: TIE MY HANDS, 22 : Swim Slash : Phelps/Lochte
Title: Tie My Hands (22/22) [When Hilary Stops Counting the Days.]
Pair: MP/RL
Rating: PG
Summary: Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte? They were the best worst-kept secret of the swimming world. And Michael didn't like it.
A/N: Well, this is it. With post this Tie My Hands is offically done--almost nine and a half months of writing, and I don't even want to know how many words.
It could have never been done without leidy, make no mistake. When it was good she told me so, when it was bad she told me so, and when I wanted to stop she told me to quit my damn whining. I think she's spent almost as much of the last nine months of her life seeing this story brought to life, editing and RE-editing, as I have spent writing. So please, thank her if you see her (though she likes to lurk)--much of what works so well about this story was absolutely her doing.
And another round of thanks goes to from me to everybody who took a moment to stop and comment, all of you guys who poked me to see when the chapters were going up and let me know that there were people out there waiting. Writers say that they write for themselves, but I think that's just a bunch of bullshit. Every writer likes to know that they're touching people. So thank you all for letting me know how much this story meant to you--that meant a lot to me. <333
[There have been things said about wanting all of this in one readable place--are there people who would be interested in having this as one word doc/file available for download?]
[Okay, so it seems that there is enough want for a compiled edition of TMH; when it happens (and I am going to Indy for Nationals next week and will be M.I.A.) then I will post a link in the comm for any who are interested!]
Tie My Hands, Part 22 (Epilogue): When Hilary Stops Counting the Days.
The tent was thick with flowers; a small greenhouse had bloomed in the middle of a London street. Purple hung from the corners and green tendrils snaked over cross-beams. Instead of walls to provide privacy for Olympic families from the public and from each other there were soft bushes, almost yellow, and trellises carefully placed around and throughout the tent, looking artfully haphazard with their red and orange burst of color. Every table under the large tent had a low center setting in white and the wash of afternoon light made each a luminous spill.
In the middle of all of that riotous color stood Michael Phelps, tan and smiling. Watching him as he reached out for their mom it was hard for Hilary to remember her brother looking any other way even though the three years since the accident had seemed to pass in no time at all. Michael wore it well; there were creases around his mouth from laughing that complimented him and the cocky tilt of his chin that he'd gotten from the Beijing Games had come to London as a confident set to broad shoulders.
Ryan kissed Hilary on the cheek before sweeping up his nephew with a smile and blew a raspberry on Carter's forehead as the two-year old laughed. Megan tugged on her son's toe and hugged Ryan, David waited to shake his hand. Devon was there fresh off a Sports Management degree and Brandon was starting to grow upward like a weed. Mom and Mrs Ileana spent more time on the phone every week. Kristen had gotten engaged six months ago and the Phelps' and Flickingers' were all invited to the wedding in December--and to stay for Christmas after. All right, so a lot had happened in three years, fast moving or not.
Hilary looked at Whitney; her sister was splitting her attention between Michael and keeping an eye on Connor, who was chasing Taylor between tables and around legs. But she glanced up and smiled and Hilary smiled back. Michael's presence here at the Games had special significance for her; the year after his accident Whitney had stepped up as his biggest supporter, her longer fuse working wonders when Hilary and even mom had to step back and cool down. Whitney had been the one pushing Michael through his therapy without ever caring if Michael shoved back.
Whitney, and Ryan.
Through the winter after Michael's accident Ryan's name might have shown up on psych sheets next to the Daytona Beach Club and Gregg Troy, but it was only through phone calls and video conferencing; he'd spent the season as an NBAC swimmer in all but cap. Ryan had gotten the Vanderkaay boys to spend a week in Baltimore, as well as Aaron and Eric Shantaeu--Ian had spent two. It was like Ryan had known that every visit would make Michael a little more hungry for the things he'd sworn to leave behind. And by March when Ryan left Baltimore himself (he told Hilary that he needed to "seriously thaw out a little"), Michael was back in cap and goggles.
Two and a half years later he qualified to swim three events in the 2012 Games and Ryan was already taking bets on Michael for Chicago.
Mom grabbed Connor as he ran past and put him up on her hip. Immediately he turned and reached over her shoulder to stick his fingers in Carter's dark hair, who had been shifted into Mr Steve's possession, and mom moved with him. Connor adored Carter; he loved to pat his cheeks and call him Turd, which tended to amuse Ryan to no end.
"Here, Michael."
Michael turned from saying something to Devon and took the folded paper that Whitney handed him. "What's this?" he asked, holding it between two long fingers.
Whitney smiled as Taylor climbed into her lap. "Just a reminder."
The paper unfolded into a day-by-day calendar page, complete with cheesy inspirational quote in rolling script. THURSDAY JULY 16, 2009. The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible. -Arthur C. Clarke. Michael looked at Whitney. "It's from that summer," he said.
"I threw away the calendar they had in the hospital room," Whitney laughed. "But I saved that day. It was a terrible day." She smoothed Taylor's hair back, pulling it absently into a ponytail.
