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The second time Chris made it to the World Championships, he placed ninth. Viktor won his first gold that year.
Back then, it was still new and unfamiliar to skate at such a big competition, in front of so many people. Chris still felt a little embarrassed when he got worked up, when the heat of the lights and the sound of fans screaming his name and the rush of adrenaline when he landed his jumps on the perfect knife edge combined to send his pulse racing through his body, make his skin ache and his dick hard.
He stumbled off the ice and it didn't matter that he'd touched down on the triple axel or that his sit spin wobbled, he felt amazing.
Later, in the locker room, Chris looked into the face of the new world champion and saw the same thrill reflected back at him. And it didn't really matter that Viktor was the champion and Chris had finished in ninth place, because back then, ninth in the entire world seemed pretty fucking amazing and there were years and years ahead of him, plenty of time for him to challenge Viktor and everyone else, time for him to take gold for himself, time for him to be the champion of the world.
Chris met Viktor's eyes and he saw that gold medal and he wanted.
They'd never done this before, not really, but they'd made out a few times in clubs. This time was nothing like that. This time, Chris shoved Viktor up against a row of lockers and pressed against him from shoulder to hip, so his erection was right next to Viktor's and there was no doubt what he wanted.
Viktor still had long hair then, and there was a crown of blue roses on his head, and it stayed in place even when he flipped them around and thrust against Chris. The rhinestones on their costumes caught and tangled with each other, and anyone could have walked into the locker room and hell, they probably did, Chris would never have noticed.
Viktor ground against him and Chris shoved back and they barely got into a rhythm before they were both coming in a burst of profanity in two languages, the gold medal pressed between their bodies the entire time.
-----
The next year, they made it to a hotel room, at least.
Chris had a medal of his own that year, and if he'd thought being in the top ten was a rush, it was nothing compared to standing on the podium at Worlds.
There were interviews and obligations, and Chris felt like he was flying over it all, like his head was barely even attached to his body as he told the sponsors and the reporters and the fans that yes, he was very proud to represent Switzerland, and yes he was happy with the bronze but he was working hard to prepare programs for next year and of course he had high hopes for the following season. Or something. He had no idea what he actually said, because the only thing that mattered was pushing his way out of the crowd and falling into a cab and kissing for all of four blocks until they were finally, finally in the hotel.
Up the long elevator ride and down the hall, laughing hysterically, until they fell into Viktor's room and Chris could finally, finally drop to his knees and peel Viktor out of his designer slacks.
"Christophe," Viktor moaned when Chris licked up the long column of his cock and swirled his tongue around the tip.
That was the world champion in Chris's mouth, and he was begging for it. Fuck yeah.
Next year, Chris promised himself. Next year, he'd be the champion, and it'd be Viktor Nikiforov on his knees.
-----
Next year, of course, Chris was not the champion. That year, he fell on an under-rotated quad Salchow and came in seventh.
That was the year that people started calling Viktor a legend. With three consecutive world championships, how could they not?
Viktor Nikiforov was a legend, and Christophe Giacometti was the fuckup who couldn't land a jump in competition that he'd been doing in practice for years.
The bruises were just beginning to show, stretching from his hip all the way to his knee, red and purple spreading across his skin like a rash. He deserved it. He deserved worse than a fucking bruise and seventh place.
"I want you to fuck me," he told Viktor, whispered it low into his ear in the locker room. "Hard. I want you to make it hurt."
And Viktor didn't say it wasn't that bad or the routine was great except or there will be other years. He didn't give that little half-smile that never caught his eyes. He laughed, sudden and bright, and asked, "Right now?" As he reached for his belt.
It might have been the only thing that could ease the sting of the loss.
"Tonight," Chris said. What the hell? It wasn't like he had to do an exhibition skate.
He was sore for nearly a week, including the fifteen-hour flight home. It hurt, but not as badly as seventh place.
-----
When Viktor won his fourth consecutive World Championship, Chris won the silver.
It was becoming clear that silver might be the best that Chris could do. Anyone, really.
Silver was the new Gold, when Viktor was in the competition.
On the podium, Viktor waved to his fans and smiled for the cameras, but it wasn't a real smile. Somehow, a world championship wasn't enough to make Viktor really happy this year, and Chris realized guiltily that he didn't know if it had been enough last year, either. Had Viktor smiled on the podium then? Chris had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to notice.
The reporters and fans and officials crowded around Viktor and they said all the usual things, all the predictable things. You're an inspiration, a legend. Record breaking season. Never in doubt.
When they were finally finished, Chris pulled Viktor out of the arena and into a cab. “We’re going clubbing,” he announced, but Viktor shook his head.
“No,” he said. “I'm tired of crowds, Chris.”
So he took Viktor back to the hotel instead, because it had become a tradition by now. They weren't dating, weren't boyfriends. After competitions, they stood on the podium together and then they fucked.
Viktor dropped his gold medal onto a table by the door and turned away. “Want me to go?” Chris asked.
Viktor just shook his head.
Chris looked at him for a long moment, at Viktor's silver hair and his straight spine and that beautiful body that so many people wanted, and he knew that Viktor had problems that couldn't be solved in one night.
But if there was one thing that Chris knew, it was how to distract from his problems.
Christophe Giacometti was a world class distraction.
He pulled Viktor into bed and stripped his clothes off slowly, scraping across the exposed skin with teeth and fingernails. He bit down on Viktor's thigh, leaving a bruise in the shape of his mouth. He pinned Viktor's arms to the headboard and stroked him slowly until he was shivering and pleading, until his eyes were heavy-lidded and black with lust, and then he rolled Viktor over and pushed inside, holding his hips tightly and fucking him so slow and deep that there would be no room for anything else.
Chris held him on the brink for as long as he could, pleading and babbling in Russian, sweat dripping down his spine and darkening his silver hair. When Viktor finally came, he shuddered with the force of it, shaking apart into a thousand pieces.
After, Viktor pressed his face into the pillow, and Chris looked up at the ceiling and pretended not to notice while tears leaked down Viktor's face and stained the sheets.
It hadn't been enough. It was never enough.
He looked at the gold medal by the door, and thought about the feel of silver around his own neck. Thought about the hours and weeks and months of training and practicing, of falling down and getting back up again.
He still wanted to skate and win, wanted to be the best. But he didn't want to take that gold for himself anymore.
-----
The fifth time Viktor won the World Championship, he held his medal up and pressed his lips to it, smiled for the cameras.
Chris stood beside him and listened to the Russian anthem playing, loud and a little scratchy over the arena sound system. He wondered what it would feel like to hear his own anthem played. He might never know.
Viktor shook off the reporters who asked him about next season, and when he turned to Chris it seemed more like habit than anything.
“Back to the hotel?” he asked, but his blue eyes were empty, his expression uncaring. “Want to go fuck?” He might as well have been asking for a cup of coffee.
Chris thought back to the Grand Prix Final, at the joy and laughter visible in Viktor's face that night. Seeing him so full of life and happiness had been a shock; Chris hadn't even known it was possible for Viktor Nikiforov to look so happy. He certainly didn't look happy now, or even a little aroused.
It turned out that Chris had been a pretty shitty friend, he thought.
“I don't think that's a good idea,” Chris said. It was time to break this habit. Time to find a different way to celebrate. “What do you want to do?”