I probably overworked this silly thing. It's racy because of it being October ;) Enjoy, and thanks for all the reads and reviews! xoxo

There's one question Victor's been dying to both be asked and allowed to answer during his career as a skater. Truth be told, it's probably not an interesting question to the people who likes to read magazines focused on skating or fashion. People reading such publications are usually interested in the other end of the spectrum, the one that births the same questions and answers especially after a competition won. To Victor, success isn't what's interesting about a person and although he understands why the standard 'congratulations on your win, how does it feel'-question, or the slightly revised 'what makes you stay on top'-ditto, just comes naturally through the mouths of sport journalists or glossy-mag writers, he can't help but sigh and cringe internally upon hearing it.

Today wasn't an exception for the question was indeed asked, followed by flashes smattering and strobing for a few seconds, making Victor wonder if there's something he's been missing out on throughout the years. Maybe there's a consensus, a notorious but unspoken deal amongst the people he'd met for civil talks for as long as he's been skating, for it keeps on happening. The same question keeps getting asked, albeit in slightly different ways. And he just keeps on answering, allowing that shallow dance to continue.

As he's unlocking the door to his hotel room, the keycard coaxing out a small beep from the electronic lock in the door, he realises that wishing for the opposite is like waiting breathlessly for the sun to set in the east. It's unnecessary to hope for such changes to happen, but he can't help that itch inside. Like hearing that coveted question would somehow give birth to something entirely different.

Victor hears the door click behind him, softly, before the darkness inside his room envelops him. He doesn't turn on the light on the small desk to the left, instead, he loosens his necktie and slides it off the back of his neck, tossing it nonchalantly on the compact rectangular shape he knows is the bed.

The room smells of ambergris and sandalwood, the last remnants of his cologne he put on before, earlier in the day. For some reason, smells in a hotel room feel awkward, for despite them bringing a sense of familiarity with them, associations and memories all tangled up into something complicated, they don't succeed in making it comfortable. All they possibly manage to do is to amplify that sense of longing. Of wanting to be home.

Single rooms have quickly soared up the ranks to becoming the most pathetic and sad thing in his life as of late, that lonely bed and that smell that veers in and out of his conscience are only adding to that notion. More than ever, Victor wishes he'd been asked that damn question for it would have helped him to stop with that excessive thinking; how a single bed is wrong, how he's not made for being alone, how he just wants time to pass by because he's just so bad at it these days. Waiting, that is. Showing patience. Restraint.

That's the answer to that question that still remains unasked. The blessed 'if you had to pick one thing you are bad at, what would that be'-question. For that is how it is, really. More can be said about a person's weaknesses than his strengths and Victor is constantly, painfully, ruthlessly reminded that his is how he just can't wait, be patient, show restraint. Not anymore.

But he loves it, not just on nights like this.

He shrugs out of his jacket, allowing it to to drop to the floor, before he begins to unbutton his shirt. He starts with the topmost button, fights it a little before it gives in and slides through the slit in the fabric. Two more buttons and then, his skin reacts to the air with a shiver that leaves bumps in its wake. It's with a sense of longing he feels that ripple across his skin, wishing that he wasn't the one unbuttoning his shirt. That it wasn't his hands adding pressure against his skin whilst undoing the belt of his trousers, the button, the zipper. That it wasn't his fingers breaching the barrier the waistband of his underwear creates against him. That he wasn't in that goddamn hotel room. Or, at least, not alone.

Again, he's bad at waiting. Be patient. Show restraint. Shit.

Reaching down to the now pooling pile of clothes on the floor, close to the bed, Victor fishes out his mobile phone from the pocket of his trousers. He checks the time with a slight press of the stand-by button and frowns, doing a simple calculation in his head.

Time zones are continuously bothersome and he knows for a fact that going east is far worse than heading west, but he can't help it. He's slowly being taken over by a yearning, a need, one that will soothe the thoughts about dark hotel rooms, single beds and nights alone once it has been fed.

The text message is short. It's just an 'Are you awake?' followed by a heart emoji, and then, he waits. Or tries to, now reclining on the covers of his cold excuse of a bed, his hand travelling down his stomach and along the outside of his underwear. He tells himself, time and time again, not to do anything else, anything more than just let his fingers trace the edges of his underwear, but it's just a heartbeat shy of impossible to listen to those internal admonitions.

Instead of staring at a static screen, hoping for those three dots to appear whilst having his pulse hammering inside his ears despite barely breathing, he opens the gallery app and dives into a folder in a folder in a folder with a slow exhale. Doing nothing just doesn't work, and as he's trying to dive further down, find the treasure inside the deepest, darkest cave of his, it stills a bit. That voice inside that keeps pestering him, asking him to just get on with it. Wanting him to succumb. Act on what he wants and feels.

