Christophe/Yuuri, pre-canon, 2000 words, Explicit
“Coffee?” Chris says and sets down the paper cup.
Yuuri looks up, surprised. “Thank you, uh...”
“It’s okay to call me Chris.” Chris doesn’t suppose for a moment Yuuri doesn’t know his name. He’s Christophe Giacometti. They’ve been on the ice together at several competitions now and Chris has made a point of exchanging a few words with him every time. Yuuri always has the same look on his face: a delicious combination of “why do you want to talk to me?” and “how dare you speak to me!” More the latter and that’s more appealing to Chris than any come on.
“Thanks, Chris.” Yuuri takes the cup and holds it, both hands wrapped around like he wants to warm them.
Snow swirls down outside the lobby windows and Chris sits down to watch it, not looking directly at Yuuri. “The snow is supposed to stop tomorrow so the airport should re-open.”
Yuuri hunches into himself, enough that Chris catches it in his peripheral vision. He pops the lid off the cup and smells the coffee but still doesn’t drink. Chris turns his head just in time to see Yuuri’s not-quite-smile as he inhales.
Chris has a few targets this season and a different strategy for each of them. Some skaters — quite a few skaters, actually — just need a long slow look and a hand up the thigh in the bar before they’ll agree to come back to Chris’s room and “have a few more drinks”. Others respond best to Chris backing them against the wall in a dim corner, leaning down for a kiss. A few he just has to catch their eye once and they’ll do the rest of the work themselves.
For Yuuri, though, Chris has something else in mind. “You study a lot of dance, right? I can see it in your skating.”
Yuuri glances over, his glasses half-obscured with steam, and nods.
“Since we’re stuck here for a while,” Chris says, “will you do me a favour?”
“For International tango,” Yuuri says, “we step into close embrace.”
“Like this?” Chris slides his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and leans in until they’re just touching chest to chest, Yuuri’s hair against his cheek. They’re alone in the small ballroom he charmed out of the concierge, the meeting that was supposed to be in here delayed because of the blizzard. Yuuri feels tense under Chris’s arm, but not as much as Chris expected.
“No, no,” Yuuri says but he doesn’t back away. “That’s for Argentine tango. But that’s mostly improvisational, so.” He cups Chris’s shoulder blade and holds his other hand up for Chris to clasp. “Lean back at the the waist.” He steps in so their legs are staggered. “In at the hips.” He glances away, past Chris’s shoulder. “It’s a bit ... intimate so we don’t—” He trails off.
Even better. Chris leans in so they’re just brushing each other at the pelvis, hip bones offset. “I’m comfortable,” he says, “if you are.”
A tiny frown chases across Yuuri’s face, like he’s trying to decide if he’s more uncomfortable having Chris’s groin snugged up against his own or actually saying something about it. “We’ll try the steps without music first,” he says and Chris suppresses his grin.
The first few steps tangle Chris’s feet, probably because he’s thinking more about the other moves he’s going to make: his palm stroking down Yuuri’s back, his tongue teasing Yuuri’s ear. But he focuses more and Yuuri’s lead is easy to follow.
“Slow, slow, quick quick, slow,” Yuuri says. “Make sure to turn your head there.”
Chris turns his head and they promenade. “I should be holding a rose between my teeth.”
“They throw enough of them to you,” Yuuri says. “Let your thigh and calf muscles spring you forward and drag your feet along. Be more, um, staccato. You’re too ... ‘smooth’ isn’t right but ...”
Sinuous, Chris thinks but he’s not sure of the best English word either. “Hit play.”
The ballroom fills with music. They step into close embrace and Chris lets Yuuri lead him across the floor, arms out stiff, hips nestled close. It’s deliberately sexy and sophisticated. Instead of the loose heat of grinding on someone in a club, it’s smouldering, dark with promise.
So Chris doesn’t forget to catch Yuuri’s eye as he turns his head. Or to stroke his fingers on Yuuri’s shoulder. Or lean in at the hips more than is strictly necessary, brushing up against Yuuri with every staccato step. “You’re so good at this,” he says. “Graceful and sexy.” Yuuri looks both disconcerted and gratified and his lead becomes just a bit more commanding.
By the third song they are prowling the floor in near-perfect sync and Chris wishes they had an audience to show off for. He’s keyed up, aroused and rumbling: by the dance, by Yuuri’s hand perspiring in the clasp, by the flush on Yuuri’s face.
Yuuri dips Chris back, then swings him up and they finish face to face, eyes locked. Until Yuuri looks away.
“Let me lead,” Chris says and Yuuri nods.
They change positions. Chris cradles Yuuri’s shoulder blade in one hand, holds the other up for Yuuri to clasp. He shifts the offset of their hips, contacting more firmly than before.
He holds them there, unmoving except for his fingers caressing Yuuri’s back. He can feel the tension in Yuuri’s body, under his hand, against his abdomen. In the way Yuuri looks past Chris, out into the empty ballroom. In the rise and fall of his shoulders. Dance may be be Yuuri’s special subject, but this is Chris’s: the subtle tells in body, face, breath. The fine judgement of when to wait and when to move.
Chris takes Yuuri once around the floor, moving the centre of the dance lower, into their springing thighs, and letting Yuuri get used to Chris leading him with the press of his hands and the turn of his body.
“The way you move,” Chris says. And he slides his palm down Yuuri’s back, deliberate, like the tango, and cups Yuuri’s ass in his hand.
Yuuri breathes in sharply, though he must have known where they were going, and the flush on his face deepens. He doesn’t speak but his fingers clutch Chris’s arm, holding on tightly like Chris is both the storm and the one who will bring him through it.
