Sunburnt
It's a little surreal to me that the young man who is now the all-around Most Winningest Olympian ever grew up in my town. *Flies a Phelps flag* Guess everybody has to come from somewhere.
Needless to say--he wins his eighth medal and I wake up to write my morning words and who comes out? The Frenchman. What the hell.
:: Alain Bernard/Jason Lezak, Men's Swimming, PG13. Unbeta'ed.
08.17.2008 (8:39 AM)
"Motivation"
His fingers splayed against the lockers, metal cold under his hand. Forehead followed, pressing as he closed his eyes and felt his back teeth grind together with a near-painful pressure.
The long line of the man behind him was hot-enough to make him feel feverish.
Or maybe that was the anger.
Too-large hands, rough with old calluses, had followed his arms and gathered them by the wrists. Pressed bones against the unyielding metal. Pressed him into the unyielding metal.
Anger; an unsportsmanlike-like hate.
We're going to smash them. That's what we came here to do.
Breath was hot against his ear, tempo too fast to be innocent-if anything after the way he was pinned could be innocent. It sounded like the French swimmer was fresh off a 200m and the rasp-catch of the noise made his pulse race.
Couldn't blame that on the anger. Anger didn't settle so low, so quick.
"Si je ne peux pas vous battre dans la piscine," that rumble of a whisper slid up his spine like barbed wire covered in silk, "alors je trouverai une autre manière." Whatever had been said, the tone made it clear that it was a challenge.
"Sure," he heard himself say. "Fuck you, too."
Face, cheek and nose, brushed against the back of his neck. The hot breath spilling across his skin made him betray himself, saved only by the too-tight confines of his rucked down suit. A large hand caught his hip and jerked him off-balance, back a step. In to the other swimmer and the breath turned into a laugh. "Perhaps that is the idea."
His muscles bunched in preparation to fight but the roll of laughing voices into the locker room shifted both of them free of each other as if some spell had been broken. Jones, Phelps and Weber-Gale turned the tile corner in a mash of skin and smiles; Jones rubbed his head as he passed, Weber-Gale punched his arm lightly.
It was Phelps who stopped. "Bernard. Good race." The sound of the rest of Team USA laughing behind them made it surreal.
The Frenchman smiled, shook his hand. "As I was just telling your teammate."
Anger wasn't his only response to the rolling accent now.
Phelps reached up and patted his cheek. "Still look a little red, Lezak. Get dressed, we gotta get to the medal ceremony."
Bernard caught his eye as Phelps passed between them. The smile he gave before walking away was the worst kind of promise.
Needless to say--he wins his eighth medal and I wake up to write my morning words and who comes out? The Frenchman. What the hell.
:: Alain Bernard/Jason Lezak, Men's Swimming, PG13. Unbeta'ed.
08.17.2008 (8:39 AM)
"Motivation"
His fingers splayed against the lockers, metal cold under his hand. Forehead followed, pressing as he closed his eyes and felt his back teeth grind together with a near-painful pressure.
The long line of the man behind him was hot-enough to make him feel feverish.
Or maybe that was the anger.
Too-large hands, rough with old calluses, had followed his arms and gathered them by the wrists. Pressed bones against the unyielding metal. Pressed him into the unyielding metal.
Anger; an unsportsmanlike-like hate.
We're going to smash them. That's what we came here to do.
Breath was hot against his ear, tempo too fast to be innocent-if anything after the way he was pinned could be innocent. It sounded like the French swimmer was fresh off a 200m and the rasp-catch of the noise made his pulse race.
Couldn't blame that on the anger. Anger didn't settle so low, so quick.
"Si je ne peux pas vous battre dans la piscine," that rumble of a whisper slid up his spine like barbed wire covered in silk, "alors je trouverai une autre manière." Whatever had been said, the tone made it clear that it was a challenge.
"Sure," he heard himself say. "Fuck you, too."
Face, cheek and nose, brushed against the back of his neck. The hot breath spilling across his skin made him betray himself, saved only by the too-tight confines of his rucked down suit. A large hand caught his hip and jerked him off-balance, back a step. In to the other swimmer and the breath turned into a laugh. "Perhaps that is the idea."
His muscles bunched in preparation to fight but the roll of laughing voices into the locker room shifted both of them free of each other as if some spell had been broken. Jones, Phelps and Weber-Gale turned the tile corner in a mash of skin and smiles; Jones rubbed his head as he passed, Weber-Gale punched his arm lightly.
It was Phelps who stopped. "Bernard. Good race." The sound of the rest of Team USA laughing behind them made it surreal.
The Frenchman smiled, shook his hand. "As I was just telling your teammate."
Anger wasn't his only response to the rolling accent now.
Phelps reached up and patted his cheek. "Still look a little red, Lezak. Get dressed, we gotta get to the medal ceremony."
Bernard caught his eye as Phelps passed between them. The smile he gave before walking away was the worst kind of promise.