Fic: Five Times Patrick Chan Talked to Brian Joubert and One Time Brian Said Something Back (NC-17)
Title: Five Times Patrick Chan Talked to Brian Joubert and One Time Brian Said Something Back
Fandom: Figure Skating RPF
Pairing: Brian Joubert/Patrick Chan
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~6300
Disclaimer: So very, very fictional.
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: In which Brian and Patrick move from conflict to détente to desire, and end up with something even better than that.
Notes: Written for rinfics as part of the holiday_on_ice 2010 fic exchange. I am incredibly grateful to my wonderful betas, greenlily and nova33, for their fantastic help and much-needed encouragement. For a brief primer and timeline of the interactions between Brian and Patrick, please go here. Feedback and constructive criticism is, as always, cherished.
1. 2008 Trophée Eric Bompard, after the men's free skate
Brian Joubert -- reigning European Champion, six-time French National Champion, 2007 World Champion, and, painfully, still only a one-time winner of the Trophée Eric Bompard -- just barely restrained himself from throwing his skates against the wall. Instead, he slid off the bench with a thump and buried his head in his hands, laces still tangled in his fingers. He had unzipped his costume as soon as the locker room door closed; now it bunched around his waist in white and black folds of cloth, as useless as he felt.
Alban had taken one look at him and seemed to understand that Brian was not in a talking mood -- he had simply clapped Brian on the shoulder with his left hand and held out his right for Brian to shake, then grabbed his stuff and left, leaving Brian alone. Brian had shaken his hand, of course, had even managed a tight smile. He liked Alban. He didn't begrudge Alban the bronze, and hell, at least there was a Frenchman on the podium at home. But he just couldn't deal with anyone right then.
Brian could hear himself breathing -- short, harsh gasps that sounded ridiculous to his own ears -- and he could swear that every single bruise on his body was throbbing with pain. He forced himself to take one long, deep breath, then let it out twice as slow. Did it again. Placed his hand on the bench and hauled himself up to lean against the bank of lockers.
"Brian!" a voice from the doorway exclaimed entirely too cheerfully. Then, less cheerfully, "Are you okay? I mean, uh, comment ça va?
Chan, of course. Of course it was Chan. Brian straightened up with a vengeance, ignoring his protesting muscles in order to stand upright as fast as he could. He glared down his nose at the bastard who'd gotten his gold medal, the one that had been his to defend before that fucking bout of influenza had forced him to withdraw last year. And this year... Brian felt his hands clench into fists, wholly without his permission. Chan, catching a glimpse of Brian's expression, took a step back.
"Um. I'll just, uh," Chan gestured feebly at the door, "go, then?" And stumbled back out, his eyes not leaving Brian's until the very last second.
Brian watched the door swing shut. Very slowly, he unclenched his fists.
2. 2009 World Figure Skating Championships, before the men's short program
Patrick Chan, two-time Canadian National Champion and twice winner of the Trophee Eric Bompard, hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. Admittedly, it had never been easy to get enough sleep while preparing for the most important international competition of the year. Heck, he didn't sleep well during skating season at all. He always crashed hard in the off season, sleeping twelve hours a night for the first month, thrilled to only be training maybe four hours a day instead of eight or more. But he wasn't there yet, not nearly. He was facing down Worlds and he was darn well going to place better than ninth this year.
Still, it wasn't just the skate that was worrying him. That afternoon, he'd gotten an email from Jeff:
Patrick, honey, you know that Brian's actually a decent guy, right? He mouths off sometimes, but so does everyone. It didn't bother me and it probably shouldn't bother you, either. There's no reason to antagonize him and call him names. Focus, man!!!
Good luck tomorrow. Knock 'em dead! :-)
Jeff.
This only confirmed what Patrick had already been thinking. Maybe, just maybe, he'd gone somewhat... overboard when defending Jeff's quad-less Worlds win from last year. Jeff had had a phenomenal skate! Two phenomenal skates! It still pissed him off a little whenever he thought about Brian's perpetual insistence that quads should be what make champions. Skating should be what makes champions! Patrick nodded to himself. Still, maybe he shouldn't be stirring stuff up right now. He resolved to stop thinking about it, at least until after Worlds.
But when he walked into the hotel restaurant the next morning, there was Brian, sitting at the end of one of the long banquet tables, head down, earphones in, hair a mess, eating quickly. There were only a few other people in the room. Both Patrick and Brian were scheduled to skate pretty late in the day, and Brian had apparently decided something similar to Patrick's train of thought: better to go to breakfast after the crowds had already been and gone, and hopefully carve out a bit of quiet time to concentrate and not have to interact with too many people while doing it.
It was really unfair that sleep-tousled hair looked totally planned and picture-perfect on Brian. If Patrick didn't exert considerable effort every single day trying to convince his hair to follow reasonable instructions, it tended to stick up in stupid directions and make him look about twelve years old. Patrick was not exactly in favor of looking twelve, however happy he'd been at that age.
Patrick startled when someone jostled his arm while trying to slip past him; he hadn't realized until then that he'd been standing in the doorway, letting his thoughts drift. Maybe it would be better to talk to Brian now, so they could both just focus on skating this afternoon. Patrick watched Brian eat for a few more seconds. His stomach growled. Okay, food first. That way he could take some time to think about what to say, figure out a game plan.
But after filling his plate at the buffet (carefully, so that his meal would be balanced just right for skating later), his feet took him right over to Brian's table. He knew he should probably be grateful to them for not having tripped over anything yet today, but he hadn't had time to work out a strategy yet! When Brian glanced up and his face kind of cemented into this blank mask of politeness, Patrick decided that a good skate today was the only thing that would make him forgive them for deciding on such actions without him. His stomach growled again, like it was assuring him that this mess wasn't its fault.
"Um." Auspicious start, Patrick, way to go. "I..." He cleared his throat. Apparently he looked suitably pathetic or penitent or polite or whatever, because something in Brian's face shifted and his eyes warmed up a tiny amount.
Patrick dropped his gaze so that he was looking at the table instead of at Brian, and put his free hand on the back of the chair in front of him, to steady himself. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all of those things to the press, even if I did think them, which I still do in a way but not the same way I said it, I mean, uh, I do think that you shouldn't have said that stuff about Jeff and that you care about the quad too much, but I don't actually think you're a sore loser or whatever, just. I was upset last year when you said it, and then when the guy asked about it, it all came back, and I didn't stop to think that maybe you were upset when you said those things. So, uh, yeah. Maybe we could just agree to disagree about the quad? And I'll think before a speak, at least a little more, at least if they ask me about other skaters?" Patrick looked back up at Brian.
Brian was smiling at him. Really, truly, smiling at him -- forehead smoothed out, deep dimple in place on his left cheek, eyes shining and amused -- and Patrick felt a rush of relief at the sight.
Brian gestured rather grandly to the chair across from him, palm up and open.
Patrick put his plate down on the table, and sat.
3. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, after the men's short program
Another year, another Worlds, another press conference. Brian had never liked these things. When he'd first started competing, he'd been too shy to enjoy them, and now that he was older, well, he was simply too jaded.
