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He lets Chris put his hands on his body because its something to do, and his room comes with a stocked minibar, and if he can’t have Viktor he intends to have someone. Chris is, after all, a beautiful substitute - perhaps the most beautiful Yuuri could have asked for, though he does little to appease Yuuri’s appetite. In spite of everything, he still finds it increasingly hard to pretend he doesn’t know what Viktor’s body feels like lying on top of him, even if that’s all it ever was - just quiet naps in the middle of the afternoon, one body pressed against another through too many layers of fabric.
Viktor, with his easy flirtation, his casual touches, the intimacy he gives away like it’s nothing, like he isn’t drawing blood from Yuuri with every meaningless wink, suggestion, invitation. It’s not that Yuuri doesn’t want to give himself away to Viktor - it’s that he does, and Viktor knows it, and everyone knows it, and he isn’t out to be ruined, just loved. If he can’t have that, he’ll have nothing.
That is, after tonight. Tonight isn’t about love - tonight is about feeding a hunger at any and all costs.
Later, he’ll swear he hadn’t planned for things to go this way. He hadn’t known how quickly things can fall apart.
He returns from the arena alone to find his his hotel room dark and empty. Bored and filled with a nervous energy that should’ve been exhausted by competition, he takes a long, hot shower before padding over to the fridge and pretending to look for a water bottle. After several moments spent trying not to make eye contact with a bottle of Grey Goose, he firmly reminds himself that he is an adult who can do what he wants and reaches for the bottle, a can of tonic water, and hopes for the best. 80 proof, it says...Now how do proofs work again? Is it divide the proof for the percent, or vice versa? He can never remember. Viktor is gone - Yuuri doesn’t know what he does at night, although he can guess - so if he lays down in Viktor’s bed instead of his own, well, who is he hurting?
A hundred empty channels and nearly a quarter of a bottle later, he’s feeling restless, and hot, and like he needs to move. Bounding across the room on heavy limbs to where his dirty jeans lie in a pile, he fumbles quickly through the pockets for the number Chris had slipped in front with a wink and whisper and a promise to catch up later as if they already knew each other intimately. Punching the number into his phone with clumsy fingers, he quickly sends off a text with little regard for how forward he sounds.
Hey, it’s Yuuri. Viktor’s gone, room is empty. Wanna catch up?
Insulated by the brash confidence of intoxication, Yuuri lays back and waits for a response. Despite this insulation, his pulse has picked up significantly, and he can’t help but wonder who he’s become, or at least who he’s trying to be in this moment. He can barely look a man in the eye, much less invite one into his room at midnight on a Wednesday, so where does that leave him?
Not two minutes later, his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I’d love to. Room #?
He quickly fires off 212 before heading into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face in an attempt wash away the light drunken flush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck and onto his cheeks, as well as apply cologne. Grabbing one of the many bottles that litter the counter, he chooses the one that smells best and applies it quickly to his throat and wrists. It’s already too late by the time he realizes that it smells familiar - it smells like Viktor. It’s then that he hears a knock at the door and bounds towards it before remembering himself. He quickly collects himself for fear that his drunkenness might be off-putting and figures it best to try and hide it as much as he can because he wants this, wants to regain control of himself. Viktor, who’s taken over his heart, his mind, his body; Viktor, who he’s loved since he was young but not like this, never like this, he never even imagined - call this an exorcism.
To Chris’s credit, he certainly tries to be a gentlemen about things. He sits down in an armchair instead of on the bed, tries to make small talk, pours them both drinks. He seems to be trying to make Yuuri as comfortable as possible as if he were the host instead of the guest and it’s kind of him; it’s not his fault Yuuri has more need than patience, and that the alcohol has made him forget why he’d bother pretending otherwise anyway. It’s as if in a dream or from outside of his body that he watches this strange creature he’s home to when he’s drunk place his finger to Chris’s lips while he’s mid-sentence. Stunned, Chris falls silent but quirks an amused eyebrow as he waits for Yuuri’s next move.
“Shh,” he whispers, gaze leaving Chris’s only to fall to his soft lips framed by light blonde stubble, “Less talking, more catching up.”
Chris chuckles quietly, a light smirk playing at his lips. Looking up through his lashes with a darkened gaze, he takes the finger Yuuri still holds at his lips all the way into his mouth. Yuuri’s eyelids flutter closed for a moment because he’s sensitive, and easy - it doesn’t take much. He can’t help but wonder who’s running the show - who’s taken over his body and made all the decisions that have led him here, to this moment. It certainly wasn’t him - it can’t have been.
Driven by the animalism of drunkeness which has allowed him not only to locate his deepest desire from moment to moment but also allowed him the drive and confidence to pursue it, he moves with purpose. He wants and is wanted, and in this moment, that is enough. His tongue thick and heavy in his mouth, they barely bother to speak at all - instead he allows Chris to grab his ass and back him up against the marble countertop of the bar, his head resting against the cool glass of the mirror - and oh, he so does not want to think about the implications of Chris pinning him against a mirror - as he wraps his legs tight against Chris’s hips. His body is numb with the cool fire of alcohol and someone else’s touch as he lets Chris kiss his neck and bite, too, eliciting soft moans from him even as he wonders distantly if Viktor likes to have his neck kissed, wonders what kind of unholy sounds it might draw out of him. As he makes his way to the hollow of Yuuri’s throat, he stops suddenly to sniff the air before murmuring softly that Yuuri smells like him, but Yuuri barely registers his comment, instead only whining at the brief but sudden loss of contact. Yuuri hooks his ankles back together and drags Chris forward for easier access to the friction that grinding on him provides. Chris laughs but gives in even as he whispers, “God, you’re so needy.” With a light bite to Yuuri’s lower lip, he undoes belt, causing Yuuri to smile hazily because he’s getting what he wants and right now, he doesn’t care how immature he may seem. That’s the thing about drunkenness - it holds no regard for dignity, only obtaining maximum satisfaction at any and all costs. It brings out what might just be the worst in him, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it.
