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At the age of twenty-five, Christophe Giacometti was considered one of the best figure skaters in the world. At some point, medaling in every international competition he competed in became a given, even when he took second place. No matter how much work Chris put into his routines, gold always looked better on Viktor.
The exact moment Christophe Giacometti turned twenty-five, he was alone. Which seemed ironic for someone born on Valentine’s Day, especially when said someone acted as horrifyingly extraverted as he did. Chris made a habit out of spending that part of the year without company, not that he was huge on celebrating it in the first place. He absentmindedly reached out for the glass of whiskey he had poured for himself a few minutes ago and took a sip. The burn in his throat was pleasant, even though the alcohol didn’t belong to the list of his favorites.
Chris rarely paid attention to the hotel rooms he stayed in during competitions. They were all the same – pristinely clean, with neatly folded bedsheets, and not an ounce of dust in sight. When he still shared them with Viktor, they used to joke around and call them soulless. The memory made the alcohol on his tongue taste more bitterly, losing the previous refinement. With a grim expression, Chris downed the glass in one sip. There were things in his life he desperately craved to forget. Even though whiskey was supposed to help with that, it only made them more memorable.
***
“What do you mean you don’t celebrate?” Viktor asked in confusion, disbelievingly raising an eyebrow at Chris’ confession.
He shrugged in response.
“I’m usually busy competing. You know there’s no time for birthday breaks mid-season.”
Viktor didn’t buy it. As the perplexed look left his face, it was swiftly replaced with one of those brilliant smiles of his. It did things to Chris.
“So, we have to change it up this year!” he announced, grabbing Chris’ arm and dragging him along. “It’s gonna be a party for just the two of us. And no, you have no say in this!”
***
They ended up drinking unreasonable amounts of vodka, cheap wine, and who knows what else. In their state of intoxication, they couldn’t care less. There were toasts at the bar, drunken singing on the streets, and clothes being thrown across Chris’ hotel room when the night began ceasing. Soon they both landed on the silk cushions, at first Chris on top of Viktor, then Viktor on top of Chris. The kisses they shared were hungry and lustful, all teeth and tongue with no time for air. Bruises littered their bodies, simultaneously misshapenly irregular and flawlessly matching.
Viktor choked out a gasp when Chris bit into the juncture between his shoulder blade and neck. The skin was soft under his plump lips, making Viktor shiver when he felt Chris’ hot breath on him. He smirked when another moan left his mouth and fingernails dug into Chris' toned back. They fit together like puzzle pieces, different in their natures but creating the same picture of devotion.
They didn’t talk much, too preoccupied with each other’s bodies to rely on their vocal cords to work properly. It was blissful – to be so intimately close with someone yet with no strings attached. All they did remained purely within the frames of an act of sexuality and carnal desire.
When they passed out from exhaustion, it was already long past midnight. Not a single star could be seen in the sky as even the moon remained covered with dark clouds. The storm was soon to be expected.
***
They never talked about it.
Not when they woke up next to each other.
Not when they ate breakfast in silence, with the room uncharacteristically quiet for both of them.
Not when they shared the ice again, not when they chattered on the phone about a terrible soap opera they adored.
Not when Sochi happened.
***
The more time had passed, the more Chris felt as if every fiber of Viktor’s being slowly evaporated from his life. He couldn’t even be mad at him for it. Blaming a man for doing irrational things because of love would be hypocritical. Especially coming from someone who would allow himself to be cut into pieces for a repetition of what he once almost had. Almost.
Chris listened to Viktor crying when the man that turned his life upside down never called him back.
He didn’t complain when Viktor woke him up in the middle of the night to have a meltdown about Yuuri skating to Stammi Vicino.
He didn’t say anything when the love of his life traveled halfway across the world for someone else, leaving him alone and behind.
The worst aspect of it was the jealousy. Chris craved to be delighted for Viktor. He wanted his words of encouragement to be sincere – instead, they just left an ugly feeling in his stomach. Even he could admit that Yuuri and Viktor were made for each other. Watching them was like a fairytale becoming reality – with fate bringing two souls together, love stronger than anything else in the world.
With a happily ever after that happened because of agape, not a one-night stand led by eros.
***
At the age of twenty-five, Christophe Giacometti considered himself to be helplessly in love with a man he couldn’t have.
No international medals possessed any value when he put more thought into it. When he held them in his hands, they only reflected his dull expression, nothing less and nothing more. In a twisted way, they described his relationship with Viktor perfectly. No matter how many times he smiled at them, kissed the cold metal to elevate his achievement – they had nothing to offer back. Chris could give them all the love he wanted, but, in the end, the medals remained only a one-sided reflection of himself.
With that in mind, he fell asleep, dreaming of silver hair and blue eyes, of warm embraces and cold goodbyes. Maybe in another world, a different dimension, the world would give him a chance to live a life he always wanted.
With what was left of Chris’ consciousness, he pushed the idea aside immediately. Getting his hopes up hurt too badly, creating an empty ache in his heart that could not be dulled with alcohol.
Maybe happy endings were destined for main characters.