At least his short program had gone well; he had spent so much time after the Olympics trying to convince himself that he could still skate, that he could still be a competitor, but in the end, the only way to know for sure was to compete. The mere fact that he had to try to believe had felt like defeat, but it was different now. Well, at least a little different. If he couldn't pull it off tomorrow, too, then he was still a failure. Washed up, too old, past his prime. Really, no matter how he did tomorrow, he was still past his prime. He would be twenty-nine years old during the next Winter Olympics, practically ancient for men's singles. The Olympics hated him, anyway. They hated him at twenty-five, they hated him at twenty-one, and they were sure as hell going to hate him at twenty-nine, whether he competed or not. Or maybe it was just that he would hate them.
Bah, he needed to stop thinking about this. He tried to focus on how much fun Rise had been today, how loudly the audience had clapped and cheered, how good he'd felt and how happy Laurent, his coach, had been.
He answered a couple of questions about today and his training since the Olympics. Patrick fielded the same questions, which wasn't too surprising, considering that neither of them had fulfilled their potential there.
Daisuke was asked different questions, and after giving the first answer in English, he switched to Japanese. His translator seemed to be pretty good, and Daisuke was as much of a perfectionist as ever. Brian hoped he'd do the quad flip tomorrow, that would be something to see!
Then one of the reporters asked Brian the inevitable quad-related question, but he was framing it strangely, and his accent was just odd enough to throw Brian off. What in the world was he asking? Maybe Patrick could--
Brian glanced down the table at Patrick, who immediately leaned into the mic, then seemed to realize that the mic wasn't going to help him with this and shifted to face Brian instead. Daisuke's translator sat back in her chair, and Brian put his arms on the table for support as he angled forward around Daisuke so that he could watch Patrick translate the question into French. Patrick's accent was... decent. A bit delicate and precise, but easy to understand. When he heard the question, he had to laugh -- of course, of course Patrick had ended up translating a question that referred to himself. Everyone else laughed, too; Daisuke and his translator seemed especially delighted.
As Brian did his best to answer, he could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was unusual for a press conference to be so amusing! Not entirely unprecedented -- Tomáš was usually good for a laugh or two, for example, but then Brian had always gotten along well with Tomáš -- yet not at all the norm. Patrick might be young and awkward and tactless (all things Brian himself had been at various points in his career, come to think of it, and might still be, really), but at least he had a sense of humor.
They finished up the press conference (Why did reporters constantly ask questions they ought to already know the answer to? It was a mystery.), and Brian stood up quickly, ready to be somewhere that involved fewer people staring at him. Not that he minded people staring at him, exactly. Just, he preferred to be on the ice, wearing skates, music playing, steps and jumps and spins to concentrate on. He would rather skate than talk, any day.
But out in the hallway, Patrick turned back to look at him, and Brian found himself holding out a hand for him to shake. Impulsively, he leaned in and gave Patrick a half-hug as well, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Patrick smelled good, like soap and shampoo and mellow aftershave. Brian smiled at him, and smiled even broader when Patrick grinned back, looking relieved.
"Listen," Patrick said, "do you want to get a drink or something sometime? Not tonight, obviously, and I don't know about you but I'm probably gonna be exhausted tomorrow, but maybe the next day? After the free dance?" He looked anxious, though his tone was hopeful, and Brian abruptly realized that yes, yes he did want to, even though he probably shouldn't.
He wavered, knowing for certain that there were political reasons not to go, but he was having a hard time thinking of any right then.
All of a sudden, Daisuke appeared at his elbow, telling Patrick, "He wants to go." Daisuke glanced at Brian, then back at Patrick. "He will go." He nodded firmly. Then he smiled sunnily at both of them and darted off to catch up with his translator. Brian stared after him. What the hell? He was right, but seriously, what was that?
When Brian turned back to Patrick, Patrick was beaming at him. "Okay, so I'll see you then!" he said. "Awesome." And he, too, darted away.
Laurent came up to him. "What was that?"
Brian shrugged. He couldn't stop smiling. "I don't know. I think it's good, though."
4. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, after the free dance
Patrick wasn't quite certain how he'd ended up in this situation. Heck, he wasn't even sure if he was gay! Girls were pretty! Girls were nice! Girls twined their arms around your neck when you kissed them, and twined their legs around your waist when you made love to them, and afterwards fell asleep on your chest and somehow still smelled amazing in the morning. And he always kind of wanted to touch Yuna whenever she was around -- to brush her cheek with his hand, thread his fingers through hers, put his arm around her waist and bury his face in her hair.
But if he were being honest with himself -- and backed up against the door with Brian Joubert's teeth scraping against his earlobe seemed like a good time to be honest with himself -- there were guys he wanted to do that with, too. After all, you probably couldn't call yourself a Canadian figure skater, male or female, without at least a bit of a crush on Jeff Buttle. And Plushenko was a jerk, sure, and not even that conventionally handsome, but that one time he'd smiled at Patrick, it had felt like a kick in the gut... in a good way, if such a thing were possible. And oh, Stéphane Lambiel was just beautiful.
... Okay, so maybe he'd known for a while now that he wasn't exactly straight, anyway. But it was something he sort of didn't usually bother to think about. Too distracting. Still, if there were some kind of sexuality checklist, for the "are you attracted to..." question, Patrick would need the kind of checkboxes where they let you pick more than one answer.
But Brian, Brian was in a different category altogether. He was, in a word, hot. Not that other people weren't hot, but... on the ice, Brian wasn't the most artistic skater, or the most complex or the most precise, but something about him made you look. At least, if you were Patrick. It was really quite annoying sometimes. And it was weird, he was totally capable of being nice, but sometimes he just... wasn't.
But it seemed like he was trying to be nicer this year. Not this part, presumably this was more than just an attempt to be nice -- at least Patrick hoped so, because Brian's thigh pinning him to the wall definitely felt more than nice -- but his whole attitude seemed more live and let live. So grabbing a drink together had seemed like a sensible, friendly thing to do, no big deal.
It was possible that it was actually a big deal. A huge deal, even.
Brian was tugging on the short hair at the nape of Patrick's neck while kissing him steadily and almost sweetly, if sweet could be dirty at the same time. At this point, Patrick was pretty sure that it could. He kissed Brian back, one hand on his chest, twisting up a handful of soft black shirt to keep him close. Patrick could feel himself flush warm all over -- he was pretty sure the thing pressing into his hip was Brian's growing hard-on -- and he felt Brian smile against his lips.
Brian pulled back from the kiss, just a few inches, and Patrick knew, he knew that Brian could see how thoroughly floored Patrick was -- eyes closed, mouth open, blushing hot and short of breath. Patrick felt more than heard Brian make a low, satisfied sound, and let Brian tip his chin up and to one side, then run his fingertips lightly from his ear to his collar bone.
When Brian leaned down and licked Patrick's collar bone right where his fingers had left Patrick's skin, Patrick gulped in a huge breath of air and then tried to hold himself perfectly still, hoping hoping hoping that Brian would do it again. Brian did, and Patrick let himself shudder a little with want. Brian trailed kisses up Patrick's neck, his hand curling back around to cradle the back of Patrick's head in his palm. He nipped lightly at the little dip right under Patrick's earlobe, then bit down and sucked, hard, and Patrick heard himself groan "Fuuuuuuuuu--" until he ran out of breath. Brian let go and laved his tongue against what had to be a bruise, while Patrick kind of collapsed against the wall, the only things holding him up Brian's thigh between his legs and Brian's hands on his body, thumb rubbing circles into Patrick's hip.
