Chapter Text
There are naked men everywhere. And Yuuri's face is burning. Normally, he would probably be hiding behind his hands from a sight like this.
But the complimentary "rose water" champagne provided by the bath house is bubbly and light, easy to consume, and Yuuri has already had six flutes. So he is starting to relax, at least a bit.
One of the naked men, attempting to coax Yuuri out of his towel and into a hot tub, is the legendary Russian ice dancer Viktor Nikiforov, who is also a little bit drunk.
"Do not be self-conscious, Yuuri," he purrs. "You are the most beautiful man in all of Rome."
Yuuri can't help but snort at that. Most of the men around them are stunning Italians, tan chiseled, with all their body hair waxed.
But still, Viktor's voice is sincere. He really means it, the poor blind old man.
And damn, Viktor looks very good, waist-deep in the tiled pool, with steam rising around him. All around them is a great, wide and high room, with Roman columns supporting several different levels; pools of hot and cool water on balconies, little waterfalls and gushing statues at different heights. There are some larger, more public pools, and some secluded, smaller ones, even with thin dividers for privacy. On a balcony above them, a group of Moroccan tourists are laid out for hot stone massages and seaweed wraps, slathered in oil.
Steam rises through the air, the scents of soft, clean towels, peppermint oil, champagne, and fresh, warm air wafting in from the windows high above. It's busy, and there are naked men everywhere, but it's not so packed to make it claustrophobic.
It's seems very much, to Yuuri, like the setting of a wet dream.
In fact, he is not 100% sure that he is not dreaming: is that gorgeous, graceful, grinning man in front of him really trying to coax him into a hot tub for a naked soak? And is that shooting star of a man really Yuuri's husband?
Yuuri gives in. How can he say no to that? He unwraps the towel from his waist and lays it to the side, and slides into the hot water.