It quiets down eventually, but not until he finds what he seeks. Then it flares up again, erupts more like, when he makes contact with what stimulates him. Visually, at least.

This is the reason why he can't wait anymore, why his patience is constantly faltering, why his restraint gets incapacitated by jolts and jolts of mind-numbing desire that makes him lose his footing. The reason are small moments in time, captured in eternity; dark hair and eyes behind glasses, flushed and naked skin, parted lips, head thrown back, a hand doing a poor job of hiding an erection that make his own ache even though he's just looking at a few pictures. But it's more than that. It's also an arched back, water beading on skin, bruised feet on white satin sheets, food stuck to the corners of a mouth as a tongue tries to catch what's lost and wayward, hands digging into fur, breath turning into smoke whilst veiling frosted eyelashes. Fingers braided together with golden promises reflecting a flame that cannot be extinguished.

"Fuck," Victor breathes, releasing his bottom lip from between his teeth. His thumb works frantically now, scrolling down, down, down until he, by heart, finds and clicks on the preview image and seconds after, turns the volume on his phone up to max.

'Nooo,' the voice that bursts through phone whines, 'put it away.'

'But you look so gorgeous right now,' his own voice flutters. 'Please let me. Just your face. Okay?'

There's a laugh, a laugh that carries not only an embarrassment but also something playful in its tone, something that doesn't need much convincing. If any at all.

'What are you hoping to see?' This is whispered while a few fingers fidgets with a strand of hair, once it has gotten quiet between them.

'You,' his own voice says, sounding matter of factly. 'Just pretend it's not there.'

'How can I possibly when you have it so close? Victor, come on.' A frown, dark eyes trying to see behind the phone. Through it, almost.

Seeing those eyes makes Victor's heart hiccup, for it seems like they succeed. Not only to see behind and through the phone, but also, deep into him. Realities apart, one might say, for what happens on the screen is then and this is now.

The clip ends there, the screen turning black right after a 'Let it go, I told you no,' at the same time it gets silent. The clip ends there or at least, that's what one might think if you're watching it from the outside. Yes, if you weren't there at the very start when that intimate conversation began it's easy to get fooled, for knowing what happens next kind of needs you to be Victor Nikiforov. And he waits, in a breathless suspension.

The sound comes back again and this time, strained exhales are heard through the phone as well as moans and sounds that might as well be a flash flood of ecstasy, bursting out from the minimal speaker on the phone. Yes, that sound just opens and tears everything else along with it, filling up Victor's being and threatening to empty it all the same in the now.

For Victor knows what comes next once that phone becomes flipped over on that mattress, when the black turns into nothing but a white ceiling instead, he knows it like it's the only truth he'll ever attest to. And, when the dark eyes and swaying black hair comes in and out of view from above, anchored to one of the top corners that small screen, the Victor in the now puts his hand down his underwear and takes hold of himself, thrusting his hips up with a familiar rhythm. One that matches what he sees on the screen.

'F-feels good? Hm? I-it's okay?'

His own voice seeps out from the phone with a croon, a gravelly 'yeah', one that overflows with pleasure, and on the screen, his legs are pulled up, the bend of his knees resting on the shoulders of his blessed demise. Almost lifelessly, they rock back and forth with every push that ends up inside him, with every majestic ebbing and flowing view of dark hair and eyes, now closed.

And just as Victor feels that he's close, not just in that short movie clip but in the flesh as well, sprawled out on the bed with his legs wide apart and back arched, it comes. Distorting his view and almost making him flinch due to the sound turned up.

'No,' the text message says before it vanishes, taken over by yet another one in rapid succession. 'What are you doing?'

True, there's a flash of disappointment that Victor feels in that moment, for his hips still want to feed his palm his erection and now, he feels interrupted and bothered. Not wanting to rein in and put out what has already been set ablaze. So, he decides to ride that wave, show nothing of the things he is good at but instead, just give into that pull in his abdomen. Because this is really why he is enamored by that new side of him, why he wants it to govern over him, act sovereign to everything else that is reminding him of sense and composure.

Victor releases himself, now slightly soft due to the message-made intrusion, and wipes the hand on the covers before he types an answer back. One that actually takes one or two seconds of thought because he doesn't want to seem like a person that desperately jerks off when alone and given a chance, nor does he want to lie when he does crave for an accomplice.

'Thinking of you,' is the response he settles with, for it's not entirely a lie, and adds, 'Was your flight okay?' in just a heartbeat after. After all, the chase is better when there's some resistance. When one has to work for it.

'Yes, it was fine. So tired now, I don't know what day it is anymore,' comes the response, together with a sleepy-faced emoji.