Patrick opened his eyes to see Brian smiling down at him, looking a little amused and a lot turned on. Pulling Brian closer, Patrick opened himself up for a kiss.
They kissed for a long while, pressed up against the door, Patrick gradually becoming comfortable enough to let his hands go wherever they wanted to, which mostly seemed to involve slipping down the back of Brian's sweatpants and gripping the hard curve of his ass as they ground their hips together. At which point Brian moaned into his mouth and Patrick abruptly wanted to be less vertical really, really, really badly.
"You know, there's a bed over there," Patrick said. "I could, I mean, you could, you know. You could maybe, um. Fuck me?"
Patrick felt pretty gratified at the way Brian's eyes glazed over, and promptly took advantage of Brian's temporary distraction, snaking out from between him and the wall and starting toward the bed, stripping off his t-shirt in one relatively smooth motion as he went (the point where his shirt got stuck on his elbow and he had to adjust the angle didn't count, okay). He glanced back at Brian, who was still looking a little shell-shocked, though he had turned to follow Patrick's progress across the room.
"C'mon," said Patrick, smiling nervously. He pushed his pants and briefs off his hips (taking care not to snag anything on his cock, as he was sure it would be less forgiving than his elbow), then stepped out of them and sat down on the edge of the bed, completely, totally, 100% naked. He tried to sound calmer than he was. "I haven't done this before, you know. I mean, with girls, yeah, but, not--" Brian kissed him. Patrick wasn't sure how he'd gotten across the room so fast, but there he was, standing in front of Patrick and bending down for the kiss. Then he straightened back up, divested himself of all of his clothes with admirable efficiency, and yanked Patrick up off the bed to kiss him again.
Patrick and his dick were both very, very pleased by this development, and rubbed against Brian's bare skin with abandon. Brian moaned again, then both of his hands found Patrick's ass, and Patrick felt himself being manhandled into the center of the bed. Patrick blinked up at Brian a couple of times, then scrambled to turn over onto his hands and knees. He heard a drawer open and close, then the sound of something being set down on the nightstand.
Patrick had to bite back a gasp at the first touch of Brian's hand on his shoulder. The hand trailed down his arm and then pushed gently at his elbow until Patrick bent his arms and was supporting himself with his elbows instead of with his wrists, his ass high in the air. The hand then brushed down his spine, lingering a little on his lower back. Brian's other hand took Patrick's right hand, pulling it toward Patrick's dick. He nudged at Patrick's fingers, making him circle the base of his own cock. It felt almost painfully good, so good that Patrick couldn't keep himself from sliding his hand up and down a couple of times, and he would have kept going if Brian hadn't put his hand on his arm to stop him. Patrick manage to still his hand, but it was an uphill battle, and he ended up muttering "fuck fuck fuck" over and over under his breath as he concentrated on not moving.
Brian kissed his shoulder, then the middle of his back, then the exact point where his spine ended and his ass began. He smoothed his hand over the same territory, all the way down Patrick's back, once, twice, three times. He kissed Patrick's hip. Then there were a few muffled sounds, a pause, and a slick finger lightly rubbing over Patrick's entrance. Patrick just barely avoided biting his tongue in shock -- sometimes no matter how much you know something's coming, no matter how many times you've imagined it, you just can't truly fathom it until it happens.
"God. That's, fuck, that's. Wow." Patrick decided that forming complete sentences was overrated, anyway, and gave himself over to the feeling of Brian sliding a finger inside him.
"That feels really weird," said Patrick, and Brian immediately paused. "No, no, keep going, I, it's good, it's just weird, too." That seemed enough to get Brian moving again, but even more carefully. After a long while, he slipped another finger in, and there was stretching and scissoring and-- "Fuck," said Patrick. Brian had -- oh God, there it was again, oh, holy fuck -- twisted his fingers inside him, and his knuckles had swept across something, and fuck that felt amazing. Patrick was pretty sure he was babbling a steady stream of "Holy shit, that feels amazing, fuck fuck fuck, holy fucking shit, please" and various other configurations of those words, but he wasn't really keeping track of what the rest of his body was doing anymore, he was just using every ounce of his strength to stay up on his knees so he could keep feeling like this.
He heard himself say, "Seriously, Brian, please, just," and then the fingers were gone, and Patrick couldn't breathe, Patrick could only tremble and pant and wait, and listen to the promising rustling noises that sounded a lot like a condom wrapper and revel in the heat that came off of Brian's body in waves, even when they weren't actually touching. Patrick's hand was still wrapped around his dick, but at this point he wasn't even tempted to move, because if he was sure that if he so much as shifted an inch, he would come right then. He was determined to hold out at least a little bit longer, no matter what his dick thought it wanted.
One of Brian's hands settled on Patrick's hip, gentle and comforting. Patrick heard Brian take a deep breath, and then the tip of his cock was pressing against Patrick, pressing in, so slow it felt like the two of them had been suspended in time, reached that moment in midair during a jump where all the motions took on a life of their own and it really was like flying, and stayed there. Patrick let out the breath he had apparently been holding and his brain fuzzed out a little, like it had needed that oxygen. Brian was all the way inside him, and it felt like nothing else in the whole entire world.
"Fuck, Brian, fuck. This is. You. You can move, you know, it's. Yeahhhhhhhhhh..." Patrick trailed off into a long, low moan as Brian slowly, slowly drew himself out and immediately sunk back in, and did it again, and again, and again. With each thrust, the angle varied just a touch, until finally Brian looped his arm under Patrick's chest and pulled him nearly vertical, so that he was basically sitting on Brian's lap as Brian thrust up into him.
Patrick found himself half-shouting, half-whispering, in a rough, strangled voice, "Oh God, oh God, oh God, yes, there, yes, please, yes, yes, that's fucking perfect, yes yes yes yesssssssssssssss..." He felt Brian smile against the nape of his neck, and the hand that wasn't spread across Patrick's chest for support reached down and tugged Patrick's hand off his dick. Brian replaced Patrick's hand with his own and Patrick nearly blacked out, it felt so fucking good.
Patrick heard his own voice spike into something like a whine and a sob and a "Please, please, please" all wrapped up together, saw sparks across the inside of his eyelids and felt them running through his veins, and utterly lost it, coming all over himself, Brian's hand, the bedsheets, everywhere.
By the time he was able to start thinking semi-clearly again, the rhythm of Brian's hips had started to stutter, and Patrick clutched at the arm across his chest and ground down into Brian's lap as best he could.
"Brian," Patrick murmured. "Brian, you're amazing. You're amazing and I wanna feel you come. Please, Brian, please." And Patrick twisted around just enough to breathe the last "please" into his ear.
Brian shook apart so quietly, Patrick wasn't certain that he was coming until he lost his balance and both of them tipped forward, Patrick's face mashed into one of the fluffy hotel pillows, hips still moving wildly until they tapered to a stop.
Eventually, after a long moment of stillness and silence, Brian gingerly pulled out, rolled off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. Patrick stayed where he was, smushed face and all, too relaxed to move and fully intent on memorizing this exact feeling, just in case.
