"Our poison for the night." Victor hands a bottle of wine to Christophe and moves past him into the room.
"Poison should be something a little more dangerous than twelve and a half percent." Christophe picks up a corkscrew. "Oh, it's a screwtop."
"Like I said!" Victor eases off his shoes and sits on the bed, back against the headboard. "It was a gift. A terrible, terrible gift."
Christophe hands Victor a water glass half full of Merlot and climbs up beside him. "Santé!" They clink glasses and drink.
Victor coughs. "This is awful!"
"And you're going to drink at least half the bottle." Christophe leans back and sips. The wine is rough and unfinished but it isn't as bad as Victor made out. There are notes he can appreciate.
"This is nice." Victor leans over and hooks a finger in the silver chain around Christophe's neck, catching the hanging bar in his palm.
"On the ice after my free skate. It's Hermès."
"Always silver, though." Victor lets go and sits back. He drinks, making a face.
"Fuck off, Victor." Christophe tops up Victor's wine, pouring higher than before.
"You love me." Victor tosses his hair like he's playing to a crowd and blows Christophe a kiss.
Christophe catches it on his tongue. "I'm the only one who does."
They gossip for a while about the other skaters, the coaches, the season, until the bottle is nearly dead and Christophe feels himself relax. It's not a lot to drink for two men, but tired as they are, the buzz goes further.
"So," Victor says. "Did you bring anything fun with you?"
"Drink up first." Christophe keeps his voice light but he's been ready to go since he opened the door to Victor. He pours the dregs of the wine into Victor's glass and watches him drink it. "I thought we'd improvise."
"That's usually promising." Victor smiles and puts down his glass.
Christophe stands up and goes over to the pile of bags in the corner of the room. He rummages through the stuffed animals and dying flowers, then tosses a package at Victor.
"Ooh!" Victor tears open the plastic and takes out a pair of satin bikini underwear. Dark red, like the wine, with a black lace band and a bow on the front. "You always get more of these than I do." He rubs the material between his finger and thumb. "These are incredibly tacky." He turns them over. Christophe's name is embroidered on the back in a flowing black script. There's a slip of paper in the bag and he pulls it out too. "An address? Do they think you're going to come visit?"
"I think they hope I'll wear them and then mail them back."
Victor grins. "And do you?"
"Get undressed," Christophe says. "And put them on."
Victor's face changes, more serious now, and he meets Christophe's eyes for a long moment before turning his back and stripping down.
Christophe unbuttons his shirt but leaves it on. Some things are better naked. Some aren't. He watches Victor reveal his long pale back, his strong legs and buttocks, a little more slowly than he needs to. Then he slides the underwear up his thighs and eases them on,
They stretch tightly across Victor's hips and ride up over his buttocks, a good handful of curving flesh still bare. Victor looks back over his shoulder, one hand on his hip in a classic T&A pose.
Christophe stands behind him, his hand on Victor's shoulder. He runs the other down Victor's back, slowly, picking up the soft warmth of his skin. Victor leans into the touch, pushing against Christophe's hand like a cat, half a smile on his tipped-back face.
When his fingers touch the lace, Christophe strokes along the top of the band, dips down inside them into the cleft at the base of Victor's spine, then down over top of the soft material, smoother than skin. He traces his name, following the looping script with a slow finger.
He leans close to Victor's ear. "Whose name is on you?"
"Yours." Victor turns his head further so his cheek brushes Christophe's mouth.
"Say it." Christophe curls his hand over Victor's buttock, rubbing his thumb over the satin, his fingers over bare skin. "Say my name."
Christophe pinches Victor, a bit harder than he means to, and Victor jumps.
"Bastard!" Victor says.
"Say it how it's written."
"Chris-tophe," Victor says, drawing it out. "It's too long, though."
