"Get a room, you two!" someone calls from the front of the bathroom. Both of them freeze. Chris hadn't heard anyone come in at all.
Maybe they should have been quieter. (They definitely should have gone to someone's room.) Oh, well. Chris doesn't want quiet; he wants every noise that comes out of Victor's throat.
He props himself up on one hand to look at Victor while waiting for whoever shouted at them to leave, feels his racing heart start to slow a bit. Victor's face is entirely red, and he's smiling – not the bright winsome smile of magazine covers, but one that's smaller and tilted and looks very pleased. Chris, he mouths, and tugs him down again as the stranger's footsteps make their way out the door.
Chris lets him, a little, but he's also thinking that he'd like to see Victor's expression when he touches him, when he comes, so he shifts himself and brings his other hand down Victor's body. The soft skin of his neck where the buttons are undone, the nice fabric of his suit, his belt, and then Chris grabs him through the trousers.
Victor half shudders at that, half arches, his head thumping back against the floor. He lets go of Chris with one hand to kind of claw at the floor, then winds it into his own hair when Chris strokes him. "Please," he moans, thrusting against his hand. "Please, please, please," those bright blue eyes gone desperate, pinned on him.
"Okay," he says, fascinated, unable to look away. He moves his hand faster, trying to think of how to get Victor's pants open, though at this point he has little brain power left to spare for problem-solving. It'd be too awkward to move so he can use both hands without falling over, wouldn't it? Maybe he can undo them with one hand? He'd have to stop touching him, though, and Victor might not let him, he's almost writhing like this, tossing his head from side to side, hand hopelessly tangled in his hair, the other pulling hard on Chris's waist.
"Harder," and Chris complies. He feels like he's about come himself, from the way Victor's saying his name in-between open-mouthed panting for air, the way he keeps pushing up into his hand, and while he's trying to get Victor's trousers open, he'd like to get his own off, and he definitely doesn't have enough space to figure that one out, too.
He does try to go for Victor's zipper, but Victor makes the world's most pathetic noise and nails dig into his back, so he gives up and keeps stroking him. Next time – next time, when Victor's not in a handsome suit, or, hell, even if he is, next time, Chris will strip him down and get a good look, touch him all over skin-to-skin. This time, though, he gets as firm a grip he can on Victor's dick through the trousers and watches his eyes close.
Victor trembles underneath him when he comes, gasps and pulls at Chris's waist. It's a very attractive sight; Chris bites his lip on a whimper, then lets go and collapses onto him.
He gives Victor about ten seconds to enjoy it before he starts rubbing against him. He's so hard, and he wants to come already, and he wants Victor to touch him. "Victor," he mumbles, stretching out the vowels, when that last part doesn't come true.
"Yes," Victor says, breathless, and kisses him again. When Chris breaks it off a few moments later – Victor's mouth is hot and it feels good but he needs to breathe right now – Victor is still trying to pull his hand from his hair. Chris reaches up a shaking hand to help, and when it's free, he gets a good grip and tugs on it. "Yes," Victor says, still out of breath, laughing a little. "I'll – oh, can I hold you when I – I want to hold you."
"Okay," says Chris, not really getting what he's saying. Anything is good, as long as Victor keeps moving that hand down his chest. He grinds into Victor's hip again, and this time the whimper escapes.
"Here," says Victor, and he flips them over halfway, then turns Chris over before he can finish processing how he's moved. It puts Victor at his back, which seems like a shame, until Victor plasters himself up against every part of it and tangles their legs together, slides an arm around his waist, sighs into his neck. Oh. That's what he meant.
Victor kisses his neck, gentle, and his other hand moves down and starts undoing his pants. Finally. Chris bites the cuff of his shirt just as Victor pulls him out, and it's so good, though it could be harder, not this light, teasing touch, and then it is and the last part of Chris's brain shuts off.
Victor has barely touched him and he's about to come, he can feel it building in his stomach – he thrusts his hips up and he can hear Victor murmuring to him but he can't tell what the words are, if they're English or Russian or if he's learned to say dirty things in French, he better not be expecting a response.
And then Victor stops. Stops the murmurs, stops the movement of his hand. Chris wants to scream.
He pulls his teeth from his soaked sleeve to demand why – was he actually saying anything important? – when he hears the sound of a door swinging closed and more footsteps on the tile.
Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Shaking, so close to the edge he can barely think, Chris tells himself that next time he'll insist on one of their rooms, where they can make all the noise they want without anyone interrupting them or suddenly bursting in.
