forwards.
"...i love you, yuri katsuki..."
victor dropped his hand once again, and shook his head, trying to shake away that image of yuri lying in his bedsheets and his own words- repeated - over and over again until they threatened to push him forwards.
"a fucking whore?"
victor breathed in cold night air, watched yuri's hair brush against his face in the slight breeze and tap his lilac-painted nails against the top metal bar.
"because that's all you are, yuri. a fucking whore. using your body for sex, huh? do you even know what love is, yuri? jesus, yuri, you sell yourself for money. its fucking disgusting."
"you're not real," he muttered over and over again, and dared to sit down on the thin concrete edge, with nothing to protect him from the eight story fall. he watched as yuri drew his thin black coat further around himself. "what a fucking cliché."
yuri stopped tapping his nails, but as he looked up from the edge he was sitting on, eighty stories high off of the ground, victor could see that he didn't take his eyes off of the skyline.
"fuck," victor laughed wearily, rubbing a hand over his face. "i've got to be high, right? am i high?"
and before victor knew it, nostalgia pushed him under and he was back in his car, yuri with his soft hands against his face, as he whispered, "don't do it again."
"it wasn't just sex," victor said aloud, although he knew that there was nobody up eighty stories high to hear him say a thing. but he was thinking back to yuri's fast-paced breathing hit against his neck; his tender, warm, soft skin against victor lips as he straddled his hips in the passenger seat of that silver mercedes.
"say it...say it...ah...say it..."
"it wasn't just sex," victor repeated, voice faltering against the cold night air, and now his mind was replaying every time he'd moaned yuri's name, kissed soft skin, felt soft, dark, dark hair beneath his fingers and over white bedsheets. "i swear...it wasn't just sex..."
"and the thing with you, victor, as that you did exactly the same. paid me for sex."
victor leant his head further, against the middle metal bar, heels grazing against the eighth story of that grey, shapeless tower block; one of the many in the skyline that had blurred into nothing behind his yuri, sitting up on that window sill, air falling into his eyes as he read that yellow book.
"and i don't want this to be over...because, god, do i love you, victor. and god, i want you to love me..."
"it wasn't just sex," victor said aloud, sniffing as if he had just shot up, tears on his shirt making him shiver once more.
"sex is a way of showing someone, god, how much you love them, more than words can express. because, god, do i love you, yuri."
"god, i love you, yuri katsuki," victor laughed tearfully into his hands, voice catching, shaking his head. "how the fuck did we end up here, baby?"
he looked down at the roads below once more.
"...and one day, we are gonna go up to heaven...you and i...and if there isn't a heaven at all...we're gonna go somewhere better, baby...but i'm gonna keep loving you until the sun does die...and the stars do go out...no matter where we are..."
"if there isn't a god, baby," he whispered quietly, yuri's jeans and hem of his thin black coat just visible out of the corner of his eye from where he sat, "then this is it."
he looked up at the yuri he knew wasn't his yuri, and smiled sadly.
"i'm never gonna hear your voice again, am i?" he murmured. "because you aren't real, are you? we're here because i fucked it all up, baby. you're not real."
victor shakily got to his feet, still on the edge, so high off of the ground, and ran a hand over his eyes as he sniffed hard.
"do you want me to be?" he heard yuri whisper back softly, biting at his bottom lip.
lean forwards -
"yuri - "
victor turned his head, and saw nothing but a fuse box, plain concrete and lights flickering against the glimmering skyline like a cigarette flame dying in an ashtray.
then he laughed, head in his hands, and shook his head, breathing in nicotine and no scent of bubblegum as he sat up in the roof of a grey, shapeless tower block at 2:10 a.m.
"fucking narcissist," he whispered to himself, before he looked down at the winding, car-lit streets once again, and flicked away his second cigarette. "you fucking narcissist."