Patrick could feel the seismic activity of the mattress as Brian climbed back onto the bed and settled in. He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he pushed himself up with his arms he saw Brian holding out a towel. Patrick flipped himself over onto his back, then took the towel. It was damp on one end and dry on the other, pretty much perfect for cleanup.
"Thanks," Patrick said to Brian, but Brian had lain back on the bed and closed his eyes, and looked for all the world like he was already asleep. Patrick shrugged to himself and set about wiping himself off. He also made a couple of half-hearted swipes at the sheets, but they were quite obviously a lost cause.
He looked at Brian. Brian, who looked almost angelic with his eyes closed and his face content. Did angels have freckles? "Um," Patrick said. Brian's lashes might have fluttered a little, but otherwise there was no response. "I guess, uh, I guess I should go, then? You look like you're asleep, or maybe you are asleep, but it doesn't matter because I'm tired, too, and--" Patrick trailed off as Brian's hand reached out for Patrick's wrist. Though his eyes were still closed, the corners of Brian's mouth were crooked up, and he tugged Patrick closer and closer until they were laying side by side. Within the next few minutes, they were both asleep.
5. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, the day after the free dance
Brian woke to the sound of faint, snuffling snores in his right ear and a warm weight on his arm where it was stretched across the bed. He frowned. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, then turned his head to the right. He closed his eyes against the sudden tidal wave of memories from the night before, sparked by the sight of Patrick Chan asleep on the pillow next to his, curled on his side, looking impossibly young and peaceful. He let his thoughts linger on the scene of Patrick falling apart in his arms, babbling curse words in a tone halfway between a shout and a sob. He felt his cock stir at the thought, but mostly, he thought about how Patrick had looked in that moment, how open, how truthful. Shit, he was so screwed. With his free hand, he pulled the comforter up over his head. Shit shit SHIT. He breathed in and out for a minute, as slow and quiet as he could. Then he very, very carefully started to pull his arm out from underneath Patrick's head.
Just as carefully, he eased his left foot out from under the comforter. He lowered it to the ground, gently, silently. He untangled his right leg while trying to move his hip as little as possible, then inched it over towards the left edge of the bed until he finally absolutely had to move his hips. He placed a hand on top of the blankets as he did so, held his breath, slipped all the way out of bed and ended up half-crouched but with his feet on the ground and one hand still on the bed, slightly lightheaded from the blood rushing around his body but otherwise intact and capable of movement.
He spread his toes out on the cheap hotel carpet, willing them to funnel stability up from the ground and through all the steel and concrete and plaster, and straightened up his spine. There were a couple of small creaks, but nothing major. Brian rolled his shoulders, tipped his head back and forth, made sure all systems were go. He picked up his t-shirt and sweatpants from yesterday and pulled them on quickly, then proceeded over to his suitcase with as light a step as he could muster. He dug around inside it for some practice clothes, plus jeans and a black t-shirt and some clean underwear and socks. He knelt down next to his duffle in order to pack the clothes in, then winced -- there was really no way to unzip something quietly. He tried anyway, closing his eyes in order to concentrate on the feel of each centimetre of tiny teeth giving way.
Patrick's breathing pattern changed. His legs shifted, and there was a soft sound from the bed that was something much like a sigh, but not quite. Brian kept unzipping; it seemed like the buzz and pop of the zipper was getting louder even as he slowed down. He could hear the rustle of sheets sliding against each other on the bed above him, then one heavy creak of the springs. When he finally finished unzipping, he looked back at the bed to find Patrick flopped down on his stomach, watching Brian sleepily.
Brian let himself smile the smallest smile he could manage at Patrick (which was not a small as he wanted it to be, but he had only so much control over the muscles in his face, something that had always frustrated him). He turned back to the duffle and tipped his chin down a little -- if he lost it and started beaming foolishly into his duffle bag, well, it wasn't going to tell anyone. Even in cartoons, bags never formed mouths and obnoxious personalities to tattle on people. So probably he was safe.
"Where're you going?" Patrick asked, then answered himself a second later, "Oh right, you said you had ice time this morning. Cool." He scooted around on the bed so that his head was on a pillow near the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes drifted closed.
Brian tucked the clothes he was carrying into the duffle, then checked through it for the essentials -- skates, check; towels, check; water bottles, check, but two of them were empty. Brian snagged those and went to the bathroom sink to fill them up.
The sound of the water running seemed to capture Patrick's attention again, because when Brian walked back into the main room, Patrick piped up with, "Do you think you're going to go watch the ladies' free skate today? I was planning to go to the later half at least, so I can make it for Cynthia and Yuna. I'm really hoping Yuna can recover from yesterday and skate her best this evening..." Patrick continued to ramble about the ladies' programs and who had been doing what and who he thought was going to win and why. Brian kept packing for practice.
After everything else was in, Brian tossed his wallet on top, then zipped up the duffle. Patrick was still yammering on about Yuna's jump technique, arm propped behind his head, eyes closed as he talked. Brian shoved his feet into his sneakers, then crept over to stand at the side of the bed, right next to Patrick's head. He waited for Patrick to notice.
"Brian?" Patrick interrupted his own monologue about Yuna's music, and blinked open his eyes. Brian smiled at him, exactly the smile his heart was feeling, and Patrick smiled brilliantly back. Patrick opened his mouth as if about to say something, but before he could, Brian held out his hand, catching Patrick's jaw in his palm to tip his chin up, and kissed him.
Brian kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and he didn't want to stop, but he had to. He pulled away after a few seconds, rubbed his thumb over Patrick's lower lip. He kissed him one last time, lips just barely brushing over Patrick's.
Then he went to practice, smiling the whole way there.
He hadn't really been planning on watching the ladies' free that day, but maybe, just maybe, he would.
1. Summer 2010
Patrick felt strangely wired as he stumbled off the plane -- excited, yes, and super caffeinated, but also groggy from dozing on and off during the flight, and sort of nebulously anxious for no clear reason. His hands and feet didn't quite seem like his own, and he could feel his hair doing something insane. He'd tried to fix it purely by touch during the last few minutes of the flight, but he's pretty sure that had only made it worse, plus he'd managed to accidentally smear some of the hair texture cream stuff on the back of the seat in front of his. Oops.
But he was here! All in one piece, even. He had a carry-on suitcase with absolutely no skating gear inside, a backpack with his laptop in it, a phone that worked on all four major global frequency bands, and a whole week free before his next training session.
He walked quickly to the passport checkpoint, stood in one of the lines, fumbled with his papers as the woman behind the desk smiled at him. Customs went about the same, except the guy behind that desk maintained an expression of complete boredom the entire time. As he followed the crowd down a short hallway and through the turnstiles to the baggage claim (not that he had baggage, or well, at least not that kind of baggage, but it seemed like the place to go), he pulled out his cell phone and punched in speed dial #3.
As it rang tinnily in his ear, he heard a different phone start to play a cheery, beeping version of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" over his shoulder. Patrick froze, and just barely managed to avoid crashing right into a trash bin that loomed up out of nowhere. Then he slowly turned around. Brian was standing maybe eight metres away, smiling straight at him as he flipped open his phone and held it up to his ear.
"Brian?" Patrick said, voice wavering just a little. "Brian, je suis ici, je suis arrivé à Paris."
Brian strode towards him, still smiling, and said into the phone, "Bienvenue à France."