"You suck at these games." Christophe squeezes Victor's ass. Then he squats down, hands on Victor's hips, and bites Victor's buttock, right at the border between satin and skin. Victor gasps, just an indrawn hiss, and Christophe sucks at the spot, hard as he can, to leave his mark.
"Are you writing your name?" Victor says and Christophe rocks back on his heels and laughs.
"Sit on the bed and spread your legs out," Christophe says. He settles himself at the head and strips off his socks.
"I could do that for you," Victor says. "With my teeth."
"Nobody wants that," Christophe says. "Just move up a bit. There."
Victor stops, leaning back on his hands and throwing back his head to show his long throat. His legs spread out on either side of Christophe's, toes pointed. The red satin pulls across his hipbones and the lace lies dark against his pale abdomen. His balls are just showing at one side and his cock, half-hard, pushes at the fabric.
Christophe doesn't know if Victor always keeps it up but whenever they are together at these competitions, he's waxed bare. It makes Christophe want to surprise him in the off-season so he can get his fingers into the curl of hair around Victor's cock, maybe rub his face into Victor's armpit, still rank after a day on the ice.
For now, he just stretches out his foot and rests it on Victor's cock. "You look so good like this," he says. He presses in with the ball of his foot, callouses catching on the satin, rubbing up and down, and feels the swell underneath it, sees the pull on Victor's face. "I want everyone to see you like this. Pretty and waiting for me."
Victor smiles, but doesn't speak. He arches his back and pushes his hips up, pressing back against Christophe's foot and keeping his eyes on Christophe. His cock is leaking through the fabric now, just damp on the sole of Christophe's foot.
Christophe is half-hard himself now and that look, that stretch, makes him want to topple Victor back onto the bed, kiss and roll and struggle, nothing fancy, nothing planned. But Victor likes to play.
So Christophe keeps working with his toes, sliding the sole of his other foot up the inside of Victor's thigh, until Victor's mouth drops open and his eyes fall closed.
Christophe kneels up between Victor's legs, not touching him at all for a few moments. Then he brushes his fingers across Victor's lips. Victor's tongue pushes out and cradles them, licking at the tips, then sucking them in, working them like he does Christophe's dick.
It's too much. Christophe has planned this whole session, all the details, but fuck it, he doesn't want to play any more. He's too aroused, too lost in the fatigue and wine. He pulls his hand away and yanks off his shirt. Skins out of his trousers and briefs while Victor watches him with flushed cheeks and amused eyes.
He pushes Victor down and takes his mouth, too hard and their teeth clack together. Christophe swears against Victor's lips. Victor laughs and presses up against Christophe so Christophe feels the vibration of it in his chest. Christophe grinds down on him to shut him up, hips hard together, Christophe's cock sliding against Victor's with the lace and satin in between.
That slip will be enough, it won't take long, but it's not what Christophe thinks about all those weeks when they're apart, when there's someone else in his bed, and probably in Victor's too.
He rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed. Victor holds Christophe from behind, arms around his chest, one thumb rubbing at his nipple, and mouth on his neck. "Go down on me," Christophe says but it's inflected like a question, like it always is by now.
"In a minute," Victor says and bites down on Christophe's shoulder, sucking hard.
It hurts, the burn from the suction and a sharper pain from Victor's teeth. "Are you writing your name?"
Victor licks the spot, then up the side of Christophe's neck. Christophe can just catch the edge of the purpling smudge when he glances down. It's going to show at the collar of his exhibition costume.
"Come on." Christophe turns his head and catches Victor's mouth. They kiss and Victor sucks Christophe's tongue -- that same blowjob move, the fucking tease -- and brushes his hand down over Christophe's belly to thumb the head of his cock.
It seems right now like Christophe isn't going to get what he wants but he knows, deep down: they're still playing. That he and Victor both want the same end-game but it's better if they take this twisted path to get there.