'Sorry, I shouldn't have texted you. Go back to sleep,' he types, feeling a sting of guilt and bad character upon reading that. But before sending it, he erases it, types it again, erases it and breathes and… feels a jolt starting either between his legs or his brain, he's not sure, one that makes him type 'What are you wearing?' instead.

He presses send.

It takes an eternity at least before the three dots show up again, and when they eventually deliver what's hidden behind them, that teasing animation that holds too much promise, Victor feels shot down. All he gets is a 'What?'. Seeing that small word, uncontested in that blue speech bubble, somehow makes it so much worse than what it needs to be.

But that doesn't take away the fact that the 'What?' is there, standing out like something grating and annoying. It's like it needs to be fought by a response, something that in theory could disarm it and soften it up. Indeed, it is something that needs to be corrected, and one might think that Victor should be immune to those answers, those cerebral reactions from the person responsible, by now. Fact is, Victor knows why they keep seeping through every now and then. They really are a token of admiration, a token from a person adjusting to a love that keeps getting bigger, bolder. A love that is a surprise and a blessing to the both of them and remembering that, well… if anything, it helps Victor catch his bearings.

He wants a conversation.

The flash of his phone camera really does nothing for his skin, Victor cringes when looking at the screen of his phone. That white, harsh light, makes his complexion look horrible, even paler than what he actually is. With a slight groan, he stretches over to the side of the bed, hand and arm out and at the ready, and turns on the light on the nightstand. The bulb has a soft, orange sheen, one that with a little imagination could be taken for a caribbean sunset or something just as smoldering, and not a shitty although expensive hotel room across the Atlantic. It's simply made for the occasion, that light, Victor thinks after snapping a photo of his face and scrutinising it for a moment, deciding that he's going to go close to all in for his first offensive.

With a smile, he tucks one finger into his underwear and pulls them down a little in the front, just enough for a hint of hair to show. He poses as much as one can whilst being on a bed, mainly by twisting his upper body a bit, trying to see on the on the screen what it does to his abs.

When he's satisfied with how his body looks, twisted into something that's actually uncomfortable but looks fucking hot if he may say so himself, he smiles at the phone, trying a few different variations before takes the shot. That little peek inside his little corner of the world, a proof of what he's doing in that particular pocket in time, what he innately wants, is now captured and sends it without a second's hesitation.

The response is immediate. One of those japanese text based emojis that looks like a cat getting a nosebleed pops up within a second and then, the emoji of a volcano elbows its way onto his screen not just once, but four times. Make that five, for as Victor's typing his answer, yet another one settles in with the rest of them. It's amusing how it pops up a little bit after the others, and Victor can't help but smile for he knows why that is.

He erases what he started to type and sends '5 out of 5? Wow! Amazing!' instead, and a winking kissy-face.

The three dots reveal 'I am awake now' and a face that looks like a simplified rendition of Edvard Munch's masterpiece, and that makes Victor not only smile but laugh. His phone chimes again, annoyingly loud still which makes him turn down the volume a bit, this time with '...one more?', followed by a 'please'. Within that heartbeat of a moment, Victor's pulse picks up, finds his ears again and fills him with that indescribable feeling that resounds not only inside him, but between his legs.

'Your wish is my command,' Victor types back, 'but you need to give me something in return. What are YOU wearing?'

It gets quiet after that message, Victor's phone isn't chirping for a while. But it's just as well, he reasons with himself, for he knows that his recipient is just as intent on giving back―

―or maybe not, since the image he receives is one depicting a fully clad fiancé, glasses askew with sleep marks on his cheeks, the pattern resembling that from a throw or a knitted sweater.

Although Victor wants to text back 'Try harder,' he refrains from doing so. It was what he asked for after all, although he had hoped for something more teasing. Something that could whet his imagination. He chokes back a sigh because he understands that there are two possible reasons for this situation. One being that his fiancé simply is like that at times, literal is probably the best way to describe him. Then again, there's also that second option, that he is indeed teasing him. And oh, what an interesting prospect that is.

With that in mind, hoping that the second option really is the one they both are going for although he can't really be sure, he decides to play along a little. For he can be a tease too.

This time, Victor takes a photo with him being on his side, his underwear scooted down to show just enough ass whilst he is arching his back obscenely. Almost like he was being pulled by the hair, forced into submission when being penetrated at the same time. He parts his lips and squints, trying to sell the image of being in absolute bliss as he tilts his head back a little.

It's a killer, that photo, judging by the reaction that follows.

He receives Japanese characters, several of them in fact, before the roman letters show up. Although they're not making much more sense than the Japanese characters, the emoji that follows do, with glints flanking at least three sets of praying hands, a few volcanoes and a casket, followed by too many hearts to count.

Then, it comes. The photo he was hoping but never dared explicitly to ask for. The deal breaker. The one that makes him understand that the both of them are on the same page.