Fandom: Figure Skating RPF
Pairing: Brian Joubert/Patrick Chan
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~6300
Disclaimer: So very, very fictional.
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: In which Brian and Patrick move from conflict to détente to desire, and end up with something even better than that.
Notes: Written for rinfics as part of the holiday_on_ice 2010 fic exchange. I am incredibly grateful to my wonderful betas, greenlily and nova33, for their fantastic help and much-needed encouragement. For a brief primer and timeline of the interactions between Brian and Patrick, please go here. Feedback and constructive criticism is, as always, cherished.
1. 2008 Trophée Eric Bompard, after the men's free skate
Brian Joubert -- reigning European Champion, six-time French National Champion, 2007 World Champion, and, painfully, still only a one-time winner of the Trophée Eric Bompard -- just barely restrained himself from throwing his skates against the wall. Instead, he slid off the bench with a thump and buried his head in his hands, laces still tangled in his fingers. He had unzipped his costume as soon as the locker room door closed; now it bunched around his waist in white and black folds of cloth, as useless as he felt.
Alban had taken one look at him and seemed to understand that Brian was not in a talking mood -- he had simply clapped Brian on the shoulder with his left hand and held out his right for Brian to shake, then grabbed his stuff and left, leaving Brian alone. Brian had shaken his hand, of course, had even managed a tight smile. He liked Alban. He didn't begrudge Alban the bronze, and hell, at least there was a Frenchman on the podium at home. But he just couldn't deal with anyone right then.
Brian could hear himself breathing -- short, harsh gasps that sounded ridiculous to his own ears -- and he could swear that every single bruise on his body was throbbing with pain. He forced himself to take one long, deep breath, then let it out twice as slow. Did it again. Placed his hand on the bench and hauled himself up to lean against the bank of lockers.
"Brian!" a voice from the doorway exclaimed entirely too cheerfully. Then, less cheerfully, "Are you okay? I mean, uh, comment ça va?
Chan, of course. Of course it was Chan. Brian straightened up with a vengeance, ignoring his protesting muscles in order to stand upright as fast as he could. He glared down his nose at the bastard who'd gotten his gold medal, the one that had been his to defend before that fucking bout of influenza had forced him to withdraw last year. And this year... Brian felt his hands clench into fists, wholly without his permission. Chan, catching a glimpse of Brian's expression, took a step back.
"Um. I'll just, uh," Chan gestured feebly at the door, "go, then?" And stumbled back out, his eyes not leaving Brian's until the very last second.
Brian watched the door swing shut. Very slowly, he unclenched his fists.
2. 2009 World Figure Skating Championships, before the men's short program
Patrick Chan, two-time Canadian National Champion and twice winner of the Trophee Eric Bompard, hadn't had a good night's sleep in weeks. Admittedly, it had never been easy to get enough sleep while preparing for the most important international competition of the year. Heck, he didn't sleep well during skating season at all. He always crashed hard in the off season, sleeping twelve hours a night for the first month, thrilled to only be training maybe four hours a day instead of eight or more. But he wasn't there yet, not nearly. He was facing down Worlds and he was darn well going to place better than ninth this year.
Still, it wasn't just the skate that was worrying him. That afternoon, he'd gotten an email from Jeff:
Patrick, honey, you know that Brian's actually a decent guy, right? He mouths off sometimes, but so does everyone. It didn't bother me and it probably shouldn't bother you, either. There's no reason to antagonize him and call him names. Focus, man!!!
Good luck tomorrow. Knock 'em dead! :-)
Jeff.
This only confirmed what Patrick had already been thinking. Maybe, just maybe, he'd gone somewhat... overboard when defending Jeff's quad-less Worlds win from last year. Jeff had had a phenomenal skate! Two phenomenal skates! It still pissed him off a little whenever he thought about Brian's perpetual insistence that quads should be what make champions. Skating should be what makes champions! Patrick nodded to himself. Still, maybe he shouldn't be stirring stuff up right now. He resolved to stop thinking about it, at least until after Worlds.
But when he walked into the hotel restaurant the next morning, there was Brian, sitting at the end of one of the long banquet tables, head down, earphones in, hair a mess, eating quickly. There were only a few other people in the room. Both Patrick and Brian were scheduled to skate pretty late in the day, and Brian had apparently decided something similar to Patrick's train of thought: better to go to breakfast after the crowds had already been and gone, and hopefully carve out a bit of quiet time to concentrate and not have to interact with too many people while doing it.
It was really unfair that sleep-tousled hair looked totally planned and picture-perfect on Brian. If Patrick didn't exert considerable effort every single day trying to convince his hair to follow reasonable instructions, it tended to stick up in stupid directions and make him look about twelve years old. Patrick was not exactly in favor of looking twelve, however happy he'd been at that age.
Patrick startled when someone jostled his arm while trying to slip past him; he hadn't realized until then that he'd been standing in the doorway, letting his thoughts drift. Maybe it would be better to talk to Brian now, so they could both just focus on skating this afternoon. Patrick watched Brian eat for a few more seconds. His stomach growled. Okay, food first. That way he could take some time to think about what to say, figure out a game plan.
But after filling his plate at the buffet (carefully, so that his meal would be balanced just right for skating later), his feet took him right over to Brian's table. He knew he should probably be grateful to them for not having tripped over anything yet today, but he hadn't had time to work out a strategy yet! When Brian glanced up and his face kind of cemented into this blank mask of politeness, Patrick decided that a good skate today was the only thing that would make him forgive them for deciding on such actions without him. His stomach growled again, like it was assuring him that this mess wasn't its fault.
"Um." Auspicious start, Patrick, way to go. "I..." He cleared his throat. Apparently he looked suitably pathetic or penitent or polite or whatever, because something in Brian's face shifted and his eyes warmed up a tiny amount.
Patrick dropped his gaze so that he was looking at the table instead of at Brian, and put his free hand on the back of the chair in front of him, to steady himself. "I just wanted to say that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said all of those things to the press, even if I did think them, which I still do in a way but not the same way I said it, I mean, uh, I do think that you shouldn't have said that stuff about Jeff and that you care about the quad too much, but I don't actually think you're a sore loser or whatever, just. I was upset last year when you said it, and then when the guy asked about it, it all came back, and I didn't stop to think that maybe you were upset when you said those things. So, uh, yeah. Maybe we could just agree to disagree about the quad? And I'll think before a speak, at least a little more, at least if they ask me about other skaters?" Patrick looked back up at Brian.
Brian was smiling at him. Really, truly, smiling at him -- forehead smoothed out, deep dimple in place on his left cheek, eyes shining and amused -- and Patrick felt a rush of relief at the sight.
Brian gestured rather grandly to the chair across from him, palm up and open.
Patrick put his plate down on the table, and sat.
3. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, after the men's short program
Another year, another Worlds, another press conference. Brian had never liked these things. When he'd first started competing, he'd been too shy to enjoy them, and now that he was older, well, he was simply too jaded.
