The first year of "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender", Christophe had thought that the night would end in sex.
It was a reasonable assumption! How often did beautiful men come up and offer to go get drinks with people they didn't plan to sleep with? Chris may have been a naïve boy of eighteen at the time, but he wasn't stupid.
And he sure as hell wasn't going to pass up a chance to sleep with Victor Nikiforov. Especially since Victor Nikiforov was the one who asked.
Well, sort of. Maybe he'd read into it. Here, to the best of his memory, is how it started:
It was at the banquet after Worlds, because banquets were just what happened after skating competitions. And they were boring. A lot of talking to sponsors, a lot of "congratulations" and awkward small talk from competitors, and about zero fun. Chris put on a good face, gave a few eyelash flutters to keep in the cherubic persona he'd used on the ice this year (that he hated), and was generally well-composed.
But that abruptly stopped when Victor Nikiforov came over to him. He stood stock-still as the Russian God of Skating glided over to him as if he were still on skates. As Chris started to try and stammer out a "Congratulation on what's probably your 180th gold medal," Victor gave him one of his famous winks that, reportedly, sent pregnant women (and occasionally non-pregnant men) straight into labor.
"I told you I'd see you at Worlds a couple years ago," he said. "And fourth place isn't bad for your first year. I'm sure I'll see you on the podium next year."
It wasn't very often that Chris was flustered. And certainly, this wasn't the first time he'd spoken to Victor—they'd exchanged "hellos" and "congratulations" at the two senior GPFs he'd competed in—but this was different. Victor remembered their little conversation from four—four!—years ago. And he'd winked. So his incoherent, sputtering response could be excused.
Victor had merely laughed once he got the "thank you"—fumbled out in French and German before finally getting to English—then moved a touch closer to Chris' side as he looked out at the crowd.
"It's terrible, isn't it?" he whispered. "Yakov makes me come every year, and I always get so bored. It never gets any easier, either."
Chris took a gulp of champagne before replying, "Just as bad as the GPF banquets."
"I know! One year I think I'm just going to come in naked. Just to spice things up."
Chris snorted in a lungful of champagne, promptly choking on it. As he coughed, several heads turned to look at him. Victor pat his back and waved the few people who wandered over off.
"See? That was probably the most exciting part of the night." Once Chris caught his breath and waved Victor back, the other man pressed a finger to his lips, looking at him thoughtfully. "I heard the commentators say you just turned eighteen."
He nodded and wheezed out, "In February."
"Have you gotten the chance to celebrate?"
What? Chris looked up at Victor strangely. "Euh…I…had a dinner with my family?"
Victor arched an eyebrow. "I mean really celebrate." When Chris hesitantly shook his head, Victor gave him a wide smile that could, very possibly, rival the sun in brightness. "Then we should celebrate tonight!"
Chris' eyes widened, and he just barely bit back a "Poutain oui," instead turning to glance back at his coach. "I…probably shouldn't. Noemi said that I should be…"
"Chriiiiiis," Victor whined out his name as if they'd been friends since birth and practically draped himself on the other man. Chris may have had a small heart attack. "You only turn eighteen once. And I know all of the best places in Turin. Besides, no one will even notice we've gone."
Like you would have had the willpower to say no.
So slip out they did. And it was amazing.
Well, Christophe assumed it was. Things were kind of a blur between the first three shots at Turin's loudest club and ending up in a hotel room god-knows-where with a bottle of cheap, awful amaretto. Somewhere along the way, Victor had lost his shirt, tie, and one shoe, and was already shucking off his slacks by the time Chris fumbled the card into the door.
During the second "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender," Christophe learned that clothes just came off when Victor got drunk. There was no reason. It just happened. (Not that he minded.) But that first year, innocent, inexperienced-with-a-drunk-Victor-Nikiforov boy that he was, he just assumed that now was the time. So it seemed like a good idea to try and take off both his jacket and his shoes at the same time, in order to get to the whole "having sex with Ice Skating's Most Beautiful Man" part quicker.
It wasn't a good idea.
Chris fell. He fell hard, cracking his head against the sofa before hitting the floor. And, if hard liquor hadn't made up 30% of his bodily composition at the time, it probably would have hurt.
Victor gasped, and all at once he was sitting on Chris's stomach, hair spilling over his shoulders and brushing Chris's face. "Oh, рыбка, your head! Does it hurt? Did you get a concussion?" He gasped again and gripped Christophe's face to make eye contact. "Your зрачок! They're big! Is that bad? Don't go to sleep! Here, drink this, it'll help." Victor tried to pour some amaretto into his mouth; it sloshed over his chin and shirt instead.
