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Yuuri is shitfaced. It's becoming something of a tradition, getting hammered after a Grand Prix Final. Last year, he'd blacked out horribly, so being unsteady on his feet is an improvement at least. He's not nearly as disappointed as he had been the year before. If anything, he's feeling celebratory between his own second place and Yuri Plisetsky’s win. He keeps congratulating Yurio, emptying his flute of champagne, and doing it over again.
And this time, Viktor is by his side just as giddy and celebratory, providing him with drink after drink after drink. Viktor drinks too, but despite all Russian stereotypes, he seems to keep his drinking in moderation. For every four drinks Yuuri finishes, Viktor finishes one. Viktor seems to be on his third, and Yuuri lost count somewhere around eight.
Yuuri knows he's thinking of last year, and how Yuuri had flung himself at him half-naked. He knows Viktor wants an encore, and that's why he's currently wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s waist as he presses a glass into his waiting hands.
Yuuri would be stupid to deny him.
“Viktorrrr,” He whines, turning so that he presses his front to Viktor’s side, wrapping his arms around Viktor's middle as well. Viktor hums in question, and Yuuri continues. “We should go back to the hotel soon.”
“Getting tired already?” He asks, and even drunk, Yuuri can tell he's hiding his disappointment.
Yuuri can't help but cheese about it a little. Nuzzling his face into the crook of Viktor's neck, he grins widely, shamelessly, and he wiggles his body excitedly, unable to help himself and his excited energy. At least this year he isn’t practically dry humping him in front of everyone. “I just wanna go back before I am.”
Viktor gets the message easily. Within minutes they’re Irish goodbying their way out of the banquet and into an Uber back to their hotel. It’s not exactly far, it’s easily walking distance, but Yuuri is just too unsteady and Viktor doesn’t seem to mind having a backseat to snuggle up to him in. Neither of them can seem to keep their hands to themselves; Viktor’s hands are dangerously high up the inside of his thighs, and Yuuri is all but trying to drag him into his lap if it weren’t for the seatbelts between them.
In a blur, they clamber out of the car and, stuck to each other as close as humanly possible without practically fusing into one body. In the privacy of the elevator, their lips find each other’s and it’s hard to tell who moved first. But by the time they get up to their floor, they’re wrapped up desperately in each other, tongues sloppily exploring each other’s mouths while their hands frantically try to cover as much area as possible. It’s with Viktor’s hands up the back of his shirt that they all but fall out of the elevator and stumble the last few feet to their room.
Viktor fumbles with their keycard until they can successfully push the door open. The second they’re in their room, Yuuri wastes no time in pushing Viktor to the bed. He wants him so badly it hurts. The day’s events left them with so little time together, just them. Usually after competition they could finish their interviews and go spend the rest of their afternoons as they wished. But with the banquet and the extensive press covered beforehand, it was impossible to get any of that time together.
Yuuri has all day of restraining himself to make up for. Viktor is grinning widely as Yuuri clambers up onto the bed to straddle Viktor, watching hungrily as Yuuri begins to unbutton himself out of his stuffy, formal shirt. Viktor doesn’t bother to try to strip himself, but his hands do find Yuuri’s waist and his hips grind up against Yuuri’s own. He can feel it through his slacks, pressing insistently the layers of their clothing. Yuuri doesn’t hold back the pleased moan as he presses his down to meet him, grinding against each other.
“Viktorrr…” He slips his shirt off, tossing it somewhere to the side. He can find it in the morning and piss himself off when he’s hungover and trying to pack his things away.
Viktor’s hands slide up his bare skin, making him shiver. “Yuuri, c’mon, just let me touch you,” he coaxes, one hand sliding down between his legs, fingers tracing lightly over the bulge in his own pants. He pops the button on Yuuri’s slacks without waiting for an answer, fingers deftly working to pull Yuuri’s cock out of his pants.
Yuuri moans again, looking down between them at Viktor’s own hard-on. “You too, Viktor…” He whines a little as Viktor spits in his hand, before he begins to stroke him up and down, twisting his wrist with each stroke.
“After. You first for once today.” He flashes Yuuri a cheeky grin and licks his lips as his hand picks up speed, earning a soft whine from him. Yuuri loves this side of Viktor, shamelessly focused on Yuuri’s pleasure, feeding off of it as much as his own pleasure. Yuuri, hazily, realizes it won’t take long to finish. Both of them can tell, really, Viktor letting him finish first is just inevitable, no matter how they move next.
Viktor doesn’t even try to drag it out, his hand picking up speed as Yuuri reacts with louder and more desperate whining.
“C’mon, Yuuri. You think you could go another round after this, yeah?” Yuuri’s cock twitches, leaks precum over Viktor’s fingers. Another round. Yuuri’s imagination is extraordinarily helpful in giving him reasons to finish sooner, before Viktor grows too impatient himself. In his mind he sees flashes of fantasies, memories, all centered around letting Viktor come apart under Yuuri.
Viktor’s thumb swipes up to toy at the slit, and Yuuri can’t even try to hold back anymore. He keens, loudly and no doubt audible to their poor neighbors, as he shoots over Viktor’s waiting hand and onto Viktor’s body beneath him.
Viktor’s hand doesn’t stop immediately, and only when Yuuri makes a pathetic whining sound does he let go of Yuuri’s cock. Still, the hungry look in his eyes doesn’t even begin to dissipate. While Yuuri pants and struggles to catch his breath, Viktor begins to unbutton his pants.
“My turn!”