"Sorry, sorry," Victor is whispering right into his ear, as the stranger clomps his way into a stall. "I – if you – do you think you could be quiet? I'll –" and Chris is nodding his head frantically. He clamps his teeth on his shirt again, covers his mouth for good measure, manages not to make a sound when Victor strokes him again.
It only takes a few more seconds for the wave of pleasure to hit him. It feels good – really good – really really good – so much better than usual, and it seems to last forever until he comes back to his senses.
He lets his shirt go and lets his arm flop against the floor like the rest of his limbs. Victor kisses the back of his neck again and then relaxes further against him. There are two arms around his waist, now, a little tight but not so much that Chris is going to fuss. There isn't a real thought in his head, and he would be happy to lay here forever.
In the background, there's running water, the sound of hands being dried, the creak of door hinges, before they're left alone.
Chris doesn't really want to move, still, but after a few minutes, the floor is not really that comfortable any more, even with Victor cuddled up against him.
"Go back?" he suggests, still struggling to remember what the rest of the words in the sentence should be.
"Mm," Victor says, and hugs him tighter.
"We're not cuddling on the floor," Chris tells him.
"But Chris," Victor grumbles as he tries to pry him off. He doesn't finish the protest.
"Let's sit up," he says, since at least then his hipbone won't be holding any of his weight, and Victor gives in to that much. Chris takes a moment to try and clean up the come spilled across the floor, puts his clothes back together a little bit, and then lets Victor pull him against the wall.
Victor tucks his head on his shoulder and squeezes him again. Chris puts an arm around his shoulders and his head on Victor's, strokes idle patterns on Victor's thigh with his free hand. For what it is, it's surprisingly comfortable. His eyes still itch from the contacts, and his back hurts from Victor's scratching, and his knees ache, and he can feel a couple of other sore spots, but he starts to fall asleep regardless. Victor's just so warm, and his hair is soft, and it feels nice to hold someone, to be held, even like this.
"Chris," Victor murmurs at some point.
He doesn't think he could force his eyes open if he wanted to. "What."
But Victor doesn't say anything else, just tightens his arms and moves his head. Okay, then. Chris adjusts one hip and goes back to falling asleep.
He really is dozing by the time he's jerked awake by a burst of shrill music. Victor jumps and scrambles to sit up, one hand pulling away to dig in his pocket. Oh, it's his phone. Chris slumps against him as he answers. The conversation is short and in Russian. "Yakov wanted to know where I was, since he didn't see me leave. He worries so much about us!"
"Of course he does." Chris reaches up and half-heartedly strokes Victor's hair, though his fingers don't make it all the way down the length of the strands. "A pretty thing like you, who knows what could happen."
"We're in Japan," Victor huffs. "I could hardly get in trouble here. Anyway, I said I'd gone back to my hotel room."
"You shouldn't lie to your coach." Chris pecks Victor on the cheek, then dodges his attempt to resume cuddling by standing up. "Let's go sleep in a real bed."
"Okay," Victor says, in a tone that suggests Chris is being unreasonable. Chris sure is feeling unreasonable – he still doesn't want to walk anywhere, but of course they can't stay here all night. "Whose room is closer to the elevator?"
"Mine's the first one in the hall."
"Yours, then." He helps Victor up and watches him stretch, then grimace as he drops his arms. Maybe he's sore, too, or maybe he's just regretting that he didn't let Chris at least get his pants open.
They get themselves looking – well, not presentable. But at least they slide all of Chris's buttons into the right holes, and he wakes up enough to remember how to tie his tie, and he helps Victor tuck his shirt back in, though he takes off his jacket while complaining about it being too hot. They give each other a final look-over – shoes on, clothes in approximately the right position – and Chris unlocks the door.
In the elevator, Victor yawns and leans into him. His flush has gone down by now; he looks tired more than anything. "When's your flight? If it's not too early, we should go sightseeing tomorrow."
"Yeah?" Chris can't remember. He's falling asleep again.
"We could get real sushi!" Chris nods and doesn't really listen as Victor throws out more suggestions, willing the numbers in the display to go up faster. He's so focused on it, and so sleepy, that he doesn't actually notice the doors open for a long moment, not until Victor takes his hand and drags him out. "Let me," he says when Chris can't seem to locate his keycard, roots around in his pockets for him until he finds it.
Whirr goes the lock. Victor hooks a hand around his elbow and pulls him into the dark, silent room.