As intensely thirsty for Victor as Christophe was at the time, this was also the moment he realized that, if he ever had a genuine medical emergency while with Victor, he would absolutely die.
Chris pushed away the bottle, then looked up at Victor with wide eyes. This was it, wasn't it? This was when they had sex, right? Should he start? But Victor was older and more famous and had probably had heaps and heaps of lovers. He should start. So Christophe waited.
After a moment, Victor leaned forward. His hair spilled forward, making a curtain that hid their faces from the rest of the world. In this moment, they were the only two in this entire universe. Victor blinked slowly, long enough for Christophe to watch the silvery lashes brush against his flushed cheek, then he reached up to stroke Chris' cheek.
"They're going to try to eat you alive," he whispered.
Not…exactly the bedroom talk Chris had hoped for. But Victor was watching him with such intensity he felt frozen to the spot.
"You're so pretty, and friendly, and your spins are like nothing I've ever seen," Victor crooned, cupping his face. His brow furrowed; were those tears in his eyes? "They're going to chew you up and spit you out. They'll try to break your heart. You have to be strong, рыбка, okay?"
"Who's 'they'?"
"Everyone!" Definitely tears now. "They see a pretty, talented boy and think that they're entitled to take him and then throw him away! But that won't happen to you, Chris. I won't let it. Okay?"
Chris blinked, feeling his own eyes start to sting from the intensity of Victor's words (and, maybe, the amaretto). Even in his current state, it was clear that, beneath the sheen of being the Russian God of Skating, Victor's heart was just as fragile—if not more so—as any other skater's. All at once, Chris felt awful for wanting to just fuck him.
Victor deserved better than that.
He sniffled before reaching up and to brush away one of Victor's tears. "Okay." He brushed away the few other tears. "Me too. For you."
Victor nodded and gave him a watery smile. Then, all at once, he flopped down right on top of Chris, wrapping around him like an octopus. He nuzzled his cheek against his blond curls. "I'm starving. We should call room service," he said, as if he hadn't just sworn to protect Chris from the dangers of the world. "Oh! Wait!" He sat up and dug around to find Chris' coat pocket. With a triumphant grin, he pulled out Chris' phone before laying on top of him again.
"Hashtag BFF selfie!" he shouted before taking the most unflattering, compromising photo of them.
It's still on Chris' phone to this day.
It's the third year of "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender" where they began adding "poor life decisions" between "heavy drinking" and "deep talks about life and self and fame and no-you're-absolutely-beautiful-you'll-find-true-love-one-day". It started with Chris complaining about his program in a Canadian bar.
"I'm so sick of this Swiss countryside merde," he groaned into his…eighth?...cocktail before letting his head fall onto Victor's shoulder. "You know me, Victor. You must know that I'm dying up there."
"Of course I know," Victor hummed, resting his cheek against Chris' hair. "That silver you haven't taken off and showed off to the bartender proves how heartbroken you are."
"Vityaaa, you know what I mean!"
Victor laughed and patted Chris' chest. "Of course, рыбка. Believe it or not, I've had bad seasons."
Chris scoffed.
"I'm serious! The season before we met, Yakov decided that I should center my free skate—listen, Chris, listen!—center my free skate around the break-up of the U.S.S.R. To show my dramatic side."
Chris accidentally inhaled half his drink as he snorted. "Mon dieu! He wasn't joking?"
"He really wasn't!"
"What did you do?"
"I did it, hated every moment, and then I announced that I was choreographing all my routines from that point on." He winked. "And then I broke all the Junior world records."
Chris shook his head with a laugh, then sighed. "Yakov knows you, though. Noemi seems to still think I'm sixteen. I mentioned what I wanted to do this season, and she just gave me a 'Maybe next year, liebling.'"
"Fire her."
Chris laughed, then looked up and caught Victor's serious face. "Wait, you mean it?"
Victor nodded. He leaned close to Chis, poking his chest. "You need to find a coach who works with you, with what you think will work best. Not someone who uses you as her doll." He leaned forward closer, pressing his forehead to Chris'. "You are ridiculously talented. The minute I retire, I know you'll snatch up gold. Find someone who sees that, too. Someone who sees you for the magnificent, shining star that you are."
Chris blinked, then leaned back slightly to finish his drink. "It's a coach, not a boyfriend, Victor."
