Work Text:
6:16 P.M.
popupbitch: i hate you chris
dance(a$$): no, you don’t
popupbitch: i do. im in mourning. and youre making me do this
dance(a$$): you act like I’m torturing you
dance(a$$): I want to buy you a French hot chocolate and probably some wine
popupbitch: why
dance(a$$): because we’re friends
popupbitch: whatever. im in the lobby.
dance(a$$): on my way!
That was easier than Chris had expected, really. He had imagined Georgi pulling out all the stops to avoid going out and having a little fun on his latest visit to Paris. Maybe recruit Yakov to kill Chris and bury him in the hotel garden or something.
But no. Chris tapped his foot impatiently, willing the elevator to move faster. There was the ever-present chance that Georgi would change his mind in the time it took Chris to arrive downstairs.
The doors slid open with a ding.
“Hey.”
The thick Russian accent was a giveaway. Chris looked up, beaming, to see Georgi picking at the cuffs of his coat peevishly.
“You actually came,” Chris said, genuinely surprised.
“I hung out with you all last time.”
“Yeah, but, I figured that was Leo and Guang-Hong’s work.”
Georgi shrugged, “You’re not wrong. No one can say no to them.”
Chris took a tentative step toward Georgi, who raised one eyebrow and looked as though he might take off in the opposite direction.
“No,” Georgi said flatly.
“Oh, come on,” Chris wheedled, “Just a quick one?”
Grumbling, Georgi let Chris hug him, briefly but warmly. Once they separated, Georgi began a brisk pace down the sidewalk, trying and failing to hide the pleased little smile he wore.
“How have you survived so many years of Victor if you don’t like hugs?” teased Chris, half-jogging to keep up.
“People generally learn to keep their distance.”
“So grumpy.”
“I am not grumpy.”
“You need chocolate,” Chris decided, “Follow me.”
---------------
Twenty minutes later, Chris gazed across the tiny, rickety table at Georgi as he stared down into his mug of French hot chocolate like it contained all the secrets of the universe.
“How is it so good?” Georgi wondered.
“The French are a magical people, love.”
“And here I was, thinking all you were good at was losing wars and being rude to Americans.”
Chris shrugged, “I’m good at those things too!”
Georgi cracked a small smile at that, and Chris rejoiced inwardly. The only skater that Chris hung out with on a regular basis was Victor, and he was such the polar opposite of his rinkmate. Victor would have dragged Chris into three different boutiques and then gotten rip-roaring drunk by now. All Georgi had done was bitch a little bit and eat a croissant.
“So,” Chris prompted, “How’re you going to spend the offseason?”
The grin faded.
“Oh, don’t rub it in,” said Georgi, over the rim of his mug.
“What?”
“I know that I lost and now I am out of the Grand Prix series. No need to remind me.”
Chris frowned, “You didn’t lose. You came in third.”
“And you came in first.”
“Surprising, that,” Chris said, smirking, hoping he could diffuse the tension that was quickly building between the two of them. “I almost never come first.”
“Don’t be crude.”
“I’m trying to get you to lighten up, darling. It’s like you enjoy being miserable.”
Georgi looked mildly surprised at that accusation. “I am not great at the smalltalk.”
“Me either,” Chris shrugged.
“You’re charming,” objected Georgi.
“Oh, stop.”
“People like you.”
“People like you!”
Georgi snorted, “Old people like me.”
And Chris knew what he meant. The young fans, the teenage girls and boys who spend money to put posters on their walls and followed skaters’ every move on Instagram, those very passionate kids were very specific fans. They liked people their own age, people like Plisetsky and Leroy and Altin. Not Georgi and Chris, who were both crawling close to thirty.
But what he said was: “The kids still like Victor, right?”
“That’s Victor, nobody can measure themselves up to Victor. Except for Katsuki, but they’re fucking now, aren’t they? That does not count.”
“Now who’s being crude?”
Georgi ignored him. “We’re getting old.”
He said it with such a mournful face, hot-chocolate-moustache drying on his upper lip, that Chris burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry,” he choked, “You have something – just here, yeah – ”
Nonplussed, Georgi scrubbed at his face with a napkin, and ordered another drink from a passing waiter while Chris composed himself. Chris swore he caught the word “vin” in there, too.