It's cropped funny, for the entire face doesn't show. What does show is the face from the nose down, and the torso down to the waist. It's hard to tell if he's sitting or standing in the photo, but that's a stupid detail not worthy of his time. Instead, Victor is drawn to the way the t-shirt is held out of the way by teeth, baring the slender but chiseled midriff with specks of light colouring them with golden spots. And, Victor mewls when he sees it, that hand seemingly sliding down those abs with fingers wide apart, threatening to go lower. Underneath those ghastly sweats.

If this is torture, then Victor'll happily call himself a masochist from now on, he decides. If his pulse was racing before, it's revving now, making him try to catch his breath. He can't allow such an act go unpunished, the way he's being teased and tested when composure is something he's lacking. So, he decides to retaliate by preparing for another photo.

This time, he goes into the bathroom and stands in front of the bathroom mirror. The light is whiter there than in the main room but soft still, reminding him of the set of a photo shoot. The way it flatters skin, erases imperfections and enhances what's there makes it the perfect backdrop for his next attack.

He takes a few photos by photographing the mirror, posing with his underwear pulled down a bit to sell the image of being unclothed, but they're not really conveying the message he wants them to. The 'I know exactly what you're doing, now top this'-kind of vibe. He needs to try harder.

Victor stands there, thinking for a few seconds, before he puts his phone down on the countertop surrounding the basin and turns the knob on the faucet. He gathers a bit of water in his hands and runs them through his hair, allowing himself to be sloppy about it so that quite a bit of water ends up on him instead of in his hair. With a quick glance in the mirror, he knows that the photo he'll send next will be the two to his already epic one-two punch, his hair being damp and pulled back and his chest and abs being wet with droplets of water beading here and there. A few of the droplets acting like his emissaries the way they are being pulled down by gravity, down towards the border that is unseen in the photo. The border he wants breached.

Shortly after sending it, his phone rings. But he declines the call, quickly typing a 'Not yet, love. Convince me we should talk, try your hardest,' with an eggplant emoji between two peaches, hurrying back to the bed.

Victor takes off the cover, rips it off is maybe more apt way to describe it, and slides in underneath the duvet, the bedclothes feeling cool against his now molten skin. He contemplates to undress completely, to get rid of that pathetic piece of fabric that his holding him into place. It feels like an impenetrable wall, like a punishment to still be wearing his underwear, but as his hand is gripping the fabric digging into his hip, his phone fanfares again. And just like that, Victor has forgotten all about being tethered and shackled for his eyes are stuck to an image he knows will be put in a folder in a folder in a folder. If he'll survive the consequences of what he sees.

'Good enough?' the message reads above the image, and by God, it is.

Victor's brain short circuits seeing that photo, as his eyes are going back and forth to take it all in. The naked skin, taut against the muscles of that slender body. The dark eyes shadowed not just by black hair but of a myriad of lashes as well, closed, or maybe just looking down in a coy fashion. How one hand is in that hair, fingers buried by the thickness of the strands and how the other―

Victor has to swallow. Swallow and look away for a second, to reset himself and maybe even contemplate that what he's seeing is real. Maybe, even spend a few more to think about how that photo must have been taken with the help of a timer because the angle is nothing but divine and both hands of the subject are busy and one of them is tangled up in hair and the other is… is… is…

"Ngh, Yuuri," Victor whines when his eyes make contact with the screen anew, when his hand just forces itself down his underwear and grabs what's now wet, aching and rigid. Then, it becomes a race to back out of all of the windows and folders, images and clips to reach the phone screen, a race to find the right number, a race as he panics while pressing 'no' when eager fingers manage to call not only a sponsor, but Yakov and his physiotherapist as well. A thought flutters by, one that tells him to rename every contact starting with 'Y' except that particular one, but it disappears like a bubble being popped when his call becomes declined.

The exhale is impossible to keep steady. It stutters in the same way it tends to do when shivering and true, Victor is indeed shivering now but not from any kind of cold. It's the opposite in fact, it's the ravaging heat from sexual desire and frustration, whisked together with anticipation and a large helping of debilitating bliss that makes it so.

'Now _you_ do your worst,' the message says, making Victor's phone tremble almost as much as he is.

'The things I want to do to you,' Victor replies, wondering if he just died and sees the doors to heaven in the distance. Although, it's not until the response comes, the 'Show me,' that makes his heart flatline or just about. Forcing him to lose tonus in the arm and hand holding on to the phone as it crashes into the mattress with a small bounce upon impact. Making him gasp for air like fish out of water. Ending him so effectively, just like that.

Victor doesn't know for how long he remains like that, becharmed, bewildered and besotted, before he comes back. Back inside that body that just screams at him to do, do, do. Do. His. Worst. It's almost in a haze how he sets up the following photo, one that will grant him an audience with his conqueror, his missionary, his master. The one that just have bested him. Topped him.