The music is still playing, a stalking rhythm in a minor key. Chris opens his hand in the clasp, spreading his fingers in a question. Yuuri is still for one, two, three bars. Then his fingers lace through Chris’s.
Chris leans down and kisses Yuuri’s temple, then down his cheek, slowly, moving with the music until he’s teasing Yuuri’s lips in short clasps, mouth just barely open. It’s a few moments before Yuuri follows, teasing back and brushing the tip of his tongue against Chris’s.
It’s like they’re still dancing, sensuality still controlled with just a few points of contact. Chris walks Yuuri back, slow, slow, quick quick, slow, still kissing, until he’s pressed against the wall, hidden from the doors by a partition Chris placed ahead of time.
“I can’t take you back to my room,” he murmurs against Yuuri’s jaw. “They made me double up.” He kisses Yuuri’s throat, scraping his teeth lightly over Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri clutches the back of Chris’s neck, pressing him closer. “I don’t want to share you,” Chris says and Yuuri’s breath stops for a moment. Even if that’s what you want, Chris thinks.
He wishes he could take Yuuri apart slowly, adagio, but they only have the room for half an hour more, if that, and even if Yuuri is more adventurous than Chris assumed, getting caught is for when you’re already bored with each other.
Yuuri gets his hand under Chris’s chin and pulls him back up for another kiss. Deeper now; Yuuri is the one exploring, and if there were just more time, Chris knows he could coax Yuuri into taking the lead every step of the way. He sinks into it for a few moments, Yuuri’s tongue sliding into his mouth, fingers creeping under Chris’s shirt, cold against Chris’s skin.
Their hands are still linked and Chris leaves them together, holding Yuuri’s hand as he caresses him with the other, underneath his shirt, stroking up and down his side and over his belly. Yuuri follows him, fingers climbing Chris’s bare back and trailing back down again.
Yuuri’s dick just barely touches Chris’s thigh. He’s as hard as Chris expected, and Chris tenses his muscles and resets his weight to get a bit more contact, enough to make Yuuri press against him and close his eyes.
Time to get serious so Chris leans in at the chest, out at the hips: Argentine tango, time to improvise. He runs his free hand up Yuuri’s thigh and splays it over his cock. It rises into his hand, like it’s stepping into close embrace, and Yuuri gasps. His fingers tighten on Chris’s.
It won’t take Yuuri long, even like this, rubbing him through his trousers, and Chris likes those breathy handjob kisses, messy and stuttering. But that’s not what Chris is after. He undoes Yuuri’s button and zip, kissing Yuuri to ease his nervousness. “Look at me,” he says against Yuuri’s mouth.
Yuuri’s eyes flutter open behind his smudged glasses. He only looks at Chris for a second before they close again, but it’s enough to make Chris’s breath catch at how much Yuuri wants this, how lost he is.
It goes to Chris’s head, almost makes him dizzy, so it’s a good thing he’s sinking to his knees, pressing his cheek to Yuuri’s belly and taking out his cock. Kissing the tip, then taking it on his tongue while Yuuri crushes their hands together.
You don’t know a man until you’ve had your mouth on his dick, Chris always says, and as he sucks Yuuri off, he watches the flush moving across Yuuri’s face, the twist of his mouth and the rise of his shoulders. Yuuri’s hand reaching out until he finds Chris and strokes his hair, until he can’t even control his hand. Chris wishes they had an audience for this too: see how well we dance together.
Chris senses Yuuri’s orgasm before it hits but he lets Yuuri come in his mouth anyhow, his gasp rising over the music and his hand twisting in Chris’s hair. Chris fumbles for his handkerchief and spits. Yuuri slumps against the wall. His fingers loosen in the clasp but he doesn’t let go. After a few breaths, he pulls his clothes back together, all but the button on his waistband.
Chris stands up and catches Yuuri’s mouth for a slow kiss. “Thank you,” he says. “For the tango lesson and for not trying to fuck my mouth.”
Yuuri winces at that but he wraps his arm around Chris’s waist and pulls him close. “What about ...”
“Well, if you’re offering.” Chris gets his own trousers open. He’s so ready for Yuuri’s hand. He picks it up and runs his thumb over Yuuri’s palm. “Just do me like you do yourself. Spit.”
Yuuri opens his eyes enough so he doesn’t miss and Chris spits too, mixing their saliva with his finger. Then he pulls out his dick and puts it into Yuuri’s hand.
Yuuri’s fingers close around it, warm and wet, and just hold on for a moment. Chris isn’t sure, not quite, if he’s done this before, but it’s hard to fuck up a handjob and when Yuuri gets moving, it’s good, definitely good enough. Slow to start, then faster, good friction, while Chris kisses Yuuri, deep and messy. It’s not long before Chris is gasping into Yuuri’s mouth and coming onto his hand, the best dance lesson he’s ever had.
He hands Yuuri the handkerchief and puts himself back together, breathing slowing to normal, and rests his forehead against Yuuri’s. “We should do that again sometime,” he says. “Either. Or both.”
Then he steps away. Their linked hands trail apart. Chris turns off the music.
Yuuri smiles at him.
The ballroom doors rattle and Yuuri goes scarlet. He grabs his phone and nearly runs from the room, passing the concierge come to check they’re out in time.
Chris laughs and flexes his hand. His fingers are going to be sore for the rest of the day.
When he gets back to his room, Chris pulls a dying rose out of its plastic sheath and clamps it between his teeth. He does a few steps in the cramped space: slow, slow, quick quick, slow.
“Where have you been?” Victor says.
Chris turns his head and promenades. “Tango lessons.” He tosses the rose to Victor. He pulls his shirt over his head. “Get over here,” he says. “And I’ll show you.”
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