The water is running…

My mouth tastes like sandpaper and ass, and my eyes taste like sandpaper and ass.

Wait, no, not that.

I sit up and my spine lets out a crack too loud to be anything but a future problem and the sound actually makes my head throb in pain. That combined with the sudden lurch the world has made at the movement makes me collapse back onto the bed. Which, no matter how soft the bed is, was a bad move. I tilt my head to the side and throw up onto the bed a little. Hungover and still a little drunk, I inch my body away from that and decide to take in my surroundings.

But what can I say? It's a hotel room made up of the standard set of beige to brown colors. I can note that it's nicer than any of the others I've been to, but that wouldn't be saying much. The counter tops do look like actual marble, and the knocked over Keurig and smashed open packets of sugar and sweetener look expensive. The carpet is short, dark brown and probably the reason my knees are covered in burns. Very high class.

The alarm clock is nice and reads 1:03 pm. The sign of a solid binge.

Now, this might be the point where you believe I'll wonder, "What happened last night?!". Well, I'm not. This happens quite a bit actually. Hangover, mystery hotel, no pants, we've all been there and done that. Nothing special about this, I might not even extend the additional energy to recall what happened. I'm perfectly content to just roll over and go back to sleep, yup, not even-

Nipple ring's new. Nipple ring might be worth remembering.

I roll onto my back and take the weight off my poor left nipple. I'm going to need some ibuprofen for this one. And some gin.

I don't think...there are words...for how badly I've messed this one up. Fuckton, maybe?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not great. This isn't totally out of character, but this is a little much even for me. For Pete's sake, one guy got a sprained ankle in the middle of his program and he didn't fall as much as I did!

I considered seriously leaving the ice no more than three times (no less either though) and I burst into tears the second the music stopped. Not good, tears. I remember barking furiously at anyone that tried to tell me what my score was and shrieking very quietly in the bathroom.

I also vaguely remember some party, something fizzy and something hard between my legs. The banquet… And music.

From then on it gets a bit more blurry.

The Grand Prix Finals this year were held in Russia. One would assume that being native to Japan and a complete foreigner to Russia would mean I'd be a bit more hesitant to go out into the night alone. That I probably managed to find one bar and stuck with it throughout the night before getting lost in the big city of Moscow and having to get a new hotel room for the night. I'd love for that to be the story but I know drunk me better than to assume some chicken shit like that.

Drunk me is a slow-witted fox, a swift, bumbling moron that gets into hard to get into situations and then is obviously unable to leave. Not without some damage. I absently touch my nipple ring at the thought.

So, it's definitely not out of question to assume I got around last night. Snippets of drunken memories flash before me. A shiny polished floor, dull pavement, confetti, a chandelier, a disco ball, a...stuffed moose.

A perfect bob, a rainbow wig, a magnificent afro. A dollar, a quid, a looney, some yen, all in my hand. No rubles though.

I clear my throat, pat my stomach and rub my head.

The liquor. Oh god, the liquor.

Now, I don't mean to brag, but I'm quite the experienced drunkard and by now I know what I like. Which is anything and everything in a specific order.

I start off with something sweet usually, several flutes of champagne come to mind. I like to establish a light buzz, just enough to get me all warm and fuzzy, and then (and this is very important) drink a shit ton more. I mean just...wreck it. Wreck yourself. At this point I'm wrecked and so is my ability to retain memory, so whatever I drink next I could honestly care less about. On most days I don't remember what comes next so it doesn't matter.

However, this time I do and it's a lot of vodka. It's not my preferred poison by any means, but for some reason I was definitely downing a bottle last night and feeling a chill.

Other than that I definitely ended the night on a sweet note. I always end the night on a sweet note, drunk me's a sucker for this little tradition. I now curl my toes around a can at the foot of the bed. From experience I know it's margherita in a can, and the horrible yet distinctive taste in my mouth tells me it was strawberry. Interesting.

Even more interesting is that this hotel has run out of water.

Or perhaps more plausibly, that was the shower and someone's just coming out.

I'm back up and out of the bed before you can say bad idea, ready to- oh god how did I not feel that twinge in my asshole before?! This has never happened before, I never wake up with somebody! I never take anyone to bed! Nobody likes Drunk Yuuri! And they SHOULDN'T! The guy's annoying at best and bad in bed at worst! His sexual habits are equal to that of an overexcited puppy!

Unwillingly, another memory comes to mind. A dark alleyway, complete with the smell of rotting garbage hitting me in the face. Lovely. There's a warm figure squished between my legs and face is smashed into a chest. Amused and stuttered Russian is muttered in my ear and I probably respond in what I think is Russian but was definitely just accented gibberish. My face heats up when I remember hunching over, just humping and jerking like I was in heat, not caring if I got them off in the slightest, made contact or spilled in my pants.

I yank on my jeans and yeah, I spilled in my pants.

I'd pull a face but it's kind of nice to know that this crusty mess happened because of another person for once. It's usually just me and the alley and I wake up with a bruised dick.

The only question remaining is, who is this? I narrow my eyes at the door and stop my struggle to put my clothes on, it's hopeless when I can't find my shirt anyway. I've only been known to go after men and drunk me has only been known to go after hard, particularly bruising, corners and walls. This is totally out of place for him and I'm a little worried about what the stumbling moron may have found now. Vodka's a funny thing, right?

I shift again and the twinge in my backside worsens. So, not a girl then. I settle in a little deeper into the pillows and glare at the door. The news doesn't do anything to quell my suspicions, because normally I'd never talk to a stranger. I can't flirt with a boy I don't know so I'll give drunk Yuuri the benefit of the doubt and say that he's the same. Now, were they with me when the night began? I might've been more manageable early on, and I'd say they were there since the beginning because I do have some recollection of a body. Since the banquet then, maybe?

Something hard between my legs… a man? But what man would've-

I pause and don't breathe. Swearing lightly, I let my still pounding head bounce against the wall. A man, no. A pole, yes.

I totally pole danced last night.

This is okay, this is familiar as well. I like to keep my core tight and drunk me likes to show off. Well, I like to show off. We like to show off. Still, pole dancing in front of all my fellow skaters and their coaches is new and low even for me. It's little to no comfort that Christophe Giacometti joined in, I mean he'll do anything, even a drunk, stupid and- okay, so, wait a minute.

Christophe Giacometti has been named 'Skating's Hottest Figure' 5 years in a row. He's bedded approximately two thirds of the senior skaters, and I've heard he's on the regular with his coach too. He's an incorrigible flirt, will show his ass to anyone and is told to be the very definition of insatiable. Christophe Giacometti is a sex legend.

His boyfriend however, is a legend for a different reason altogether. Mainly tracking down and beating up all of Christophe's conquests. And fast.

My gaze flickers from the bathroom door to the hotel door. Oh boy. I switch to the window.

Well, I'm definitely never showing my face on the ice again, why not break my legs?

Before I have the chance to even move from the bed, the bathroom door swings open. Not-Christophe walks in, pausing when he sees me like he expects me to be gone and I definitely should be. One silver eyebrow raises and his lips turn down at the corners and thin. Viktor looks very disappointed to see me, and who wouldn't be (an abrasive laugh escapes from my throat). I'm not sure what to do about it though. I'd totally leave, but I kinda want an autograph? I mean, this can't get any worse, right? He flicks his bangs out of his eye and tightens the towel previously slung low on his hips. He rubs a nipple ring on his right side before speaking.

"You don't have breakfast." Odd, that.

"No I guess not."

There's a little bit of a wait then. Somebody has to say something.

I clear my throat and scoot back to the headboard, "Hey, so like, do you want my number?"

Viktor snorts.