Re: Victor Nikiforov/Christophe Giacometti, Hiding From the Lights part 3b
"Get a room, you two!" someone calls from the front of the bathroom. Both of them freeze. Chris hadn't heard anyone come in at all.
Maybe they should have been quieter. (They definitely should have gone to someone's room.) Oh, well. Chris doesn't want quiet; he wants every noise that comes out of Victor's throat.
He props himself up on one hand to look at Victor while waiting for whoever shouted at them to leave, feels his racing heart start to slow a bit. Victor's face is entirely red, and he's smiling – not the bright winsome smile of magazine covers, but one that's smaller and tilted and looks very pleased. Chris, he mouths, and tugs him down again as the stranger's footsteps make their way out the door.
Chris lets him, a little, but he's also thinking that he'd like to see Victor's expression when he touches him, when he comes, so he shifts himself and brings his other hand down Victor's body. The soft skin of his neck where the buttons are undone, the nice fabric of his suit, his belt, and then Chris grabs him through the trousers.
Victor half shudders at that, half arches, his head thumping back against the floor. He lets go of Chris with one hand to kind of claw at the floor, then winds it into his own hair when Chris strokes him. "Please," he moans, thrusting against his hand. "Please, please, please," those bright blue eyes gone desperate, pinned on him.
"Okay," he says, fascinated, unable to look away. He moves his hand faster, trying to think of how to get Victor's pants open, though at this point he has little brain power left to spare for problem-solving. It'd be too awkward to move so he can use both hands without falling over, wouldn't it? Maybe he can undo them with one hand? He'd have to stop touching him, though, and Victor might not let him, he's almost writhing like this, tossing his head from side to side, hand hopelessly tangled in his hair, the other pulling hard on Chris's waist.
"Harder," and Chris complies. He feels like he's about come himself, from the way Victor's saying his name in-between open-mouthed panting for air, the way he keeps pushing up into his hand, and while he's trying to get Victor's trousers open, he'd like to get his own off, and he definitely doesn't have enough space to figure that one out, too.
He does try to go for Victor's zipper, but Victor makes the world's most pathetic noise and nails dig into his back, so he gives up and keeps stroking him. Next time – next time, when Victor's not in a handsome suit, or, hell, even if he is, next time, Chris will strip him down and get a good look, touch him all over skin-to-skin. This time, though, he gets as firm a grip he can on Victor's dick through the trousers and watches his eyes close.
Victor trembles underneath him when he comes, gasps and pulls at Chris's waist. It's a very attractive sight; Chris bites his lip on a whimper, then lets go and collapses onto him.
He gives Victor about ten seconds to enjoy it before he starts rubbing against him. He's so hard, and he wants to come already, and he wants Victor to touch him. "Victor," he mumbles, stretching out the vowels, when that last part doesn't come true.
"Yes," Victor says, breathless, and kisses him again. When Chris breaks it off a few moments later – Victor's mouth is hot and it feels good but he needs to breathe right now – Victor is still trying to pull his hand from his hair. Chris reaches up a shaking hand to help, and when it's free, he gets a good grip and tugs on it. "Yes," Victor says, still out of breath, laughing a little. "I'll – oh, can I hold you when I – I want to hold you."
"Okay," says Chris, not really getting what he's saying. Anything is good, as long as Victor keeps moving that hand down his chest. He grinds into Victor's hip again, and this time the whimper escapes.
"Here," says Victor, and he flips them over halfway, then turns Chris over before he can finish processing how he's moved. It puts Victor at his back, which seems like a shame, until Victor plasters himself up against every part of it and tangles their legs together, slides an arm around his waist, sighs into his neck. Oh. That's what he meant.
Victor kisses his neck, gentle, and his other hand moves down and starts undoing his pants. Finally. Chris bites the cuff of his shirt just as Victor pulls him out, and it's so good, though it could be harder, not this light, teasing touch, and then it is and the last part of Chris's brain shuts off.
Victor has barely touched him and he's about to come, he can feel it building in his stomach – he thrusts his hips up and he can hear Victor murmuring to him but he can't tell what the words are, if they're English or Russian or if he's learned to say dirty things in French, he better not be expecting a response.
And then Victor stops. Stops the murmurs, stops the movement of his hand. Chris wants to scream.
He pulls his teeth from his soaked sleeve to demand why – was he actually saying anything important? – when he hears the sound of a door swinging closed and more footsteps on the tile.
Goddamn it. Goddamn it. Shaking, so close to the edge he can barely think, Chris tells himself that next time he'll insist on one of their rooms, where they can make all the noise they want without anyone interrupting them or suddenly bursting in.