At least his short program had gone well; he had spent so much time after the Olympics trying to convince himself that he could still skate, that he could still be a competitor, but in the end, the only way to know for sure was to compete. The mere fact that he had to try to believe had felt like defeat, but it was different now. Well, at least a little different. If he couldn't pull it off tomorrow, too, then he was still a failure. Washed up, too old, past his prime. Really, no matter how he did tomorrow, he was still past his prime. He would be twenty-nine years old during the next Winter Olympics, practically ancient for men's singles. The Olympics hated him, anyway. They hated him at twenty-five, they hated him at twenty-one, and they were sure as hell going to hate him at twenty-nine, whether he competed or not. Or maybe it was just that he would hate them.
Bah, he needed to stop thinking about this. He tried to focus on how much fun Rise had been today, how loudly the audience had clapped and cheered, how good he'd felt and how happy Laurent, his coach, had been.
He answered a couple of questions about today and his training since the Olympics. Patrick fielded the same questions, which wasn't too surprising, considering that neither of them had fulfilled their potential there.
Daisuke was asked different questions, and after giving the first answer in English, he switched to Japanese. His translator seemed to be pretty good, and Daisuke was as much of a perfectionist as ever. Brian hoped he'd do the quad flip tomorrow, that would be something to see!
Then one of the reporters asked Brian the inevitable quad-related question, but he was framing it strangely, and his accent was just odd enough to throw Brian off. What in the world was he asking? Maybe Patrick could--
Brian glanced down the table at Patrick, who immediately leaned into the mic, then seemed to realize that the mic wasn't going to help him with this and shifted to face Brian instead. Daisuke's translator sat back in her chair, and Brian put his arms on the table for support as he angled forward around Daisuke so that he could watch Patrick translate the question into French. Patrick's accent was... decent. A bit delicate and precise, but easy to understand. When he heard the question, he had to laugh -- of course, of course Patrick had ended up translating a question that referred to himself. Everyone else laughed, too; Daisuke and his translator seemed especially delighted.
As Brian did his best to answer, he could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was unusual for a press conference to be so amusing! Not entirely unprecedented -- Tomáš was usually good for a laugh or two, for example, but then Brian had always gotten along well with Tomáš -- yet not at all the norm. Patrick might be young and awkward and tactless (all things Brian himself had been at various points in his career, come to think of it, and might still be, really), but at least he had a sense of humor.
They finished up the press conference (Why did reporters constantly ask questions they ought to already know the answer to? It was a mystery.), and Brian stood up quickly, ready to be somewhere that involved fewer people staring at him. Not that he minded people staring at him, exactly. Just, he preferred to be on the ice, wearing skates, music playing, steps and jumps and spins to concentrate on. He would rather skate than talk, any day.
But out in the hallway, Patrick turned back to look at him, and Brian found himself holding out a hand for him to shake. Impulsively, he leaned in and gave Patrick a half-hug as well, slinging an arm around his shoulder. Patrick smelled good, like soap and shampoo and mellow aftershave. Brian smiled at him, and smiled even broader when Patrick grinned back, looking relieved.
"Listen," Patrick said, "do you want to get a drink or something sometime? Not tonight, obviously, and I don't know about you but I'm probably gonna be exhausted tomorrow, but maybe the next day? After the free dance?" He looked anxious, though his tone was hopeful, and Brian abruptly realized that yes, yes he did want to, even though he probably shouldn't.
He wavered, knowing for certain that there were political reasons not to go, but he was having a hard time thinking of any right then.
All of a sudden, Daisuke appeared at his elbow, telling Patrick, "He wants to go." Daisuke glanced at Brian, then back at Patrick. "He will go." He nodded firmly. Then he smiled sunnily at both of them and darted off to catch up with his translator. Brian stared after him. What the hell? He was right, but seriously, what was that?
When Brian turned back to Patrick, Patrick was beaming at him. "Okay, so I'll see you then!" he said. "Awesome." And he, too, darted away.
Laurent came up to him. "What was that?"
Brian shrugged. He couldn't stop smiling. "I don't know. I think it's good, though."
4. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, after the free dance
Patrick wasn't quite certain how he'd ended up in this situation. Heck, he wasn't even sure if he was gay! Girls were pretty! Girls were nice! Girls twined their arms around your neck when you kissed them, and twined their legs around your waist when you made love to them, and afterwards fell asleep on your chest and somehow still smelled amazing in the morning. And he always kind of wanted to touch Yuna whenever she was around -- to brush her cheek with his hand, thread his fingers through hers, put his arm around her waist and bury his face in her hair.
But if he were being honest with himself -- and backed up against the door with Brian Joubert's teeth scraping against his earlobe seemed like a good time to be honest with himself -- there were guys he wanted to do that with, too. After all, you probably couldn't call yourself a Canadian figure skater, male or female, without at least a bit of a crush on Jeff Buttle. And Plushenko was a jerk, sure, and not even that conventionally handsome, but that one time he'd smiled at Patrick, it had felt like a kick in the gut... in a good way, if such a thing were possible. And oh, Stéphane Lambiel was just beautiful.
... Okay, so maybe he'd known for a while now that he wasn't exactly straight, anyway. But it was something he sort of didn't usually bother to think about. Too distracting. Still, if there were some kind of sexuality checklist, for the "are you attracted to..." question, Patrick would need the kind of checkboxes where they let you pick more than one answer.
But Brian, Brian was in a different category altogether. He was, in a word, hot. Not that other people weren't hot, but... on the ice, Brian wasn't the most artistic skater, or the most complex or the most precise, but something about him made you look. At least, if you were Patrick. It was really quite annoying sometimes. And it was weird, he was totally capable of being nice, but sometimes he just... wasn't.
But it seemed like he was trying to be nicer this year. Not this part, presumably this was more than just an attempt to be nice -- at least Patrick hoped so, because Brian's thigh pinning him to the wall definitely felt more than nice -- but his whole attitude seemed more live and let live. So grabbing a drink together had seemed like a sensible, friendly thing to do, no big deal.
It was possible that it was actually a big deal. A huge deal, even.
Brian was tugging on the short hair at the nape of Patrick's neck while kissing him steadily and almost sweetly, if sweet could be dirty at the same time. At this point, Patrick was pretty sure that it could. He kissed Brian back, one hand on his chest, twisting up a handful of soft black shirt to keep him close. Patrick could feel himself flush warm all over -- he was pretty sure the thing pressing into his hip was Brian's growing hard-on -- and he felt Brian smile against his lips.
Brian pulled back from the kiss, just a few inches, and Patrick knew, he knew that Brian could see how thoroughly floored Patrick was -- eyes closed, mouth open, blushing hot and short of breath. Patrick felt more than heard Brian make a low, satisfied sound, and let Brian tip his chin up and to one side, then run his fingertips lightly from his ear to his collar bone.
When Brian leaned down and licked Patrick's collar bone right where his fingers had left Patrick's skin, Patrick gulped in a huge breath of air and then tried to hold himself perfectly still, hoping hoping hoping that Brian would do it again. Brian did, and Patrick let himself shudder a little with want. Brian trailed kisses up Patrick's neck, his hand curling back around to cradle the back of Patrick's head in his palm. He nipped lightly at the little dip right under Patrick's earlobe, then bit down and sucked, hard, and Patrick heard himself groan "Fuuuuuuuuu--" until he ran out of breath. Brian let go and laved his tongue against what had to be a bruise, while Patrick kind of collapsed against the wall, the only things holding him up Brian's thigh between his legs and Brian's hands on his body, thumb rubbing circles into Patrick's hip.