"They're not all that different!"
"So what does this mean for you and Yakov?" Chris asked, waggling an eyebrow.
"Oh my god."
He gasped, pressing a hand to his mouth. "Oh, I see! You're the reason why he and that ballerina broke up!"
"Stop!" Despite his protests, Victor was giggling. He shook his head. "I'm serious, though. I'll find you a new coach. I have some contacts in Switzerland." He traced his empty cup with a finger as he looked up at Chris. "What direction do you want to take your skating anyway?" he asked before taking a drink.
"Sex on the ice."
Victor promptly sprayed a mouthful of vodka all over the bar. He knelt his head and banged on the counter.
"Victor?"
"God, that is so you!" Victor laughed. "I love it! You absolutely should do it!" He coughed once, then looked up at Chris. His brow furrowed, and he pressed a finger to his lips. "But…"
"But what?"
"You can't do it with the way you look now."
"What? Yes, I can!"
Victor shook his head, then whipped out his phone and grabbed Christophe's shoulder, pulling him in for a photo. He held it up to him.
"Look at this. Look at you, all long lashes and golden curls. You're an angel."
"Angels can be sexy!"
"Yes? Name the last time you saw a sexy angel."
"Well, I was wa—"
"That wasn't in a porno."
Chris pouted, pushing the ice in his cup around with his little straw. "I'll find a way to make it work."
"I'm sure you will, but you still need an image change. I'm serious, it's how you wow the judges who've seen you every year." Victor rested his chin on his hand, eyes flicking all over Chris. "But how do we take you from Swiss angel to sexpot?" All at once, his eyes lit up, and he banged his fist down on the bar. "A haircut!"
"…ouais?"
"Ouais! Nothing changes the way people view you like a haircut. It worked for me!" Victor gestured to his recently-shorn locks. "And I know it'll work for you!" He pulled out his phone. "There's a stylist I know out here. If I pay her enough, she can do it tonight! Here, buy another round while I call her."
And that was why, about two hours later, Christophe drunkenly broke up with his coach over Skype with a mohawk.
The bad life decisions varied from year to year. One year, Chris convinced Victor to buy a bright pink convertible in Germany, despite the fact that Victor couldn't drive. Another year, they'd stumbled into a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles; Victor walked out with a nipple piercing (later removed; turns out they don't work well with skin-tight spandex), and Christophe now had a flirty little rose right where his left thigh met his hip (which would never, ever be removed because he loved it even more sober.)
What could have been potentially the worst life decision happened in year five of "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender". That was the year they made out.
In the five years Chris had known Victor, there were a few hard facts that came with their friendship: 1) Victor was the sloppiest, most affectionate drunk Chris had ever met (including Chris himself), 2) Chris and Victor had equal levels of self-restraint—which was none, and 3) Chris would be in love with Victor until he died.
The last fact was a strange one. Well, sort of. Just looking at Victor Nikiforov made you fall in love with him, and, because Victor was so goddamn beautiful and affectionate, Chris had never entirely gotten over his teenage puppy-dog crush. Certainly the years of seeing Victor hung over and helping him wash the vomit out of his hair had ruined a bit of the magic, but there was still a bit of a thrill in knowing that he knew a Victor that no one else got to see. A Victor who spent at least one hour of the annual bender showing off pictures of his dog, a Victor who cried at the soppy cable-tv romances they put on once they were too drunk to move because "Love is just so beautiful, Chris, look at them," a Victor who would eventually flop on top of him and sing Russian lullabies until he passed out.
Chris got to see the human beneath the skating legend. He still wasn't sure what prompted Victor to choose him—whether it was dumb luck or sensing a kindred spirit—but he was absolutely glad that he did. And he was pleased—honored even—that he and Victor could call themselves best friends and nothing more.
But then Victor twisted his ankle.
It was, thank god, during his exhibition skate, so he still remained a gold medalist for the umpteenth time. But that had put a damper on that year's "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender". Victor, tragically splayed out on the stretcher as he was carried out, insisted that Christophe should go and have a good time.
"Have a drink for me," he'd said, taking Chris' hand and looking up at him pathetically. "Give an extra loud 'За здоровье!' in memory of poor Vitya."
Chris was not having that. So, two hours later (and after needling Yakov a bit for a spare key), he arrived at Victor's hotel room, triumphantly carrying enough alcohol to stock three bars for a year. Victor praised him as his savior from sobriety, and, after an extra loud "За здоровье!" and "Santé!", the fifth "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender" began.
