DÉJÀ VU ALL OVER AGAIN (Yuri on Ice, Mature Readers)

PART ONE: CHAMPAGNE AND RELUCTANT CHIVALRY

By the Binary Alchemist, 2017

Contrary to popular rumor, I have scruples. And unlike my rival on the ice, Chris Giacometti, I don't generally have to send out a scouting party to find them. I supposed that could be the influence of Yakov and Lilia, but I'd like to hope that I am a decent enough person to at least attempt to do the right thing, da?

Now, to hear Yakov tell it, I'm selfish, self-centered, manipulative, disobedient and absurdly vain of my own good looks—which, of course, is utter nonsense. I mean, look at this face, hmmm? Does this look like the face of a man who might try to pull strings in your life and arrange things so that everything falls into place precisely as he intends?

(At this point, I suppose I might hear Yurio coughing loudly under his breath in a manner that sounds suspiciously like 'bullshit!..cough-cough-bullshit-manipulative BASTARD…' I say we ignore him for now, okay?)

However…once in a very great while, the tables get turned on me. For someone who thrives on surprise as I do, you'd think I might find this exciting. Sometimes it's a delight. Sometimes it's about as much fun as breaking in a new pair of skates in wet socks.

We've got the rest of the night, and if you don't mind topping off the vodka in my glass—ahhh…spasiba…thank you—let me tell you precisely how I ended up in this current predicament….

It was two o'clock in the morning on the final night of last year's Grand Prix…and a beautiful drunk had his arms and legs wrapped around me, grinding against me through our suits and sending jolts of astonished pleasure though my body. My logic was having a difference of opinion with Eros. My body was screaming for attention, because the warmth and closeness of the drunk in question—and the delicious sensation of his body against mine—meant that of moy khui—my cock- was raising his stubborn head and arguing with me from somewhere below my belt that this beautiful Japanese man, this Yuuri Katsuki, was someone he wanted to become intimately acquainted with…immediately.

Moy syehrtseh-my heart—was coming to the same conclusion. My brain, on the other hand, was cutting sharply through the sweet haze of desire and the first rush of love, telling my cock and heart to slam on the brakes to avoid a catastrophe that could possibly hurt another person.

And anyone who truly knows me will tell you which of those three headstrong organs will win out every time.

However, I know I don't need to tell you what happened. You were there. You saw us together.

I have never had so much fun in my life—and you of all people understand why.

You see, we know how the game of our sport is played off the ice. You have to get out there, promote yourself and charm the sponsors as much as the fans. This brand warm up jacket. That cologne. Blade covers? Sunglasses? Shampoo? Breakfast cereal? Da. And vodka? Ha, Viktor, you silly boy…always quick with a joke, aren't you? So charming! So you do your little deals with the devils and then you have the resources to be a jet-setter. To afford that high-tech brushed chrome flat in St. Petersburg and the stylists and dog groomers and the chilled Dom Perignon you sip in your first class seat.

Posing and winning them over. Not one hair out of place. Shirt custom tailored by Turnbull and Asser of London. That Armani suit did not come off the rack, and those Italian leather shoes were made to measure.

Do you ever get the wild urge to just say, 'otva 'li'—"fuck off!"—and then run off and do something impulsive…when you were absolutely stone cold sober and had no socially acceptable excuse?

Okay, Christophe can get away with that. I'd be worried if he weren't outrageous. Ah, but Vitya's always keeping himself on such a short rein and behaving himself with the sponsors at the banquet….right up to the point when Yuuri Katsuki started challenging the medalists to a dance-off.

You know how he moves. My god. He couldn't leap and fly on the ice but every time I watched his step sequences there was the oddest acceleration in my pulse. That face…those eyes. The music flows through him, I would think and tell myself that perhaps we might find a way to get to know one another. It never happened.

And then he's break dancing with Yurio and I am standing amid the suits and sponsors …and I can't take my eyes off the man. Mobile phone, I am thinking. Catch this. It will not happen again. I find my hands sweating and I am chasing him around, filming him. Then I begin cheering. Then my body begins to move to the music and I step up behind him, mimicking his steps.

He hears someone shout out my name. He turns. A light comes into his eyes. "Is this a challenge?" The corners of his mouth turn up and my stomach turns inside out. I swallow hard and match him, grin for grin, asking him what he has in mind. "Fandango. Paso doble. Are you up for that?"

I nodded. By the time that first dance was finished, my pulse, my hopes and my manhood were up as well.

He swept me into a glorious pas de deux. That's that, I told myself. I'm going to die right here. Yakov will see this dance and he will kill me…and I will die with the lightest of hearts, laughing with delight and locked in the slim, strong arms of the most enchanting person I have ever met. He swept me down into a low dip, bending down so close I was in serious danger of falling into those dark chocolate eyes. His mouth was just inches…just inches away. His lips looked silky and flushed. I wanted to taste them—taste the sweet champagne on the tip of his tongue and feel his breath against my cheek. When he swung me back onto my feet…so swiftly that no one else saw…his mouth lightly brushed against mine. At that moment, my heart overrode any input from my brain or my body. I was done. Finished.

The gold medal might have been hung around my neck in honor, but the sixth place finisher had beaten me soundly and I gave up without a fight.