Patrick opened his eyes to see Brian smiling down at him, looking a little amused and a lot turned on. Pulling Brian closer, Patrick opened himself up for a kiss.
They kissed for a long while, pressed up against the door, Patrick gradually becoming comfortable enough to let his hands go wherever they wanted to, which mostly seemed to involve slipping down the back of Brian's sweatpants and gripping the hard curve of his ass as they ground their hips together. At which point Brian moaned into his mouth and Patrick abruptly wanted to be less vertical really, really, really badly.
"You know, there's a bed over there," Patrick said. "I could, I mean, you could, you know. You could maybe, um. Fuck me?"
Patrick felt pretty gratified at the way Brian's eyes glazed over, and promptly took advantage of Brian's temporary distraction, snaking out from between him and the wall and starting toward the bed, stripping off his t-shirt in one relatively smooth motion as he went (the point where his shirt got stuck on his elbow and he had to adjust the angle didn't count, okay). He glanced back at Brian, who was still looking a little shell-shocked, though he had turned to follow Patrick's progress across the room.
"C'mon," said Patrick, smiling nervously. He pushed his pants and briefs off his hips (taking care not to snag anything on his cock, as he was sure it would be less forgiving than his elbow), then stepped out of them and sat down on the edge of the bed, completely, totally, 100% naked. He tried to sound calmer than he was. "I haven't done this before, you know. I mean, with girls, yeah, but, not--" Brian kissed him. Patrick wasn't sure how he'd gotten across the room so fast, but there he was, standing in front of Patrick and bending down for the kiss. Then he straightened back up, divested himself of all of his clothes with admirable efficiency, and yanked Patrick up off the bed to kiss him again.
Patrick and his dick were both very, very pleased by this development, and rubbed against Brian's bare skin with abandon. Brian moaned again, then both of his hands found Patrick's ass, and Patrick felt himself being manhandled into the center of the bed. Patrick blinked up at Brian a couple of times, then scrambled to turn over onto his hands and knees. He heard a drawer open and close, then the sound of something being set down on the nightstand.
Patrick had to bite back a gasp at the first touch of Brian's hand on his shoulder. The hand trailed down his arm and then pushed gently at his elbow until Patrick bent his arms and was supporting himself with his elbows instead of with his wrists, his ass high in the air. The hand then brushed down his spine, lingering a little on his lower back. Brian's other hand took Patrick's right hand, pulling it toward Patrick's dick. He nudged at Patrick's fingers, making him circle the base of his own cock. It felt almost painfully good, so good that Patrick couldn't keep himself from sliding his hand up and down a couple of times, and he would have kept going if Brian hadn't put his hand on his arm to stop him. Patrick manage to still his hand, but it was an uphill battle, and he ended up muttering "fuck fuck fuck" over and over under his breath as he concentrated on not moving.
Brian kissed his shoulder, then the middle of his back, then the exact point where his spine ended and his ass began. He smoothed his hand over the same territory, all the way down Patrick's back, once, twice, three times. He kissed Patrick's hip. Then there were a few muffled sounds, a pause, and a slick finger lightly rubbing over Patrick's entrance. Patrick just barely avoided biting his tongue in shock -- sometimes no matter how much you know something's coming, no matter how many times you've imagined it, you just can't truly fathom it until it happens.
"God. That's, fuck, that's. Wow." Patrick decided that forming complete sentences was overrated, anyway, and gave himself over to the feeling of Brian sliding a finger inside him.
"That feels really weird," said Patrick, and Brian immediately paused. "No, no, keep going, I, it's good, it's just weird, too." That seemed enough to get Brian moving again, but even more carefully. After a long while, he slipped another finger in, and there was stretching and scissoring and-- "Fuck," said Patrick. Brian had -- oh God, there it was again, oh, holy fuck -- twisted his fingers inside him, and his knuckles had swept across something, and fuck that felt amazing. Patrick was pretty sure he was babbling a steady stream of "Holy shit, that feels amazing, fuck fuck fuck, holy fucking shit, please" and various other configurations of those words, but he wasn't really keeping track of what the rest of his body was doing anymore, he was just using every ounce of his strength to stay up on his knees so he could keep feeling like this.
He heard himself say, "Seriously, Brian, please, just," and then the fingers were gone, and Patrick couldn't breathe, Patrick could only tremble and pant and wait, and listen to the promising rustling noises that sounded a lot like a condom wrapper and revel in the heat that came off of Brian's body in waves, even when they weren't actually touching. Patrick's hand was still wrapped around his dick, but at this point he wasn't even tempted to move, because if he was sure that if he so much as shifted an inch, he would come right then. He was determined to hold out at least a little bit longer, no matter what his dick thought it wanted.
One of Brian's hands settled on Patrick's hip, gentle and comforting. Patrick heard Brian take a deep breath, and then the tip of his cock was pressing against Patrick, pressing in, so slow it felt like the two of them had been suspended in time, reached that moment in midair during a jump where all the motions took on a life of their own and it really was like flying, and stayed there. Patrick let out the breath he had apparently been holding and his brain fuzzed out a little, like it had needed that oxygen. Brian was all the way inside him, and it felt like nothing else in the whole entire world.
"Fuck, Brian, fuck. This is. You. You can move, you know, it's. Yeahhhhhhhhhh..." Patrick trailed off into a long, low moan as Brian slowly, slowly drew himself out and immediately sunk back in, and did it again, and again, and again. With each thrust, the angle varied just a touch, until finally Brian looped his arm under Patrick's chest and pulled him nearly vertical, so that he was basically sitting on Brian's lap as Brian thrust up into him.
Patrick found himself half-shouting, half-whispering, in a rough, strangled voice, "Oh God, oh God, oh God, yes, there, yes, please, yes, yes, that's fucking perfect, yes yes yes yesssssssssssssss..." He felt Brian smile against the nape of his neck, and the hand that wasn't spread across Patrick's chest for support reached down and tugged Patrick's hand off his dick. Brian replaced Patrick's hand with his own and Patrick nearly blacked out, it felt so fucking good.
Patrick heard his own voice spike into something like a whine and a sob and a "Please, please, please" all wrapped up together, saw sparks across the inside of his eyelids and felt them running through his veins, and utterly lost it, coming all over himself, Brian's hand, the bedsheets, everywhere.
By the time he was able to start thinking semi-clearly again, the rhythm of Brian's hips had started to stutter, and Patrick clutched at the arm across his chest and ground down into Brian's lap as best he could.
"Brian," Patrick murmured. "Brian, you're amazing. You're amazing and I wanna feel you come. Please, Brian, please." And Patrick twisted around just enough to breathe the last "please" into his ear.
Brian shook apart so quietly, Patrick wasn't certain that he was coming until he lost his balance and both of them tipped forward, Patrick's face mashed into one of the fluffy hotel pillows, hips still moving wildly until they tapered to a stop.
Eventually, after a long moment of stillness and silence, Brian gingerly pulled out, rolled off the bed, and headed for the bathroom. Patrick stayed where he was, smushed face and all, too relaxed to move and fully intent on memorizing this exact feeling, just in case.
Patrick could feel the seismic activity of the mattress as Brian climbed back onto the bed and settled in. He felt a tap on his shoulder. When he pushed himself up with his arms he saw Brian holding out a towel. Patrick flipped himself over onto his back, then took the towel. It was damp on one end and dry on the other, pretty much perfect for cleanup.