He is naked this time the timed shutter clicks. Naked with his legs wide apart, one of them bent with the knee pulled up close to his ear. One hand is making a mess of the lotion applied on, around and beneath his erection and the other holds on to it, a proof of how much he wants, needs, yearns for that voice being his prize.

'Please,' Victor writes, although his spelling is nothing but a jumbled mess, 'please, please, please, please let me hear you.'

Then, it rings.

It's just a fraction of a ringtone being heard in that otherwise silent hotel room, just the slightest noise before it becomes quiet again. Or, as quiet it can be in a room when a body is desperately trying to function with a racing heart trying to convince lungs to draw breaths and let them out in order to sustain. Persevere.

"Hey," Victor finally hears, that voice whispering into his ear. That voice sounding like home.

"H-hey," he stutters back, trying to talk and swallow and breathe at the same time, like his body is brand new and just doesn't know what to do or in which order to do it.

They share a yet another pause. In a way, at least to Victor, it feels like it settles them. Grounds them. Makes them understand that they've reached something new together, created something they need a moment to figure out. Or… continue.

"How was your day?" Victor hears, slightly louder now but still faint.

That makes him think. About nothing in particular and everything thinkable at the same time. Like that question created a conflict, a clash of everything micro and macro, like universes colliding inside something too small to see. But, as his brain jumpstarts and finds a normal train of thought, something that's actually coherent and cohesive, Victor knows that he needs to answer and does so from the heart.

"Now, it's great," he says in earnest, before he asks the same thing. "Yours then, Yuuri?"

Yuuri huffs a small amused laugh, "It's just starting so… I don't know yet."

Then, almost like divine intervention, they laugh together. They start small, giggles almost being held back, wondering if that reaction is allowed considering the mood they found themselves in seconds prior, but that laughter builds and becomes a roar, one that fills up that otherwise empty hotel room and bounces off the walls. Multiplying into infinity when the both of them realise that it is okay, that their shared state isn't one born out of embarrassment and awkward realisations but rather, a togetherness, a connection that can only be found between those calling themselves lovers and best friends. They continue reaching higher and higher, pulling the other along until they reach their peak. Then, it becomes silent and still again as they float back down, but only for the shortest of moments.

"Blyad," Victor says almost under his breath, trying to catch some of those thoughts flapping around like a flock of birds. "Yuuri, I… shit, that photo. I… wow, just… wow. You know?"

"I… figured you would like that. The picture, I mean," Yuuri says.

"Like?! I loved it. Loved. It. Love, I just… I just love your dick, okay?" Victor breathes, hearing himself sound so serious which is, indeed, a slightly amusing contrast considering what he just said. "I miss it. I miss you."

Yuuri makes a small noise then, something that resembles both an 'aw' and an 'oh', and Victor can't really make out if Yuuri's impressed, pitying or just uncomfortable when he does it. His speculations get interrupted by Yuuri's voice though, now sounding slightly more pensive, more curious.

"Hm, I could tell," Yuuri murmurs before clearing his throat a bit, "but you know, Vitya?"

"Mhm?"

"That… that photo you sent in return, was… I mean, was that… did you-uh…"

"Hm?"

"What I'm asking is if-uh… If you really, or no, if you want to or more like, already―"

"What," Victor laughs, as the words bury themselves inside him, making him understand their meaning completely, "are you asking me if I came? In the photo? Is that what you're doing right now?"

There's a small pause, as long as a couple of heartbeats before Yuuri answers, almost inaudibly this time. "Yes."

Victor manages to keep that reaction, that laugh out of surprise, inside as he feels it again. That surge, that need picking away at his defences. That stupid inability to wait, be patient and show restraint threatening to wreak havoc if being pushed a little, teased a little. This time, he knows that it won't take much, if anything, to make him reach that exalted state.

Trying to keep himself, his voice, his breathing as steady as possible, Victor dares to continue. And oh, how it takes all of that remaining sliver of self control to sound matter of factly. To make it sound less than what it is when in fact, he just wants to make that illusion from the photo a reality.

"No. I haven't. I haven't," he starts, and he does indeed sound like he's composed. But that boom in his ears is even louder now, making his body react to it, to the images he sees before his inner eye. That's when he just blurts it out, that wish that makes every fibre that is him ache like they're infested by a sickness that only a release shared with that voice in his ear can cure.

"...but I want to."

"Huh?"

"I want to come."

There's a pause. Naturally so, for this is actually new to them. Not the need they feel when being separated, that is something they are familiar with. No, what's new is to succumb to the need while being apart but still… together in a sense, their voices the only thing that connects them.