Yuuri is just starting to contemplate what a pretty mouth Chris has, and how good the slight pain from the light stubble on his face will feel between Yuuri’s legs, and the burns he’ll no doubt leave behind, when the door opens and the lights come on. Temporarily blinded by the sudden switch from dim half light to the brightness of the overhead lights, Yuuri is so confused and disoriented that he almost doesn’t notice that Viktor has entered the room until Chris is pulling away from, his mouth spit-slick and looking bruised, like it’s blooming, his shirt and jeans already undone and his hair nothing short of a mess. The sight is enough to make Yuuri shiver, and he openly whines at the sudden loss, uncaring that Viktor is watching him with an unreadable expression and somehow managing to look small as he stands in the doorway. Through his drunken haze, Yuuri can tell that something is wrong, but he has no idea what - he’s terribly confused and upset, and feels like trying to figure it out requires faculties he does not currently possess.
“Yuuri,” Viktor says quietly, and nothing more, his tone stern, almost fatherly.
It fills Yuuri with a childlike defiance because he’s a grown man, and they’re two consenting adults, and besides, Viktor was out doing god knows what so the room was empty. Running a hand along his arm that has Yuuri shivering all over again, Chris collects his coat and walks out into the hallway, shutting the door softly behind him. It’s around then that Yuuri stumbles into bed, flopping down face first. From where he lays, he can hear that Chris hasn’t gone back to his room yet, but is instead talking to Viktor.
Chris is the first one to speak, answering Viktor’s heavy, wordless sigh by rushing to explain, “He texted the number I gave him-”
“It’s fine,” Viktor sighs in a way that makes it clear that it is not fine. “It’s not like we’re together.”
Something deep in Yuuri’s gut twists like a hot knife.
Several more seconds pass in silence before Viktor speaks again, stating simply, “You smell like alcohol.”
“Do I?” Chris sounds surprised. He sniffs first at his shirt before cupping his hand in front of his face to check. “He tasted like alcohol when I kissed him-” Viktor makes a quiet, strangled sound and Yuuri doesn’t know what it means, everything is so confusing, “He must have been drinking. I didn’t realize...How much do you think he had? It couldn’t be like the banquet again, right? How much damage can one person do with just a hotel minibar?”
“Quite a bit, if you and I remember correctly,” Viktor says, light mirth overtaking for a moment the exhaustion and grief in his voice.
Chris laughs softly at that, and his voice is far away when he says, “I remember.”
Another breath passes before Viktor says quietly, “I’d better go in and check on him.”
“Viktor, wait.” Chris stops him with a careful hand on his arm. “I have to ask...”
Viktor sighs in anticipation of the question he’s been running from because of course if anyone is going to see, it’s Chris.
“I saw the way you looked at him when you walked in.” The altitude changes; the air is suddenly heavier than it was just a moment ago. “You love him.”
Yuuri, already half-dreaming as he fights the vodka that’s weighing him down and pushing him further each moment into sleep, hears everything as if at the end of a very long tunnel. It’s still enough to light him on fire.
Viktor tries to laugh but it comes out wrong. “That’s not a question, Chris.”
Chris grips him tight in the middle of the hallway in lieu of a response, and Viktor lets him, leaning in to the familiar touch for just a moment before pulling away. They say goodnight then, and Yuuri shuts his eyes tight the minute he hears the door open and pretends to be asleep, his heart pounding in his chest, as if he were a little child afraid of getting in trouble. Viktor smiles sadly at him and turns off the lights before pouring a drink of his own. He doesn’t get any sleep.
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The next morning, when Yuuri wakes up he’s got a waterbottle, two painkillers, and a pounding headache waiting for him. Turning over heavily in bed, he inhales deeply and realizes he’s in Viktor’s bed. This, of course, leads him to the realization that he knows Viktor’s scent well enough to recognize his bed on smell alone, and he immediately turns a deep shade of red. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach is a deep sense of dread, as if he’s waiting to get in trouble for something, but he has no idea what, and groggily tries to shake it off.
Stretching out, Yuuri heads for the bathroom hoping to shower and brush the god-awful taste of stale alcohol out of his mouth. He opens the door to find Viktor already inside, freshly showered with only a towel wrapped loosely around himself. Yuuri blushes and immediately turns away with a mouthful of apologies, but Viktor, immodest as ever, just shrugs and insists that he comes in and doesn’t worry, fixing him with a dazzling smile.
Feeling bile begin to creep up his throat, Yuuri clutches desperately at his stomach before asking, “Viktor did I-” he glances at him and it’s too early for beauty of such magnitude - he loses his train of thought, tries to regain it and stay cool, “Did I go out drinking last night?” It doesn’t sound very much like something he’d do since it goes against his personal rule, but he’s not sure what other explanation there is for the way he’s feeling this morning.
Viktor just laughs, fixing him with an easy smile. “Just a few drinks at the bar downstairs. Nothing interesting, you were just a little dehydrated, it seems.”
He says it with ease, but there’s something just underneath his pleasant demeanor that gives Yuuri the sense that there’s something going on that he’s being left out of. Viktor must notice the look on his face, because he takes his chin lightly in his hand before pinning him with his permanently intense gaze. “Hey,” he whispers, “Don’t worry. I promise.”
“I-I won’t,” Yuuri stutters. And he won’t, if only because Viktor has told him not to. If only because Viktor can do whatever he wants, say whatever he wants, have whatever he wants, Yuuri would give him anything; that’s the whole problem.