"Twitter's been going wild over my fall," Victor murmured once they were one bottle of wine in. Chris leaned against his shoulder, watching him scroll through posts.
"Oh, look, there's us!" he said, pointing to a photo caught of Victor grasping Christophe's hand on the stretcher. "You look like you're giving me your last words."
"I was. I thought I was doomed to stay here in cold sobriety until I got on a plane to St. Petersburg." Victor pressed his cheek against Christophe's hair. "My hero. Спасибо."
"You can thank me by getting that ankle taken care of. I don't know what I'll do if you're not competing."
"Probably win gold."
Chris stuck out his tongue. "Where's the fun in winning if I'm not beating you?" He looked down at the post again. "What's that hashtag? 'Vic…tophe'? That's not Russian, is it?"
"Mm, no. Let's see." He clicked on it.
All at once, Victor's phone was a sea of photos of the two of them. Some candids, some official, some photoshopped—there were even a few very well-done, anatomically correct drawings of the two of them having the freakiest sex Chris had ever seen.
Well.
They stared at the phone for a moment. Then, at the exact same time, they burst into laughter.
"Is this real? Do people think we're dating?" Victor asked, scrolling down. "'I can't believe that the ISF is hiding Victophe.' 'I was hoping Chris would kiss Victor after the fall' 'OMG did u see the way they looked at each other? Victophe confirmed!'"
Chris, meanwhile, was howling with laughter at the tweets Victor was reading. He shook his head with the last one, leaning down and grabbing a bottle of vodka. Victor's eyes lit up. "Are we going to have a drinking game?"
"I think we're morally obligated to." He took a swig from the bottle, then passed it to Victor. "Every time we find something saying we're confirmed, every time we find something saying we're forced to hide, every time someone admits to getting off on the idea of us…" Victor, bottle at his lips, raised an eyebrow at the last one. "We're going to find one and you know it."
They did. They found several, actually, in addition to all of the conspiracy theories surrounding their relationship. Some were sweet: "I want someone to look at me the way Christophe Giacometti looks at Victor Nikiforov," "when u see victor's smile whenever he sees chris and ur HEART JUST," "victophe makes me believe in true love". Some were…a little intense: "Victophe fact for the day: Chris calls Victor 'daddy'," "tfw you know that Victor is the bottom #Victophe".
All were, undeniably, hilarious. And the hashtag was popular enough that they'd gone through the bottle in roughly half an hour.
Finally, though, they had to admit defeat. Both Victor and Christophe sprawled out on the bed, still giggling to each other.
"And here I thought we were subtle," Victor said, dropping the phone on the side of the bed.
"It's probably my fault, daddy."
Victor snorted, and they were once again howling with laughter. As the giggles ebbed, Victor lifted his head to look at Christophe.
"Have you ever thought about it?"
"Calling you daddy? No."
Victor snorted, then rolled over to lay on Chris. "I mean us. I guess we could give that impression to other people."
"We might not if you kept your clothes on."
"You stripped last year!"
"We were at a strip club, what else was I supposed to do?" Chris sniffed. "Besides, the girl on the pole clearly wasn't doing her job properly. Someone had to pick up the slack."
Victor laughed lightly, then played with one of Chris' curls thoughtfully. "I've never thought about it. Us, I mean."
"Wait, really?"
He shook his head. "Mm-mm." He raised his eyebrows. "Have you?"
Oh. Well. All right, they were having this talk. "When you first invited me out. The time I hit my head on the sofa."
Victor's eyes widened. "Really?"
"Victor, you can't have your levels of godlike beauty, invite people for drinks, and think they'll take it platonically."
"I guess that would explain a lot about my life, then."
Chris laughed. "Well, learning this at twenty-five is better than never." He grinned up at Victor, but frowned as the other man looked upset, eyes starting to shine. "I was just kidding, Vitya," he assured as he pat Victor's cheek.
"I didn't lead you on, did I? Because I really didn't mean to but you looked so bored and I didn't want you to be left out to the sharks at your first banquet and…" Ah, there were the tears. Chris shushed him as he brushed them away.
"Believe me, seeing the wreck you were in the morning fixed any thought I had on that. Remember? We almost had to cut your hair because it got so tangled." Victor didn't look very assured. "Vitya. We spend every year getting completely shitfaced. Don't you think it would've come up if it were an issue?"
Victor stared at him hard for a moment, eyes nearly glowing in the dim hotel room. Then, all at once, he pressed his lips to Christophe's.