Victor hesitates for a moment, a reaction brought on by that pause, and thinks to himself that maybe, it was a dumb thing to say out loud when he in fact can take care of that predicament when it becomes silent anew. When they have hung up and disconnected from each other and he is left to his own whims and impatience.

There's a sound in his ear then, something that catches his attention a fraction of a second too slow, something that pulls him back from that sensation inside. That sensation he can only try to describe, although he knows it's defeat.

"Sorry," Victor hums, slightly embarrassed, "I didn't catch that."

There's a small huff in his ear, just shy of being a scoff, making Victor's heart drop. Naturally, it was a bad idea being so blatant, one that not only strengthened his view about himself as not being able to stand down, rein himself in, one that just acts on impulses like a fucking caveman, but also, one that made Yuuri regard him in the same way. That sharp exhale doesn't need a further explanation.

"... you idiot. I-I said 'okay'. A-are you…" Yuuri's voice trails off, almost softens into something inaudible before it builds and becomes stronger. "No, don't tell me you're doing it now?!"

It's hard to tell what happens first, if Victor becomes an embodiment of those volcano emojis or if it's a flash of shame that heats him up. Nevertheless, he combusts with his mind becoming simple, one-tracked even, suddenly at a loss for words. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, suddenly feeling uncomfortably close. Somehow, he manages to groan something that at least sounds like a 'no', although that's a lie for he kind of is. On the inside, there's a show playing out, just for him. One that grows filthier with every heartbeat, one that makes him want to cry out to Yuuri, beg for Yuuri to catch him, for it feels like the sky has begun to fall and he is coming down with it.

"You-uh," Victor hears Yuuri almost whisper again as he tries to keep that feeling in the pit of his stomach contained, "feel like we should do a, um, video thing instead?"

Victor's eyes fly up hearing that and it almost makes him feel disoriented, despite being on his back in that, now comfortably warm, queen sized bed.

"No, no, I, no. It's… we don't…" he tries, strangling that glutton inside him as he pathetically grabs for words, no matter what kind that pops up inside his brain. "Your voice is, is, is fine, love. I… I won't take long."

"O-okay," Yuuri's voice sounds into his ear. "So, um, how do we do this? Should I just… talk or…?"

"Please," Victor breathes, his hand sustaining his erection with slow strokes, "come with me. Tell me what you're doing."

Yuuri groans a little into his ear. It's one of those noises Victor has learned that Yuuri makes when he's torn, trying to contain his embarrassment while at the same time wanting to let go.

"Tell me, darling," Victor encourages, upping the pace with his hand. "Tell me what you're doing right now."

That imploration draws a one syllable kind of laugh out of Yuuri.

"Okay, now I'm… pushing down my clothes on the floor. I… I hurried to get undressed before."

"You undressed for me. You hurried for me. Right, love?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I did."

"Mmm," Victor croons. "What underwear did you have on?"

"The blue ones you got me from Italy."

"I love those on you."

"I know you do. Now, I'm getting into bed."

"Are you on your side?"

"No, on my back," Yuuri chirps. "Do… do you want me to be in some other way?"

Victor's lips part in response, releasing a slow, tortured exhale. He understands that he's listening to the voice of his fiancé as that goddamn tease is getting more and more into it. More and more turned on. More and more bold.

Fuck being controlled and composed, Victor thinks to himself, tilting his hips up. Fuck hoping for others to see the parts of him that they apparently don't want to see. Fuck proving people wrong when he can do this without inhibitions, succumbing to everything that's bad with himself.

"Can you be on your knees, love? Can you have your ass high and your head low for me?"

There's rustling sound finding its way into Victor's ear before Yuuri's voice cuts through that thick expectation, the one keeps Victor hostage and on edge.

"There, Vitya. I did what you asked me to, no, wa-wait, this, it's uncomfortable."

"I dare you to turn on the speaker," Victor says as he stops stroking himself, already out of breath.

It's almost as if his breathing gets consumed by his suggestions towards Yuuri, who in turn fills his lungs back up with his responses. It's a push and pull they're partaking in, a giving and a receiving. No, it's a giving and a taking, more like, for they are just as hungry, just as needy, just as longing.

"Just a second," Yuuri says before a crackle is heard. "There. I hear you now."

"Speaker?"

"Headset."

"Coward," Victor giggles.

"Hentai," Yuuri quips back.

"But that's a medal of honor," Victor muses, although slightly disappointed that his pulse is slowing down, that he's getting his wits about him again. He's ready to take that plunge, to be led astray by Yuuri's voice narrating his fantasies. However, just when he's going to be that Victor he knows can be slightly abrasive due to his brutal honesty, because his patience is stretched thin into invisibility now, Yuuri cuts in.

And surprises him.

"So," Yuuri says, his voice like molten honey and gold to Victor's ears, "where were we?"

