It was a Sunday, and Nijinsky had been on his feet all day, strolling. The day had sent him trailing from one museum to another and trying to keep track of these sculptors and painters that Diaghilev liked so much. It was a very French custom to be always strolling, but it didn't have much appeal, and people kept trying to chat with them even when he fell mute, and he felt cloddish. It was much better, a definite relief, to at last be back at their rooms.

(The fact that they slept in the same chambers was private, but that didn't mean it was much of a secret. Their first time together was not so long ago, and Vaslav remembered how he felt vividly-- at the time he had felt betrayed, abandoned by the Prince to this fearsome fate. But it became clear then, quickly, that his fate was not so fearsome at all, that these frightened chills quickly transmuted into excitement, and the first move was his. Sergei thinks of him very much as a boy; he does not know about the tarts Vaslav's been with, and good thing, too, and if he knows he does not give much credence to the corruptive love of corrupt women. Nijinsky was not merely a youth, but his youth, and with his opulence Diaghilev made him feel it. It is a rather fine hotel room.)

He weighed on him like a nightmare, like a vampire. Vaslav welcomed him down with kisses, laughing a little as he pulled at his overcoat with chilly fingers and loosened the knot in his own long scarf. Truth be told Vaslav was very tired, more than made sense, but the bed was also very soft. He stretched out on it with a languid and expansive yawn. For a moment Diaghilev pulled back to look at him amusedly, and a touch hungrily.

"You ought to get some rest. The air by the river isn't good for your constitution."

"But you said just the opposite when we went out this morning. I am a little weary--" But he wanted him to know that he is well, and vigorous, so he appends, "But it'll pass."

But he knew he was not about to be let alone. Diaghilev kissed him on the forehead like a proud father.

"I'll have something brought up for you, how does that please you?"

He gave him a meaningful look and leaned back, crossing his legs with one finely-turned ankle on his knee. "I do not wish to set one foot off this bed for the rest of the evening. You'll have to bring it to me personally."

Sergei took off his gloves and shoes. It's funny to see him in these moments, scowling like he does when he's thinking, though he raised an eyebrow when he saw him looking. He stroked the hem of his jacket lazily.

"Ah, so you're not entirely exhausted."

Vaslav shook his head mutely, a little embarrassed by his shamelessness, but with an impish smile.

The clothes Diaghilev bought him were very fine, but they ended up on the floor more often than not. Their coats made a heavy heap, and Vaslav's trousers didn't even make it off the bed. Even with their mutual experience there was a spot of grappling before a comfortable position could be found. Diaghilev caught both ends of the scarf in one hand to pull it to the side, and Vaslav arched against him, head thrown back. Sergei smiled and kissed his throat ferociously.

Sergei's hand guided his prick between Vaslav's broad white thighs, Greek-fashion. They were not boyish legs, they had proven very powerful and were sturdy as a young god's. Fittingly he was an active participant, and the day's aches washed away -- lying there like a lump of wood didn't interest him, and it was much more dignified doing this face to face. Vaslav was the one to spit and make things ready, and the steady pressure on his throat was foreign to him, though not distractingly so. He would be a very poor artist if discomfort kept him from doing what was asked of him. Diaghilev doesn't ladle him over with praise in bed as Lvov did, but hearing him express his enjoyment without words was thoroughly satisfying. It announced loudly just what a hold he had on him.

They were nearly at the end of this bout of fucking, when Sergei gave that damned scarf still looping over his shoulders a playful jerk and whispered in his ear if he would mind if he choked him a little? Vaslav made an indignant noise (admittedly more so because the man's cock was rubbing him raw, wasn't that penance enough?) and he specified that it will be lightly, as boys do when they play. This satisfies-- he didn't fight for breath, but held his, patiently like a swimmer, while the looped cloth begins to tighten. Sergei would never harm him, that knowledge is secure.
He could feel his own prick absolutely ache, and he worked at it with his own hand to little satisfaction before the slick friction on his thighs and balls made the growing sensitivity near-unbearable. His hips rose against each push. Every inch of his body was on fire with sensation, and it was both hotly pleasurable and frightening -- he could feel his pulse counting a beat in his ears and his throat and his groin, and his lips were parted even when he could not gasp. The edge was so near, he was ridden hard against it, but it fled away. A headache started somewhere behind his eyes, like a driven nail, and as pleasure swelled, so did the pain. He must have made a face (his eyes were shut, he preferred them to be) because Diaghilev stopped. He could feel his spilled seed painted on the inside of his legs. But still he was held close and held fast, feeling kisses on his throat.

It seemed like a very long time, counting the beats of his pulse in his belly and hearing the blood rush in his ears. For a while it was euphorically calm.

Panic began to seize at him, animal panic sunk in its claws. After one moment too long he began to struggle properly -- not the erotic paroxysms of pleasure but his limbs disobeying him. His hands ceased clutching Diaghilev's sides and begin seizing at the sheets from panic. The constriction ceased and loosed immediately -- with a muttered curse from Sergei. Through half-shut eyes Nijinsky saw unfamiliar alarm on his face and felt his own rise up to answer it like a spooked horse. The cloth slithered out from underneath his neck, his partner's bulk rolled off of him, all in an instant.

He gasped twice, lungs filling to bursting with the sweet air, and then began to cough. In his horribly vivid imagination he expected to see blood on his own hands (now on his throat, now on his face) but there was none, thank God; he felt dizzy and ill but the pleasure had not yet abated, and the mixture of sensations was disconcerting and drunken. The precipice was no longer so frighteningly near, and he could begin to breathe more normally, almost without pain, but it was almost a minute before he could speak again.

"Are you injured? My God--" Diaghilev sounded about ready to berate himself for such a foolish stunt, or Vaslav for agreeing to it. And so he was quick to respond, with ragged lips he realized he must have been biting in passion, and a dry mouth.

"That was-- that was-- yes," he said, his own voice sounding unfamiliar and hoarse, cut with strange elation. "I am well, don't worry about me."

"You'll have bruises. They'll think I throttled you after a quarrel, poor wretch."

"I'll put a damp cloth on it, some ice-- I'll wear a high collar." Vaslav laughed hoarsely, apologetically, and his hands fell to his sides. Sergei lay next to him with his hair disheveled, his small mustache prickling Vaslav's shoulder, and stroked him to soothe him, like a child apologizing to a beaten puppy.