just imagine their makeup sex
NOTHING'S GONNA HURT YOU BABY
CIGARETTES AFER SEX
"déjà vu. all over again."
victor smiled, and leant against the doorframe. yuri laughed, and kept his hands in his pockets. it was dark outside, like it had been the last time yuri had been in that bedroom with the soft white bedsheets and scent of lemon, vanilla and aftershave.
he could still feel victor nikiforov's soft, slightly chapped lips against his own, and feel that same feeling he had done as they sat in his silver mercedes by the beach.
he almost - almost - told him every fucking thing; almost told him about akio tanaka, the heroin, luca, how he wanted victor to kiss his neck. but then he felt that same shame he had, the night celestino told him he wanted eighty, the night the concealer and the heat of his cheeks as the music pounded, the look in victor's eyes as he called him "a fucking - "
"and hey," victor then said, refusing to let the silence remind him that no, that boy with the soft, dark, dark hair standing so close to him wasn't his; he could still taste yuri's soft lips on his own. "i didn't know you were an artist."
yuri laughed. softly.
"i'm not," he said, shaking his head lightly, pulling down the sleeves of his thin black coat. everything was the same as it had been the last time he'd been there. "not a good one."
"god, you'd look cute drawing," victor sighed, and yuri rolled his eyes with a smile. "when you concentrate, this little bit of hair goes in your eyes."
the pain in victor's chest was almost suffocating.
"is that what you do?" victor went on, having to clear his throat. "do you draw? or paint?"
yuri nodded, and those same strand of soft, dark, dark hair fell into his eyes. another wave of pain crashed over victor, and he wanted to punch the wall with all the force he had in him.
"you draw?" victor asked, before the silence could swallow them while as it had the sunset.
"charcoal," yuri said, his voice no more than a whisper as the gossamer smooth sound of victor's voice was as painful to hear as to touch shards of a glass thrown against the wall. "mostly."
"that's fucking perfect," victor breathed, and he couldn't stop himself from talking toe steps towards yuri - lit by those streetlights, soft, delicate face, soft lips, soft, dark, dark hair and that same black thin coat - and pressing his lips against his own.
victor's mind was a raging sea of charcoal, the 1975, bubblegum, bruises and page 98, and every fucking inch of his body was telling him to stop, his addiction begging him to open his lips, taste yuri's mouth, hands in his hair, pushing him back against the wall. his body wasn't his own, he couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe without him.
and god, yuri was kissing him back.
"victor..." he breathed against his lips, and the way he moaned slightly only made the waves crash down harder and harder onto the grey sand, washing away that empty marlboro pack.
"ah...yuri..."
victor could barely think, could barely breathe it felt so fucking painful and so fucking good to kiss him, to touch him, to breathe in that scent of bubblegum and kiss the charcoal lips and hear "an encounter" and watch lilac watercolours run down a blank canvas.
"fuck," victor moaned into yuri's mouth, pushing him further back against the wall, hand either side of his face and holding him so close, smashing the glass walls put around them by bloodied lips and bright streetlights and alcohol and cocaine. he felt yuri's leg rub against his own, and held his thigh up against his waist, running his hands up those black ripped jeans ripped at the knees, their bodies so close, the streetlights blinding in the corner of victor's eye.
"ah...victor...ah..."
and then victor was kissing yuri's neck, his lips lost in the waves, the taste so fucking painful and so fucking good that he couldn't stop. it was like he was on a high, and god, he wanted to stay up there for as long as he could.
hell, it was better up there than in heaven.
"god - "
he was sucking at the skin, leaving hickeys in the dark of the bedroom, and god, he couldn't breathe - it couldn't be happening, couldn't; church candles, a glowing skyline and blood staining his white shirt as he dragged yuri out of chris giacometti's apartment broke through the waves, but were pulled under by the feeling of his lips against the soft, warm, tender skin of yuri's neck.
and yuri was letting him; god, he couldn't even begin to stop victor, because god, did he want him to kiss his neck.
god, he couldn't breathe.
the waves rolled over and over, roaring in victor's ears as they hit the shore and sent up a spray of a blood-stained denim jacket, baby blue crops and "a fucking whore," and before he knew t, lips still pressed against yuri katsuki's neck, his palms were on soft white sheets, yuri's legs either side of his waist, yuri's lips, on his own, soft, clinging to the taste of him and his scent of lemon, aftershave and vanilla like it was a lifeline.
"god...yuri...ah..."
yuri's thin black coat was falling off of his shoulders, revealing that soft bare skin, exposing the hickeys on his neck like lilac watercolours in the streetlights, his hair in his chocolate eyes.
"kiss me," he breathed, and, god, victor didn't hesitate to lean down, arms either side of him, and press his mouth against those soft lips.
and it wasn't like that night he'd said he'd pay yuri katsuki twenty - no toyful, lustful biting at his bottom lip. no; he loved, wanted and fucking appreciated yuri katsuki, and was kissing him just like that.
god, he wanted him so bad, and he kissed him over and over as he slid his one hand inside that thin black coat, under yuri's shirt, cold against that soft, warm, delicate skin -
the waves crashed silent. yuri threw the glass against the wall, and victor watched it smash again into sharp, sharp diamond shards. blood rushed in his ears. his heart beat too fast.
there was a ruby red dot on yuri's forearm, which the streetlights gladly illuminated for him, and once again everything was crumbling - crashing - into dust, dust, fucking dust.
victor sat up, running a hand through his hair and holding it there. yuri did the same, the sheets rustling so quiet beneath the two of them, pulling down the sleeves of his thin black jackets.
the hickeys looked more like bruises in the dark. yuri brushed his hair out of his eyes. the waves filled victor's lungs so that he couldn't say a single fucking thing.
"yuri - "
he couldn't. he couldn't say a thing. he couldn't say a single fucking thing. he wanted to punch the wall until he screamed, until he bled, with all of that fucking anger that was raging through his bloodstream, filling the lack of those soft lips he was suffering withdrawal from all over again, cold, shivering, so fucking angry.
yuri got up off of the bed, that same shame making his face burn, making the bruises luca di marco had left there ache, pulling down at the sleeves of his thin black coat. victor didn't say a thing as yuri walked straight out of the room, so silent, the waves waiting, waiting, until he was out in the glare of the streetlights with his breathe held.
as if he was underwater.
the waves crashed down, but they were too heavy for victor to do a thing, a single fucking thing. every inch of him was screaming for yuri katsuki, to run out into those streetlights, run straight after him, to stop him pressing a needle into that soft skin victor's lips had touched all over again, to make him his, keep him safe, make him his -
the high was over, and here was the comedown. victor lay down on his back on the cold sheets, breathing in the scent of bubblegum that was slipping away like the sunset from the sea, ran both hands through his hair.
and sighed heavily.