-xoxo-

It doesn't take long for Victor when he and Yuuri start to travel down that path again, when they find the 'where' to their visual-gone-oral game together.

It doesn't take long, for Yuuri is feeding Victor with what he wants. Although his words are slightly hesitant at first, unfamiliar to be clad in his voice, he tries, seemingly leveling up with every reaction he gets in return. Even a simple thing like that, Yuuri trying hard for him, taking nastier and filthier and more depraved words in his mouth in the same fashion he would take in Victor's dick when being together, makes Victor feel the need to pause.

Although Victor doesn't disclose this, that he's holding on by a thread due to his fiancé's treatment, he stops. Time and time again. For when he stops, he's not only letting go of his length, now sticky due to lotion both artificial and natural. He's also thinking of sad things, horrible things, for Yuuri's voice is like a vice. Or, deft hands, more like, for they are wringing him out, threatening to make him lose whatever fluids he's desperately trying to contain.

Thinking these thoughts, for how is he supposed to climax when thinking about his dog dying, his love leaving, his career being nothing, pulls him back just enough. But, as soon as he starts stroking himself whilst being prompted by Yuuri, he's close to peaking.

"Are you moving your hips, Vitya? Are you pushing into me?" Victor hears Yuuri say, and there's a resolve there now. Yuuri's words, his voice, they're not just asking but commanding, making Victor feel weak. Close to pathetic even for he has no say in this, not anymore. Not as long as those words keep infesting his mind, body and soul.

Victor thinks for a second, and it really is a fluttering thought in passing, that he should just let go, allow that tension that comes from that glorious friction take him further and further, closer and closer, until all he can ever do is give in and fall.

"I-I am, so deep. You're so good, love. You're taking all of me, I'm entirely inside you. Don't stop riding me, baby…" Victor mewls, seeing just that play out although his eyes are closed. Yes, Yuuri is riding him, Yuuri's hips digging into him while he meets up that energy with hips violently pushing upwards. He can almost hear it, too, the sound their colliding bodies make if he directs that focus a little more inward, but doing so wakes another need. One that culminates in knowing. Therefore, he asks, "Are you close too, love, Yuuri, baby? I-I-I'm so… I'm so damn―"

"Hold on a bit longer, Vitya. I… I'm getting there, soon. I-I just need… I need yo-your… your dick a bit longer. Faster, please, much faster. I don't want to… to be able to sit tomorrow. Harder!"

"Yeah? Oh, yeah? You're so filthy, just so, mmm, damn filthy. Slam down on me, baby, more, more."

"I… I'm… I'm there with my mouth now! Let me lick you off my lips. Aaahh, you taste so good, Vitya, so good. Let me s-suck you dry."

Although it's something Victor in all honesty finds buzzkilling in real life, the mere thought of going from the anal tightness to the slick and warm wetness of a mouth just like that, having Yuuri suggesting it with a sharp edge in his voice, almost commanding him to accept that fantasy with that tone, he succumbs. He sees Yuuri down him, again and again and again and, may any available divines have mercy on him, keeping the eye contact without as much as blinking.

"You feel that? How I have you inside me? How warm it is to be inside my mouth? Can you feel my tongue?"

"Yuuri! Yes, yes, do-don't... I-I'm almost there!"

"You want to come? Are you ready?"

"Y-yes, I, blyad, just keep… soon, so close now!"

Victor isn't sure if he's imagining it, for the perception of time is altered now. Time moves torturously slow, only to speed up in bursts and he thinks that is why it feels like a silence between them. One that spreads out and almost makes him lose his way, that altitude he's gained. Maybe, there really is a silence there now, reminding him of when he came back from that interview, back to that dark room with its lonely, empty bed.

Yes, there's still ambergris and sandalwood in the air, giving Victor the sense of longing, of wanting to be home. Maybe this is home, where bathroom products crowd the shelves and drawers, where toothbrushes snuggle together in the same glass. Where post-its on the fridge makes promises and intentions makes them come true. Where he knows he can be himself and drop his guard, not giving a shit about what's supposedly good or bad.

"If you come right now, I'll wear your cum like a lipstick."

With a final stroke, a final heartbeat, a final silly try to draw breath, Victor climaxes. It's like being shot through the air, the height he previously lost is gained within a fraction of a second.

Victor feels his body react to what Yuuri's words made his mind see before him, feels how it convulses and tightens without relaxing. His orgasm presses all the air out of him and keeps it so, and although he can't continue to stroke himself, it continues. That otherworldly, absolute ecstasy. It's like a rolling wave that comes back to drown him again and again and, strangely enough, he must have succumbed to its depths because his eyes suddenly see nothing but a darkness, but instead of being black, it's deep red. Close to burgundy.

"Victor?"