That, however, was not why I disappeared with him an hour after his spectacular gymnastics on the stripper pole with Chris—whom I was very nearly jealous of for getting to embrace that much of Yuuri's nearly naked skin. He had begged me to come visit him in Japan and be his coach—not exactly a decision to make when one has consumed roughly seventeen glasses of champagne. However, I was falling fast and made the decision that if he wanted me to take care of his training, the first thing I should do was get him tucked safely into his bed to sleep off this rather spectacular drunk.

Notice I said HIS bed.

Did I want him in mine? Bohze-moi….you have to ask? I was shivering with want, and my heart was pounding so hard that when I looked down I could see the buttons on my waistcoat vibrate.

Anyone who tells you love is gentle and soft has never fallen as I did that night. For someone who had sipped a single glass of Dom Perignon, I was so drunk on joy and desire I could barely walk, staggering out of the ballroom with Yuuri's arm around my waist, my own curled around his shoulder.

I was surprised when he tugged me away from the elevators, steering me towards the stairs. "Sixth floor. I'm good. I can walk it. How 'bout you?"

I nodded, following him through the exit door and into the stairwell.

We didn't even make it to the landing before he pounced on me. And yes, by god, his lips were every bit as soft and hot as I suspected. I was getting drunk by osmosis from kissing the man and he was all over me like snow on St. Petersburg and I didn't even feel the cold concrete of the steps cutting into my back and shoulders as he slowly bent me back over his arm again and began feasting on my mouth and neck, his hands moving over my upper body.

Breaking the kiss for a breathless moment, the palm of his hand pressed against my chest. "I can feel your heartbeat." His expression became gentle, and to my surprise he slowly bent his head and kissed me, right where his hand had pressed.

I'm surprised I didn't crack his ribs I hugged him so fiercely, and his arms slid around me and tightened, our mouths locked together. I heard my name—a husky whisper with a tantalizing accent—breathed in my ear, and with an agile twist he was straddling my hips, pressed against me, hardness against hardness, his need meeting my own urgency….

And THAT was the point that sharply reminded myself that I am not a man without scruples.

He was so damn beautiful, looking down at me with an expression of tender possessiveness.

I wanted him in my arms, in my bed. And I suspected if that miracle managed to occur, I would want him in my life as well. However…

Seventeen glasses of champagne….is seventeen glasses of champagne.

And, god save me, I was not going to assume the consent of a man who had reached that level of intoxication. True enough, I could take him to my room—or follow on to his—and get him in the shower and tuck him in and lie chastely above the covers with Yuuri in my arms.

But right at that moment he had begun to rock hard against me, eyes sliding closed with bliss, lips parted in a soundless cry of rapture….

….and I had to put a stop to this, even if it killed me. This was not going to happen. Not like this. Not now.

…not….yet.

But, by god, I would make damn sure we would have another chance.

"What was that?" I feigned alarm, bolting upright and pulling back from our kisses.

"Huh?"

"Somebody's coming!"

His eyes flashed with mischief. "I think it's you. Maybe we should go upstairs where we can get out of these suits and into each other?" His fingers swept through my hair affectionately. "I've never…you know. Been…with…someone." There was a drunken little chuckle and a blush. "Having the first time….you know…with you, Viktor….this is like a dream…"

The advantage of being sober in a crisis is that very important information tends to register on your consciousness with all necessary speed. If you're drunk in a crisis, you're basically a sponge trying to soak up a river, and you can't tell one drop from another.

I was sober. This, damn it, was a crisis. And I could definitely tell one drop from the river-and that one drop was the phrase 'first time'.

He was a virgin. A drunk virgin. A spectacularly sensual drunk virgin who was setting my heart on fire and presenting an almost overwhelming challenge to my sense of gentlemanly behavior.

Awkwardly, I managed to slide out from under him. "You could get into serious trouble with the Grand Prix committee, not to mention your coach. I'm not going to let that happen. Stay there. I'll head them off."

I sprinted as quickly as I could to the bar. "Triple shot of Stolichnaya, spasiba." Not my preference, but it would certainly service my needs.

Once I returned to the stairwell, I noticed Yuuri looking flushed and eager , trembling slightly. I tossed him my most charming smile and passed him the glass. "A Russian custom to toast to our happiness. Za lyublyu—to love!"

"Kampai!"

Five minutes later I was delivering Yuuri's inert body to Celestino. "I'm not sure what sort of hangover results from mixing champagne and vodka," I warned, " but you might want to alert housekeeping that you may need more towels and a few more wastebaskets."

I got a wary look. I answered it back with a shake of my head. "He's safe and…there have been no improprieties…not that I didn't have to put up a hell of a fight." His eyebrows lifted about a kilometer. "Chivalry is not dead yet, Ciao-Ciao," I told him, hanging on to the last shreds of my dignity. Yuuri began to snore softly as Celestino hoisted my Sleeping Beauty over one brawny shoulder. "However, once he sobers up and recovers from the hangover of the century, give him this." I passed him a card with my mobile number. "He is…quite a remarkable man. I want to take him out to dinner when I'm certain he will remember our conversation."

…..TO BE CONTINUED…..