"Sorry, sorry," Victor is whispering right into his ear, as the stranger clomps his way into a stall. "I – if you – do you think you could be quiet? I'll –" and Chris is nodding his head frantically. He clamps his teeth on his shirt again, covers his mouth for good measure, manages not to make a sound when Victor strokes him again.
It only takes a few more seconds for the wave of pleasure to hit him. It feels good – really good – really really good – so much better than usual, and it seems to last forever until he comes back to his senses.
He lets his shirt go and lets his arm flop against the floor like the rest of his limbs. Victor kisses the back of his neck again and then relaxes further against him. There are two arms around his waist, now, a little tight but not so much that Chris is going to fuss. There isn't a real thought in his head, and he would be happy to lay here forever.
In the background, there's running water, the sound of hands being dried, the creak of door hinges, before they're left alone.
Chris doesn't really want to move, still, but after a few minutes, the floor is not really that comfortable any more, even with Victor cuddled up against him.
"Go back?" he suggests, still struggling to remember what the rest of the words in the sentence should be.
"Mm," Victor says, and hugs him tighter.
"We're not cuddling on the floor," Chris tells him.
"But Chris," Victor grumbles as he tries to pry him off. He doesn't finish the protest.
"Let's sit up," he says, since at least then his hipbone won't be holding any of his weight, and Victor gives in to that much. Chris takes a moment to try and clean up the come spilled across the floor, puts his clothes back together a little bit, and then lets Victor pull him against the wall.
Victor tucks his head on his shoulder and squeezes him again. Chris puts an arm around his shoulders and his head on Victor's, strokes idle patterns on Victor's thigh with his free hand. For what it is, it's surprisingly comfortable. His eyes still itch from the contacts, and his back hurts from Victor's scratching, and his knees ache, and he can feel a couple of other sore spots, but he starts to fall asleep regardless. Victor's just so warm, and his hair is soft, and it feels nice to hold someone, to be held, even like this.
"Chris," Victor murmurs at some point.
He doesn't think he could force his eyes open if he wanted to. "What."
But Victor doesn't say anything else, just tightens his arms and moves his head. Okay, then. Chris adjusts one hip and goes back to falling asleep.
He really is dozing by the time he's jerked awake by a burst of shrill music. Victor jumps and scrambles to sit up, one hand pulling away to dig in his pocket. Oh, it's his phone. Chris slumps against him as he answers. The conversation is short and in Russian. "Yakov wanted to know where I was, since he didn't see me leave. He worries so much about us!"
"Of course he does." Chris reaches up and half-heartedly strokes Victor's hair, though his fingers don't make it all the way down the length of the strands. "A pretty thing like you, who knows what could happen."
"We're in Japan," Victor huffs. "I could hardly get in trouble here. Anyway, I said I'd gone back to my hotel room."
"You shouldn't lie to your coach." Chris pecks Victor on the cheek, then dodges his attempt to resume cuddling by standing up. "Let's go sleep in a real bed."
"Okay," Victor says, in a tone that suggests Chris is being unreasonable. Chris sure is feeling unreasonable – he still doesn't want to walk anywhere, but of course they can't stay here all night. "Whose room is closer to the elevator?"
"Mine's the first one in the hall."
"Yours, then." He helps Victor up and watches him stretch, then grimace as he drops his arms. Maybe he's sore, too, or maybe he's just regretting that he didn't let Chris at least get his pants open.
They get themselves looking – well, not presentable. But at least they slide all of Chris's buttons into the right holes, and he wakes up enough to remember how to tie his tie, and he helps Victor tuck his shirt back in, though he takes off his jacket while complaining about it being too hot. They give each other a final look-over – shoes on, clothes in approximately the right position – and Chris unlocks the door.
In the elevator, Victor yawns and leans into him. His flush has gone down by now; he looks tired more than anything. "When's your flight? If it's not too early, we should go sightseeing tomorrow."
"Yeah?" Chris can't remember. He's falling asleep again.
"We could get real sushi!" Chris nods and doesn't really listen as Victor throws out more suggestions, willing the numbers in the display to go up faster. He's so focused on it, and so sleepy, that he doesn't actually notice the doors open for a long moment, not until Victor takes his hand and drags him out. "Let me," he says when Chris can't seem to locate his keycard, roots around in his pockets for him until he finds it.
Whirr goes the lock. Victor hooks a hand around his elbow and pulls him into the dark, silent room.