A more sober Chris might have pushed Victor off. Might have told him, "No, Victor. We're fine. Let's watch some Japanese soap operas and figure out what they mean." Basically, sober Chris would have been smart in this situation.
But this was a drunk Chris, and a very human Chris, and goddammit, when Victor fucking Nikiforov pushes his tongue into your mouth, you just don't say no. So yes, he kissed him back. Yes, he slid his tongue against Victor Nikiforov's lower lip and may have tugged on Victor Nikiforov's hair and might have (though the details are fuzzy) squeezed Victor Nikiforov's perfect, perfect ass. And, as he would later remind himself when remembering the best kiss he'd ever had, Victor had totally been into it.
It was when Victor pulled away that things changed. He pushed himself up to look at Chris, brows drawn and lips red and looking so beautiful that Chris nearly burst into tears.
"We could try," he whispered, and that was when Chris' heart broke. Because he knew Victor better than anyone in the world, and he knew that Victor would try. He would try as hard as he possibly could if he thought it would make Chris happy, because that's just what he did.
Victor had a reputation of being cold, particularly when it came to interacting with others. A few years ago, one ex-lover of his wrote a tell-all piece saying that, after they became official, Victor became cold and distant. He's selfish, the article had said. He's one of those people who will physically be there but you know he wants to be somewhere else. I think he only likes the chase.
It was a lucky thing that 1) the article was written anonymously and 2) Victor had the most terrible memory, because Chris had been ready to fly wherever that man was and tear him limb from limb. Because clearly, despite him saying that he loved Victor, this man had never really gotten to know him. He'd fallen in love with the idea of Victor, like so many others had. And Victor, with his fragile, romantic heart, put up his walls to keep himself safe.
If he'd seen Victor—the real Victor, the one Chris saw every year—he would know that "selfish" was the last word to describe Victor Nikiforov. He gave himself to the ice, gave himself to his fans, gave himself to anyone he thought would love him.
So he would absolutely give himself to Chris if he said the word. It could even work between them; Victor could leave his walls down more than once a year, and Chris would be there to keep his heart safe. It'd be comfortable. It'd be fun.
It'd be the very last thing that Victor wanted.
Because, if nothing else, Victor was a romantic. That's why he cried at awful romances. That's why he kept making eyes at people he knew would hurt him. He wanted to be caught up in a whirlwind romance fit for any movie. Settling for his best friend would be doable, but it'd be just that: settling.
Victor deserved better than that.
Chris met Victor's eyes dead on, then pushed a hand through the other man's hair. Then, for probably the first time in his life, he exercised some self-restraint. "For the sake of the earth, let's not. If those drawings are anything to go by, the sex we have might be so hot we'll incinerate Tokyo."
Victor snorted, but Christophe felt him relax against him. He was relieved, and honestly, Chris was too. Victor needed someone who saw him as a person instead of some unattainable playboy, and he was more than happy to stay in that role.
Finally, Victor rolled off of him, cuddling against him like he did every year (though Chris did warn him to watch his ankle). As he pressed his cheek against Chris' hair, he murmured, "Je t'aime. Just so you know."
"Je sais." Chris patted his side and, in very accented Russian, replied, "Я тоже тебя люблю, рыбка." He left a friendly kiss on Victor's cheek. "Let's see the news replay your fall twenty times, hm? Take a drink every time they say 'Is this the end of Victor Nikiforov's career?'"
"Take two when they mention I'm twenty-five and should retire soon."
"Down the bottle if they mention me calling you 'daddy'."
The seventh "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender" was their worst one yet. Chris was distracted, and Victor was sad. They still managed to get drunk, but it wasn't fun.
On Chris' end, he'd met someone. At the last Olympics, he'd run into Masumi, the gorgeous ice dancer representing Canada for the last time, and he had been smitten. They'd talked on and off again, and now things were getting serious. Letting him see Chris with his glasses serious. Talking about moving to Switzerland serious. And, with Boston being so close to Montréal, he'd come down to see Chris skate.
"I really think he's the one, Victor," he'd crowed in the middle of the Irish bar, setting down his…sixth?...mug of beer and leaning against him. "He's just…he's so smart. And he makes good choices. You know, I was talking about jetting off to Bali this fall, and you know what he said? 'That's when you should be starting training. Maybe wait for the summer.' And I listened. Vitya, I listened to him."
"Amazing."
"Don't give me that tone, Nikiforov."
