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"You're too sharp, Chris." Victor reached over and plucked at the buttons on Christophe's shirt, not opening them, just teasing like he might. "You should be sweeter."

Christophe put down his glass of Riesling. It was too sharp, not him. They were on the bed in Christophe's hotel room, in Brussels, though the rattling aircon and scratchy white duvet could have been from almost anywhere. "You should buy better wine."

Victor undid the buttons on his own shirt, slowly, looking Christophe in the eye, like he was trying to make the mood intense and sexy. Like he hadn't just made Christophe manicure his nails.

"Don't try to dance for me again." Christophe frowned at the wine, then tossed the rest of it back and poured another glass. "The internet still isn't over the last time."

"Maybe if you hadn't put different music under it." Victor pouted as he pulled his shirt open. Not a sexy pout, Christophe was relieved to see, just the usual mostly but not quite entirely faux petulant pout Christophe had seen more times than he could recall.

"You love going viral." Christophe reached over to stroke Victor's belly but Victor rolled out of the way. "You know, you could be sweeter too."

"Don't be in such a hurry." Victor knelt up on the bed and this time he did undo a few of Christophe's buttons, less than Christophe wanted, though, and he kept his fingers away from Christophe's skin. "I brought something."

"I hope you remembered the charger this time." Christophe pulled his shirt open himself, though he didn't undo it any further. He wanted Victor to touch him now. To lean down and kiss him with that sweet mouth.

"Shut up. You're going to like this." Victor reached over beside the bed and held up nearly the last thing Christophe was expecting: a Toblerone.

"My God, Victor." Christophe grabbed for the bar, to throw it across the room, but Victor jerked it out of his grasping fingers. "I'm not a fucking Swiss stereotype!"

Victor grinned. "You are literally in all of their ads right now. Should I bring up their YouTube channel? The way you say Toblerone is obscene." He stretched out the word, deepening his voice, and hitting the "o" like it was, well, an "O".

Christophe cringed. "We've all done things we're not proud of. At least mine was for money." A lot of money. And attention. "Your taste in chocolate is as bad as your wine."

"I got it at the airport." Victor shrugged. "Just shut up and let's play."

Christophe sat back against the headboard and watched Victor tear the cardboard and foil, slow and finicky, giving Christophe the eye again, like opening a chocolate bar was the same as opening his shirt.

"Open your mouth." Victor snapped off a piece and held it out.

Christophe caught his wrist. "Milk chocolate makes my teeth hurt." He kissed Victor's fingers instead.

"Open." Victor straddled Christophe's lap and pulled his hand out of Christophe's grasp. That look was back on his face, too much eye contact, not enough smiling. "Chris."

Christophe opened and Victor slid the chocolate past his lips. Christophe let it melt on his tongue, too sweet, and a piece of nougat got lodged between his teeth. "Come on, Victor."

There was nobody more fun in bed than Victor, nobody that Chris had ever been with, but he wasn't anything other than fun. He didn't catch your eye across the room and eyefuck you until you had to drag him into the nearest semi-private space and have him up against the wall. He didn't burn you when he touched you. He didn't take up space after he was gone.

Victor shrugged his shirt down his shoulders and tossed it onto the floor instead of hanging it over a chair. He threw his head back so Christophe could see his long pale throat, that one spot Christophe liked to leave a mark, just faintly, while Victor laughed and only pretended to push him away.

"Come here," Christophe said and sat up, reaching out to wrap his arms around Victor and pull him down, roll him over, kiss the ticklish spot behind his ear.

Victor put his hand on Christophe's chest and pushed him back, harder than Christophe was expecting. "Let me do this," he said and he wasn't smiling.

Christophe looked back up at him, into those unsettling eyes. "Victor," he said. "Don't try to be something you're not."

And Victor's face changed again, still and quiet in a way Christophe had only ever seen a few times before. When a reporter had asked him about an unsavoury rumour about his family. When a frustrated skater had kicked the ice and gouged a deep hole during practice. And when someone had insulted Christophe in front of them both.

"You don't know what I am," Victor said. "Don't tell me what I am."

"I'm–" Chris started to say but he was caught like he'd never been by Victor, staring up at that angry face and feeling his whole body tense.

Victor pulled at Christophe's shirt, yanked like he thought the buttons would tear away. A few slipped free of the buttonholes and Victor just left the rest. He broke off another piece of chocolate and Christophe just watched him do it. Just felt Victor press it down on his chest, hard under Victor's palm, holding it there for what seemed like an age while it melted with their body heat.

Then Victor smeared it over Christophe's skin, into his chest hair, wiping his perfectly manicured fingers on Christophe's shirt and then across Christophe's face.

"Fuck you!" Christophe said but a charge ran through his body and he yanked Victor down and kissed him. Victor bit Christophe's mouth, not fun, not fun at all, and they grappled together, rolling on the bed and raking each other.

Christophe could hardly think beyond pulling off their clothes and tangling their limbs together. Beyond Victor's hands on his skin, teeth on his throat. The groan in his throat and the slap of their bodies as he fucked Victor's tight-pressed thighs. His fist on Victor's cock.

His mouth against Victor's ear, whispering the things he said to other men, about the way their bodies made him feel when he was in their beds. His body arching as he spasmed. Victor's breath stopping as he came, spattering both of them and the duvet cover too.

But when they had rolled apart, tacky with sweat and chocolate and semen, Christophe looked up at the ceiling and wondered what he'd done to tear the shiny foil off Victor and find this underneath.

"I'll leave you the other bottle," was all Victor said as he rolled out of bed and he went into the bathroom to dress. When he came back out, he wouldn't quite meet Christophe's eye.

Christophe got up to kiss him, to take one last sharp mouthful, but Victor backed away. "You're the one that made the mess," Christophe said.

Victor laughed, finally, but not like it was funny. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said and closed the door behind him.

When he tried to sleep, Christophe felt the empty space beside him.