.

.

Attempting to grow vegetables is proving tricky with Lucille.

The long-haired white cat jumps down, meowing up at Roger before lurching out of his reaches. Even if she knocked over another one of his clay pots, he doesn't want her cutting her paws on the broken shards.

Roger huffs out a sigh, grabbing a broom and dustpan. So much for homegrown basil or sage.

It's a tragedy.

"Another one," he announces, marching into the kitchen.

Christophe glances up silently but curiously from his mobile, at his boyfriend tossing the fresh damp soil and leafy basil greens into the nearly trash bin. The frustration permeating around him.

As if sensing her owner's attention elsewhere, Lucille rubs against Christophe's ankles under the table.

"Were you being naughty, mon petit chou?" Christophe asks in a low, sleepy voice. He peers down at her with a small, affectionate smile, and bends over to scratch one of her ears. "That's my job."

"She broke another pot," Roger points out with eyebrows furrowed, turning around. He pauses.

Christophe's standing on the other side of their kitchen island, his elbows resting on the speckled, glossy countertop. His hands cradled together. He's wearing only a rumpled, maroon-striped pair of boxers. His two-toned hair unstyled and frizzy, illuminating golden in the morning light, similar to how Christophe's skin does.

(Doesn't he have an interview in two hours?)

Roger's eyes wander to lips puckering slightly, the temple tips of Christophe's glasses lodging between them.

He clears his throat, Roger's chest feeling suddenly heated. "I need to make us a grocery list—what do you need?"

"Condoms." At the stern and unamused look, Christophe tilts his head, dropping his hand with his glasses and saying levelly, "Now, now, cher. There's no need for that. I'm simply telling you we're out."

"I meant food, Christophe. Food is what we need in the apartment. Anything else can come later."

Roger's teeth grit.

Damn it.

He walked right into that one.

When Christophe opens his mouth, with a familiarly devilish glint in his green eyes, Roger holds up his palm. "Please—don't make the sexual innuendo right now. I'm serious."

"You're always serious."

Christophe hums pleasantly, arching his back and wiggling his perfect, round bum. Roger is not watching him put himself on display.

Nope. He is not.

Because that's ridiculous—and what's more, Christophe has an interview to prepare for and hasn't showered, and Roger needs to get the damn groceries.

"That's why I love you so much… it's so easy to rile you up."

Roger chooses to stare down at his own mobile, effectively cutting off his view of his boyfriend and pulling up a notepad app to make his own list. "Rydych yn fygythiad," he mutters.

Christophe's laugh sounds soft and sweet.

"And I love your dirty talk," Christophe tells him, nearly purring, approaching and touching Roger's shoulder. When his warm, bare thumb brushes against the side of Roger's throat, the other man feels the heat returning to his chest, accompanied by a shiver. His pulse increasing. "Say it again."

"I called you a 'menace'—that's not a compliment, Christophe."

"You're a very strange Welshman, mon cher," Christophe proclaims in a whisper, sucking a light, nibbling kiss to where his thumb brushed. Roger groans out a protesting noise, leaning out until their mouths press.

There's a little taste of blueberry jam and honey, on the pillowy surface of Christophe's lips and the rim of his mouth. Roger melts against the kiss, licking inside slowly, his tongue pushing and sliding against Christophe's. He grips onto Christophe's fingers inching for his, their hands clasping loosely.

"Interview," Roger breathes out, eyelids fluttering open.

"Cock," is the grinning, teasing rebuttal from the other man. Roger's lips perk up into a smile.

"You never let me get anything done," he complains softly, nuzzling his forehead to Christophe's temple. Christophe laughs again, setting a scuff, beardy kiss to Roger's pale cheek.

"Is that why you choreographed a 'Mature Eros' program for me last year…?"

"Because you're a bygwth," Roger explains in absurd amount of patience, letting go. He glides his hands over the material of Christophe's boxers, gripping on that perfect ass. "And the entire world deserves to know it."

.

.


Yuri on Ice isn't mine. THIS IS PRE-KNOWLEDGE ABOUT MYSTERY GUY BEING POSSIBLY SWISS. Let me have fun. Also, he still has no name, and looked like a Roger to me. I'm a day late from posting on Christophe Giacometti's birthday but it is YOI Wednesday! Still counts! :) Any thoughts super appreciated!

Translations:

mon petit chou -"my little cabbage" (French)

cher - "dear" (French)

Rydych yn fygythiad - "You are a menace/threat" (Welsh)

bygwth - "menace/threat" (Welsh)