"No, I mean it." Victor rested his chin in his hand. "You should keep him. People like us need rational people in our lives." He let out a little sigh, looking down at his half-full glass. "Speaking of next year, what do you think of me using 'love' for my theme?"
"You mean like you do every year?"
"No, a different love. A…longing for love."
Christophe groaned. "You're still thinking of that Japanese skater."
And thus the dam was broken. "He was just so lovely, Christophe! He made the banquet fun! You know how impossible that is, but Yuuri just dove right in and did it! You poledanced with him, so you know!"
"I'm not denying that Katsuki knows how to have a good time, and I definitely don't blame you for falling in love after that poledancing routine. But…"
"It's not that. He just…" Victor's eyes went starry. "When he had that dance-off with me, when we started doing the tango or whatever it was, it was magic. Yuuri didn't treat me like everyone else does. Like some…some untouchable idol. He treated me like…like…"
"He treated you like Vitya," Chris said as he took a drink.
"Yes, exactly! And then…" Victor sighed and sagged against the bar. "And then he was gone. I've tried to find him, but he has zero internet presence. The closest I have is his parent's onsen—whatever that is—and a few blurry photos from one of his rinkmates. I keep being worried that I dreamed him up."
"Then why don't you try harder to find him?"
"I have."
"Do you even know who his coach is?"
"It's Celestino, I think."
"Victor. That's all the information you need."
"But what if he doesn't feel the same?" Victor fully melted against the bar. "What if that's why he hasn't tried to contact me? Maybe he regrets that night. Maybe I'm too old for him."
Chris set his mug down with a huff. "I know a thing or two about grinding against people, Victor, and you don't do it to people you don't want to fuck."
"You grind against me sometimes."
"That changes nothing about my point."
Victor sighed. "But I want more than that. I can't explain it. There was just…the fact that he did so badly in the competition and then came out like that and had a great time. That kind of confidence is rare, Chris!"
Ah. "So you're saying he's like us."
"Maybe? It seems like it? I'm just…drawn to him. I can't explain why."
Chris could. Victor did have an innate ability to seek out kindred spirits at banquets. After all, it's why they were friends. He sighed as he looked down at Victor, who was still more or less sprawled on the bar, looking a bit like a kicked puppy. He finished his beer, then took Victor's arm and slung it around his shoulder.
"Come on, daddy." Even with Victor being a sad sack, he managed a little giggle at that. "Let's head back. We can talk about how hard it is to talk to boys and find out what an onsen is. Then maybe we can get you drunk enough to DM that rinkmate and find your banquet boy." As Victor slumped his body against Chris, he added, "If you're really sure that Yuuri Katsuki's the one, it'll happen. That's what happens in those romances you love, right?"
Victor lifted his head to look at him, brows creased. "You really think it'll happen, then?"
"Of course." Chris gave Victor a kiss on the temple. "You deserve a sappy Hollywood romance, Victor Nikiforov."
Victor's eyes went wide; if he'd been a little drunker, he definitely would have started crying. "Thank you, рыбка," he murmured, then dug in his pocket to pull out his phone. "Hang on." He pulled up the camera and put on a smile. "Hashtag BFF selfie!"
Chris winked. "Hashtag Victophe!"
For the first time since the GPF banquet, Victor gave a real laugh as he took the picture, catching them both with weird faces.
Chris still keeps that picture on his phone, too.
Christophe isn't sure what's going to happen for the eighth "Chris and Vitya's Annual Post-Worlds Bender." This is the first year one of them has been engaged, and both Victor and newcomer Yuuri Katsuki are hungry for the gold. No matter which one of them wins, Chris gets the feeling that they'll be busy congratulating each other after the banquet.
And that's fine. As much as Victor is completely, madly in love with Yuuri, there was no threat of Chris being shunted to the side. Victor loved to give himself to the people who loved him; he wouldn't miss the opportunity to spend time with his best friend.
Though, after getting progress reports on Yuuri that were full of exclamation points, Chris was having serious thoughts of rebranding this year's bender as "Chris and Vitya's First Annual Post-Worlds Bachelor Party."
TRANSLATIONS:
Putain oui - Hell yes (technically "Whore Yes" but yanno)
рыбка - little fish (term of endearment)
зрачок - pupils (in the eyes)
liebling - darling
Ouais - yeah
За здоровье! - To your health! (Cheers!)
Santé! - To your health! (Cheers!)
Спасибо - Thank you.
Je t'aime - I love you
Je sais - I know
Я тоже тебя люблю, рыбка - I love you too, little fish.