“I am going to need more alcohol to deal with you, I see,” Georgi said.
His face was still serious, but there was a glint in his eyes that suggested he was just as tickled as Chris felt. Oh, yes. This, Chris could handle.
“Careful. I get a little frisky once I get a drink in me,” Chris replied.
“We’ll see about that.”
Oh. Oh no. Georgi was good.
“And for the record, we’re not getting old,” Chris sniffed, “We’re aging. Like wine. Richer and more valuable with age.”
“Can you sound any more like a middle aged mother on Facebook?”
Chris pouted, “Is that what you think of me?”
“I think you are far too confident in yourself for twenty-five.”
“You’re only twenty-seven.”
Georgi shrugged, “Two years closer to retirement than you.”
“You’re not retiring,” Chris said.
“This year I had the inspiration of Anya leaving me. After that, I do not know that there are many other avenues for me to pursue. My themes are never as good as yours.”
“My theme was sexuality.”
“At least that’s appealing,” Georgi murmured, “Who wants to see a program about loss and desperation?”
“You were good!” Chris insisted.
But Georgi’s face was stony. “I looked like Elsa.”
“Phichit said the same thing.”
“Damn it.”
The waiter arrived with two more mugs of hot chocolate, which he slid silently in front of each of the ice skaters. Georgi thanked him, in very unsure French. Cute.
Chris smiled winningly, “At least you were a cute Elsa.”
He took a gulp of his drink to punctuate the compliment, and immediately choked when it hit the back of his throat. It was very heavily spiked. Very.
“We don’t always have to get drunk when we’re together, you know,” Chris sputtered.
Georgi just smiled, a very real, open smile that made Chris the tiniest bit weak at the knees.
“But you are fun when you’re drunk,” he said.
“That I am, baby, that I am.”
And Chris lifted his mug to cheers. Georgi clinked his own against it, and they drank.
---------------
Okay, truthfully, they didn’t get drunk. Things were pleasantly fuzzy around the edges after the mug of hot chocolate and red wine, but Chris and Georgi were completely coherent as they strolled arm-in-arm through the Paris streets.
“Favorite French food,” Chris prompted.
“Bouche de Noel.”
“You really like chocolate, huh?”
Georgi nodded. “Favorite color.”
“Green. Favorite soda.”
“Bubbly water,” Georgi waved his hand, “The lemon kind. Favorite American pop song.”
The hotel marquee beckoned to them, as they meandered down the sidewalk, Chris humming to himself as he thought.
“From what decade?”
“…Eighties.”
“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.”
“You kind of look like that man.”
Chris laughed, “I look like George Michael? I’m flattered.”
“You have the same bones in the face. Cheekbones.”
“You’re chatty when you’re tipsy.”
“You’re prettier up close.”
And Chris stopped in his tracks. Georgi was smirking, the marquee lights setting off reddish highlights in his dark hair. Chris swallowed hard, and he could see Georgi tracking the movement of his throat.
“You think I’m pretty?”
“I do.”
Chris took a step closer, letting one hand dance over the buttons of Georgi’s jacket.
“I think you’re pretty.”
But Georgi shrank back. “I…think you are in a relationship.”
He pulled the door open, nevermind the doorman, and hurried inside toward the elevator. Chris followed, a plea on his tongue.
“We’re in an open relationship!” Chris explained, as the elevator doors slid shut and they had privacy again.
Georgi turned, “That is what people say when they want to cheat.”
“I’ll call him!” said Chris eagerly.
And maybe he was a little tipsier than he had thought, because he pressed the speed-dial button, called a quick hello and a fraction of an explanation to his boyfriend, and shoved the phone at Georgi.
“Hello?” said the Russian skater warily.
Chris could hear the cheerful voice on the other end chattering away to Georgi, whose face grew more and more relaxed the more he heard. And when they hung up, Georgi looked at Chris with an unfamiliar expression. Hungry, Chris thought. Eager.
So he wandered the last few steps down the hall and opened the door to his hotel room, lazy as anything. Georgi followed, slowly, posture uncertain, and stopped in the doorway.
Chris beckoned with one finger. “Come on in.”
Georgi made a small sound in the back of his throat, and darted forward. As he slammed the door, he muttered, breathless and smiling and obviously, obviously teasing:
“I hate you.”