M.O.N.E.Y • viktuuri ✔️

37.| scent

as parties went, the victor nikiforov's were the kind that people would talk about for weeks before and weeks after. victor knew that his was only because he was adored by the press; what more could they want but a child celebrity with "daddy issues," as various magazines and newspapers had included in their write-up of him, who had grown up to be "wayward" and "attractive" and had "been rumoured to take intoxicants frequently."

it all made victor want to say ugh!

victor nikiforov knew that he was the "great gatsby" of those would had risen to fame via their parents playing on the sweet face and growing talent of a child, and had "gone off the rails" as a result. he was jay gatsby among that crowd of figure-skaters, young millionaires, calvin klein models and the like with their faces plastered over tacky, glossy magazines for the public, in as much as everyone would come to his parties - because they were full of the most expensive liquor that came cheaply to him and rich with sugared bank noted and party pills, and they only happens every so often when chris either forced victor to host one to keep up his social status, or when victor was so painfully bored that he just felt like thumping music and short-skirted girls and boys on expensive suits cramped together in a darkened house that was usually so big and so lonely, flirting with one another in order to climb up the social hierarchy.

he was jay gatsby in as much as everyone flocked to his parties - to have the ecstasy of being able to say that they were at one of the victor nikiforov's parties; their rarity making the announcement ever the more sumptuous - but none of them came to see him.

then again, victor couldn't give a fuck about any of them, or why they were there. in a way, every person in a short skirt or expensive suit at every party - whether in a penthouse or a big and lonely house in japan - was only there for themselves. for social points, to make money.

the night started at the first step of every party, where girls and boys flirted with victor and laughed obnoxiously at every word he said to show themselves off to all the others in the vicinity at the victor nikiforov's side. and usually, victor would go along wit it for a while, and would embrace the life his father with the metal scissors in hand and silver strands of hair in the other had pushed him so hard to have.

but not tonight.

victor gave even less of a fuck about everyone else in his house that friday night, and only cared about the angel he had been unable to get off of his mind with the dark, dark hair and chocolate brown eyes.

is he lying to me?
is he really hurt?
is chris right?

do i love him?

victor's stubborn, dismissive and frankly uncaring conscience didn't contradict him for once, and victor continued to pushed through bodies clad in short skirts and expensive suits to try and find the glow of the soft, delicate angel of a boy who had cried in his arms on the grey couch that chris and some girl were draped over together, the girl with her legs crossed and chris sipping at a cocktail glass of bubbling, golden champagne.

relax, victor.
he isn't here yet.
he will be.
relax, victor.

•

"hey, hey, look at me."

yuri looked away from the rain-covered window of the passenger side of celestino's porsche and up at the man in the driver's seat who's face he knew so goddamn well.

"lose that pout, will you?" celestino said with a fleeting smile, before his expression shifted to flint-sharp. he grabbed the side of yuri's jaw and tilting his face up towards his.