It isn't as though Viktor isn't proud of himself; of course he is. The competition was good this year: Chris Giacometti seems hell-bent on giving him as good a run for his money as he possibly can, and he enjoys being able to inspire his fellow skaters to perform their absolute best. Any concerns he might've had about the Swiss boy's growth sport were laid to rest on the ice; Chris has grabbed puberty by the horns and turned it into a strength.
In return, puberty seems to have -
Well. Enhanced Chris in ways beyond height. In Viktor's defense, it's hard to not notice when a figure skater begins to fill out and look different. They all wear such tight costumes, and they share showers, and spend their off evenings eating and drinking and making merry when they're on the competition circuit. Chris was a cute child, but he's becoming a very handsome young man. With Viktor's inclinations the way they are ... )
No. Stop it.
( He mutters under his breath. Viktor touches the gold disc at his chest and tries not to think about his country - something he's been doing for two or three years now, ever since he began to understand why Yakov has been so strict about which men he is and isn't seen with. His coach knows, of course. It all came to a head on the night before his seventeenth birthday, when Viktor confessed that his mother had hit him and told him he was unnatural for wanting to ask a boy out on a date. Think of Russia, she said. Think of the shame you'd bring on your country. His lifetime of blood, sweat and tears could be rinsed away, just like that.
His family already hates him. Viktor couldn't bear it if his country hated him too, if for no other reason than those joyous screams and cheers are all he has left to hold on to.
A shower will help, Viktor thinks, as he steps into the changing room. He has an interview in about thirty minutes but there's still time to get himself turned around. He removes his medal, then his clothes, and pulls his hair into a bun on the top of his head, before digging out his towel and heading into the showers. )
Oh -
( He's used to sharing showers, but he isn't used to catching the increasingly handsome Chris rubbing suds over the firm curve of his ass. Viktor blinks, feeling heat bleed into the the edges of his ears, and clears his throat a little awkwardly just to let the Swiss know he isn't alone. )
Chris! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here.
( Long fingers clutch at the towel wrapped low on his hips. )
Would you like some privacy?
( That's it. Play it professional. Viktor arranges one of his smaller fake smiles onto his lips and tosses a wink his way. )
I know how important it can be to have a little alone time before dealing with the press.
no subject
( Another gold medal.
It isn't as though Viktor isn't proud of himself; of course he is. The competition was good this year: Chris Giacometti seems hell-bent on giving him as good a run for his money as he possibly can, and he enjoys being able to inspire his fellow skaters to perform their absolute best. Any concerns he might've had about the Swiss boy's growth sport were laid to rest on the ice; Chris has grabbed puberty by the horns and turned it into a strength.
In return, puberty seems to have -
Well. Enhanced Chris in ways beyond height. In Viktor's defense, it's hard to not notice when a figure skater begins to fill out and look different. They all wear such tight costumes, and they share showers, and spend their off evenings eating and drinking and making merry when they're on the competition circuit. Chris was a cute child, but he's becoming a very handsome young man. With Viktor's inclinations the way they are ... )
No. Stop it.
( He mutters under his breath. Viktor touches the gold disc at his chest and tries not to think about his country - something he's been doing for two or three years now, ever since he began to understand why Yakov has been so strict about which men he is and isn't seen with. His coach knows, of course. It all came to a head on the night before his seventeenth birthday, when Viktor confessed that his mother had hit him and told him he was unnatural for wanting to ask a boy out on a date. Think of Russia, she said. Think of the shame you'd bring on your country. His lifetime of blood, sweat and tears could be rinsed away, just like that.
His family already hates him. Viktor couldn't bear it if his country hated him too, if for no other reason than those joyous screams and cheers are all he has left to hold on to.
A shower will help, Viktor thinks, as he steps into the changing room. He has an interview in about thirty minutes but there's still time to get himself turned around. He removes his medal, then his clothes, and pulls his hair into a bun on the top of his head, before digging out his towel and heading into the showers. )
Oh -
( He's used to sharing showers, but he isn't used to catching the increasingly handsome Chris rubbing suds over the firm curve of his ass. Viktor blinks, feeling heat bleed into the the edges of his ears, and clears his throat a little awkwardly just to let the Swiss know he isn't alone. )
Chris! I'm sorry, I didn't know you were in here.
( Long fingers clutch at the towel wrapped low on his hips. )
Would you like some privacy?
( That's it. Play it professional. Viktor arranges one of his smaller fake smiles onto his lips and tosses a wink his way. )
I know how important it can be to have a little alone time before dealing with the press.