Yes, he must have drowned. Melted right through the bed and swallowed by that abyss below that feels warm and blissful and exhilarating.

"Victor? A-are you okay?"

Yuuri's voice feels so far off that Victor kind of accepts his fate. Yes, there he is, drowning in a sea of pleasure where he can only hope that the waves eventually will carry him to shore.

"Vitya?"

He thinks that he somehow got to shore. The warmth around him, the warm light reminding him of a Caribbean sunset, how he gasps for air and slowly opens his eyes―

"Are you choking?!"

―or maybe, he's just in an impersonal hotel room.

"No, no. I'm fine," Victor manages to slur.

"The noises you made, I…" Yuuri interrupts himself with an odd little laugh, "I worried."

"If that's a way to die," Victor tries, his mouth feeling dry and full of cotton, words sticking to each other in his mouth, "then kill me now."

"Don't say that," Yuuri lovingly scolds him.

Victor slowly settles in the silence, the almost silence rather, made by their alternating breaths. He listens, how his huffs are quicker, more shallow, quaking when he exhales. He listens, how Yuuri's are slow and deep, not at all coloured by what they just shared and thus, a question forms inside his head.

"Did you come?" Victor asks, with a voice still impaired, still sticky inside his mouth.

"I… I-uh…"

"Are you embarrassed to tell me?" he yawns, feeling that cocooning tiredness that can only follow a release embrace him.

And, maybe that's why he doesn't follow up on the question just asked, for when Yuuri changes the subject, asks him for more details about his day, he forgets the question posed. Drawlingly, he tells Yuuri about the interview and the photoshoot, the many changes of clothes. He comes back to the interview again, for there it is again; the disappointment of seeing him as something fantastic and unbeatable.

"Yuuri," Victor interrupts himself when that feeling seeps into his conscious mind again, "what would you say that I'm bad at?"

"Bad?"

"Yes, bad. Not sexual-nasty-ohyou'resobad-bad, I mean bad as in being―"

"Unskilled?" Yuuri fills in.

"Yeah. Unskilled," Victor parrots, tasting the word in his mouth. He's a little surprised that it tastes okay. A bit sweet, even.

"Hmm..." Yuuri sounds, and judging by the pause, it seems like he thinks of a million possible options. A million ways to let Victor know who he really is.

Victor is about to ask the inevitable, 'tough question?', and despite being spent, out of commission and used, he's planning on delivering it a bit tongue-in-cheek because there's a sting inside, made by that pause. Maybe, there's much to him that is difficult, bothersome and annoying. But despite his intention, Yuuri is a heartbeat faster.

"What you're bad at? Tell you what, I'll tell you when we're both at home."

"But… that's not for another, what, nine days? Don't be cruel to me!"

"Pfft," Yuuri scoffs, "you had a great time just now. Don't say that I'm cruel."

Victor laughs a little as he wriggles around in bed, trying to get his feet down on the floor. As they touch the somewhat cool hardwood surface, allowing him to stand up and walk over to the bathroom, he looks at himself in the mirror.

His hair is a mess, not windswept but climaxswept rather, close to standing on edge in the back. The fringe is almost tangled, still wet from the impromptu styling before. His skin, at least on his cheeks, neck and chest, is slightly pink, like flower petals just underneath. Surprisingly, he's still got some volume between his legs, which makes him smile a little because it's all Yuuri's doing, and thinking of what they just shared only sustains it.

"Hey, love?" Victor asks, keeping his phone to his ear by using the shoulder as he washes his hands. "It's late here, you know, and I… don't think I'll be able to stay awake for much longer."

Yuuri hums a little in his ear in response.

"But I… I wanted to thank you. For this. I loved it." He pauses. "I love you."

"Nine more days, Vitya."

"Sounds like an eternity to me."

"You're going to be busy. I'll be busy and… We'll be home in no time."

Victor chuckles a little before they say their goodbyes, goodbyes filled with loving epithets and promises of time jumpstarting, of being in the arms of the other.

As the quiet spreads out in that anonymous hotel room, now smelling faintly of not only cologne but also that musky and thick scent of sex, Victor staggers back to the bed and falls heavily on top of it. After a vain attempt to reach the lightswitch from where he's at, he gives in and rolls over to flip it.

The dark immediately settles in, drowning all the details within the second.

It's strange, really. As Victor's lying there in bed, with his eyes closed and waiting for sleep to claim him, the smells in the room and the euphoria still coursing through his body makes him relaxed. At ease. For those things combined with Yuuri's parting words, still on replay in his mind has made him realise something. It's a silly little truth, maybe even just wishful thinking from a man finding himself alone again, in a foreign country and in an unknown bed, but… Yuuri, upon moving in with him in St. Petersburg, created what he now considers to be home. And he will always carry home with him, for it is nothing but a text away.