"Thanks," Patrick said to Brian, but Brian had lain back on the bed and closed his eyes, and looked for all the world like he was already asleep. Patrick shrugged to himself and set about wiping himself off. He also made a couple of half-hearted swipes at the sheets, but they were quite obviously a lost cause.
He looked at Brian. Brian, who looked almost angelic with his eyes closed and his face content. Did angels have freckles? "Um," Patrick said. Brian's lashes might have fluttered a little, but otherwise there was no response. "I guess, uh, I guess I should go, then? You look like you're asleep, or maybe you are asleep, but it doesn't matter because I'm tired, too, and--" Patrick trailed off as Brian's hand reached out for Patrick's wrist. Though his eyes were still closed, the corners of Brian's mouth were crooked up, and he tugged Patrick closer and closer until they were laying side by side. Within the next few minutes, they were both asleep.
5. 2010 World Figure Skating Championships, the day after the free dance
Brian woke to the sound of faint, snuffling snores in his right ear and a warm weight on his arm where it was stretched across the bed. He frowned. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, then turned his head to the right. He closed his eyes against the sudden tidal wave of memories from the night before, sparked by the sight of Patrick Chan asleep on the pillow next to his, curled on his side, looking impossibly young and peaceful. He let his thoughts linger on the scene of Patrick falling apart in his arms, babbling curse words in a tone halfway between a shout and a sob. He felt his cock stir at the thought, but mostly, he thought about how Patrick had looked in that moment, how open, how truthful. Shit, he was so screwed. With his free hand, he pulled the comforter up over his head. Shit shit SHIT. He breathed in and out for a minute, as slow and quiet as he could. Then he very, very carefully started to pull his arm out from underneath Patrick's head.
Just as carefully, he eased his left foot out from under the comforter. He lowered it to the ground, gently, silently. He untangled his right leg while trying to move his hip as little as possible, then inched it over towards the left edge of the bed until he finally absolutely had to move his hips. He placed a hand on top of the blankets as he did so, held his breath, slipped all the way out of bed and ended up half-crouched but with his feet on the ground and one hand still on the bed, slightly lightheaded from the blood rushing around his body but otherwise intact and capable of movement.
He spread his toes out on the cheap hotel carpet, willing them to funnel stability up from the ground and through all the steel and concrete and plaster, and straightened up his spine. There were a couple of small creaks, but nothing major. Brian rolled his shoulders, tipped his head back and forth, made sure all systems were go. He picked up his t-shirt and sweatpants from yesterday and pulled them on quickly, then proceeded over to his suitcase with as light a step as he could muster. He dug around inside it for some practice clothes, plus jeans and a black t-shirt and some clean underwear and socks. He knelt down next to his duffle in order to pack the clothes in, then winced -- there was really no way to unzip something quietly. He tried anyway, closing his eyes in order to concentrate on the feel of each centimetre of tiny teeth giving way.
Patrick's breathing pattern changed. His legs shifted, and there was a soft sound from the bed that was something much like a sigh, but not quite. Brian kept unzipping; it seemed like the buzz and pop of the zipper was getting louder even as he slowed down. He could hear the rustle of sheets sliding against each other on the bed above him, then one heavy creak of the springs. When he finally finished unzipping, he looked back at the bed to find Patrick flopped down on his stomach, watching Brian sleepily.
Brian let himself smile the smallest smile he could manage at Patrick (which was not a small as he wanted it to be, but he had only so much control over the muscles in his face, something that had always frustrated him). He turned back to the duffle and tipped his chin down a little -- if he lost it and started beaming foolishly into his duffle bag, well, it wasn't going to tell anyone. Even in cartoons, bags never formed mouths and obnoxious personalities to tattle on people. So probably he was safe.
"Where're you going?" Patrick asked, then answered himself a second later, "Oh right, you said you had ice time this morning. Cool." He scooted around on the bed so that his head was on a pillow near the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him. His eyes drifted closed.
Brian tucked the clothes he was carrying into the duffle, then checked through it for the essentials -- skates, check; towels, check; water bottles, check, but two of them were empty. Brian snagged those and went to the bathroom sink to fill them up.
The sound of the water running seemed to capture Patrick's attention again, because when Brian walked back into the main room, Patrick piped up with, "Do you think you're going to go watch the ladies' free skate today? I was planning to go to the later half at least, so I can make it for Cynthia and Yuna. I'm really hoping Yuna can recover from yesterday and skate her best this evening..." Patrick continued to ramble about the ladies' programs and who had been doing what and who he thought was going to win and why. Brian kept packing for practice.
After everything else was in, Brian tossed his wallet on top, then zipped up the duffle. Patrick was still yammering on about Yuna's jump technique, arm propped behind his head, eyes closed as he talked. Brian shoved his feet into his sneakers, then crept over to stand at the side of the bed, right next to Patrick's head. He waited for Patrick to notice.
"Brian?" Patrick interrupted his own monologue about Yuna's music, and blinked open his eyes. Brian smiled at him, exactly the smile his heart was feeling, and Patrick smiled brilliantly back. Patrick opened his mouth as if about to say something, but before he could, Brian held out his hand, catching Patrick's jaw in his palm to tip his chin up, and kissed him.
Brian kissed him and kissed him and kissed him, and he didn't want to stop, but he had to. He pulled away after a few seconds, rubbed his thumb over Patrick's lower lip. He kissed him one last time, lips just barely brushing over Patrick's.
Then he went to practice, smiling the whole way there.
He hadn't really been planning on watching the ladies' free that day, but maybe, just maybe, he would.
1. Summer 2010
Patrick felt strangely wired as he stumbled off the plane -- excited, yes, and super caffeinated, but also groggy from dozing on and off during the flight, and sort of nebulously anxious for no clear reason. His hands and feet didn't quite seem like his own, and he could feel his hair doing something insane. He'd tried to fix it purely by touch during the last few minutes of the flight, but he's pretty sure that had only made it worse, plus he'd managed to accidentally smear some of the hair texture cream stuff on the back of the seat in front of his. Oops.
But he was here! All in one piece, even. He had a carry-on suitcase with absolutely no skating gear inside, a backpack with his laptop in it, a phone that worked on all four major global frequency bands, and a whole week free before his next training session.
He walked quickly to the passport checkpoint, stood in one of the lines, fumbled with his papers as the woman behind the desk smiled at him. Customs went about the same, except the guy behind that desk maintained an expression of complete boredom the entire time. As he followed the crowd down a short hallway and through the turnstiles to the baggage claim (not that he had baggage, or well, at least not that kind of baggage, but it seemed like the place to go), he pulled out his cell phone and punched in speed dial #3.
As it rang tinnily in his ear, he heard a different phone start to play a cheery, beeping version of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" over his shoulder. Patrick froze, and just barely managed to avoid crashing right into a trash bin that loomed up out of nowhere. Then he slowly turned around. Brian was standing maybe eight metres away, smiling straight at him as he flipped open his phone and held it up to his ear.
"Brian?" Patrick said, voice wavering just a little. "Brian, je suis ici, je suis arrivé à Paris."
Brian strode towards him, still smiling, and said into the phone, "Bienvenue à France."