He twists and grabs Victor around the waist, hauls them both to their feet. Kisses Victor again, one leg between Victor's thighs, both hands on Victor's ass. Victor rocks up against him, trapping his cock against his belly. Christophe is so hard now, he's so ready, he doesn't want to give in, but he can't help from rocking back, rubbing up on Victor.
He's got to do something, so he kisses Victor's neck, then bites down just a little, adds a little suction. Victor's fingers dig into Christophe's shoulders but he doesn't move and for a few moments, Christophe thinks Victor is just going to wait and let Christophe mark him for all the cameras to see.
Then Victor laughs. He pulls away, pushes Christophe down on the edge of the uncomfortable couch, bare ass on the scratchy fabric. "Tell me again," Victor says.
"Go down on me," Christophe says, imperative but begging all the same.
Victor pulls Christophe's trousers over, folds them up and kneels on them. He spreads Christophe's knees, wraps his fingers around Christophe's cock. He looks into Christophe's eyes for a long smiling moment. And then -- then -- he goes down on Christophe.
Christophe always tries to watch Victor when he's sucking him off. The way his hair flutters as he moves his head. His mouth sliding on Christophe's dick. His eyes looking up at Christophe. The eye contact is as arousing as the fingers tracing the crease of his thigh, cupping his balls, teasing his asshole.
But it's the way Victor uses his tongue that Christophe almost can't stand, it's so good, in a way that Christophe, who's had ample opportunity to compare, can't quite work out. In fact, it's like Victor's fucking skating. He's just better than anyone else.
On the ice, that's infuriating. Off the ice, it's glorious. It's glorious right now. Christophe can hardly keep still and he doesn't try to keep quiet. "Oh god," he says, under his breath, as the tension builds, as he tries to push it away, make it last a little longer. "Oh god."
Then the last twist happens, the final step, the last drop of wine that makes the whole glass overflow. Victor winks elaborately and takes away his mouth just in time. He thumbs the underside of Christophe's dick while Christophe jerks and groans and comes all over his hip and a little bit on the couch. Glorious.
"A minute," he says and leans his head back. He needs a few deep breaths, three or four, to fight the wave of sleep and then he'll do whatever Victor wants this time: suck him, jack him, let him fuck Christophe's thighs.
But Victor stands and moves back. He tosses his hair again, the smug self-important fucker, and starts touching himself through the stained fabric. Christophe slouches back, the jizz still cooling on his skin, and watches.
Victor starts off slow, eyes fixed on Christophe's, but as he speeds up they half-close and Christophe watches the action instead: Victor's hands moving, his face and chest flushing as he gets closer. Then his mouth opening in a silent "oh" and his heels rocking off the floor as he comes, his cock jerking under his hand. Where Christophe wishes his own hand were right how.
Victor is still breathing heavily when he straddles Christophe's lap, smearing the mess on Christophe's hip, and presses their foreheads together. Christophe slides his arms around Victor and they kiss for a while, slow and exhausted.
Still, Christophe thinks he could go again, given twenty minutes and an energy drink. Maybe twice more.
Victor climbs off and stretches. He strips off the underwear and swabs it over his thigh, then Christophe's, though it doesn't do much more than move the jizz around. He drops them in the trash. "If there's a pair next time with 'Victor' on the ass, you'll know that they're from me."
"Make sure you include your address." Christophe stands too and busses Victor's cheek. "Again?"
Victor sifts through the clothes on the floor. He pulls on his underwear and tucks himself in. No lace but they look good on him. "I thought you saved yourself for the ice."
Christophe drops onto the bed. "The ice and you, Victor, great rivals for my charms."
Victor laughs and does up his shirt. He doesn't bother with his socks, just rolls them up and pushes them into his pocket.
Tomorrow night? Christophe wants to say but even if Victor says yes he still might not. Better not to plan ahead. And Christophe might want to spread his charms around a little too.
"Good night," Victor says.
After he's gone, Christophe takes the underwear out of the trash. But he throws away the address.
On to serratedpearls!