"Was I there?" Taylor asked, putting her hands on her knees and swinging her legs lightly, tapping heels against Whitney's shins.
"Yes," Whitney said. "But you were only four. It was when Uncle Michael hurt his leg."
Hilary watched Michael focus on the square piece of paper, fingertip tracing one edge, and wondered what he was thinking. So much had happened since then. He'd come back from so much to be standing here, looking happy and relaxed and whole, easy in his own skin again. Michael had proven to everyone--for the second time in his life--that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that with the right determination and support a person could accomplish anything they wanted.
And speaking of.
Ryan stepped up, putting he and Michael shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow as he looked at the paper. Ryan had grown up in the last few years along with Michael; his face was leaner than it used to be, his hair worn a little shorter--but his smile was the same, bright and open. And no one could miss the way Michael responded to it, always leaning in a little closer.
"That was the day I got to Rome," Ryan said, looking up at Whitney. His nose scrunched upward. "That day sucked." He reached over Michael's arm and tapped the paper. "We should totally get it framed, hang it up in our place." Michael glanced at Ryan, raised one of his eyebrows. Ryan grinned and bumped his elbow. "Dude, that's why she's giving it to you."
"Remember the last time we tried to hang something?" Michael asked.
Ryan rubbed his chin. "Was that you putting the hammer through the wall?"
"It was you putting the hammer through the wall," Michael said with a grimace, palming the back of Ryan's head down as Ryan laughed. It had taken two months of arguing for them to decide to just keep both of their houses and spend the winters in Florida and the summers in Maryland. Nobody had complained although Hilary thought that mom called Michael too much.
They hadn't come out to anyone or everyone; Michael and Ryan still had the same support group as they'd always had. Their families knew, their friends knew, their coaches knew. Michael had told Hilary that as far as he and Ryan were concerned, they might never offically come out to the public at all since it wasn't any of their business. If people found out--and they would probably catch on sooner or later since the gossip rags were already blurbing--then they found out. Michael and Ryan would deal with it if and when. Her brother had a plain platinum band that he wore on the ring finger of his right hand; Ryan had called it a gag gift but Hilary hadn't seen Michael take it off unless he was competing. He was wearing it now.
She sat down next to Ryan's mom and watched as Michael and Ryan settled shoulder to shoulder again, their closeness as easy and natural as breathing.
"Mike really makes him happy," Mrs Ileana said.
Hilary glanced at her before looking back at Michael and Ryan. Michael had draped an arm over Ryan's broad shoulders, he was laughing at something Devon was saying as Ryan made a face and tried to slug his little brother. They both looked happy. They'd both grown up a lot and now it seemed that they might finish growing up together.
"I think that Ryan makes my brother better," Hilary said finally without taking her eyes from the two of them laughing with Devon. She felt Mrs Ileana's hand pat hers and Hilary smiled as Ryan's mom amended her words.
"I think they both make each other better."
Watching Michael and Ryan, Hilary couldn't help but agree.
Pair: MP/RL
Rating: PG
Summary: Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte? They were the best worst-kept secret of the swimming world. And Michael didn't like it.
A/N: Well, this is it. With post this Tie My Hands is offically done--almost nine and a half months of writing, and I don't even want to know how many words.
It could have never been done without leidy, make no mistake. When it was good she told me so, when it was bad she told me so, and when I wanted to stop she told me to quit my damn whining. I think she's spent almost as much of the last nine months of her life seeing this story brought to life, editing and RE-editing, as I have spent writing. So please, thank her if you see her (though she likes to lurk)--much of what works so well about this story was absolutely her doing.
And another round of thanks goes to from me to everybody who took a moment to stop and comment, all of you guys who poked me to see when the chapters were going up and let me know that there were people out there waiting. Writers say that they write for themselves, but I think that's just a bunch of bullshit. Every writer likes to know that they're touching people. So thank you all for letting me know how much this story meant to you--that meant a lot to me. <333
[There have been things said about wanting all of this in one readable place--are there people who would be interested in having this as one word doc/file available for download?]
[Okay, so it seems that there is enough want for a compiled edition of TMH; when it happens (and I am going to Indy for Nationals next week and will be M.I.A.) then I will post a link in the comm for any who are interested!]
Tie My Hands, Part 22 (Epilogue): When Hilary Stops Counting the Days.
The tent was thick with flowers; a small greenhouse had bloomed in the middle of a London street. Purple hung from the corners and green tendrils snaked over cross-beams. Instead of walls to provide privacy for Olympic families from the public and from each other there were soft bushes, almost yellow, and trellises carefully placed around and throughout the tent, looking artfully haphazard with their red and orange burst of color. Every table under the large tent had a low center setting in white and the wash of afternoon light made each a luminous spill.
In the middle of all of that riotous color stood Michael Phelps, tan and smiling. Watching him as he reached out for their mom it was hard for Hilary to remember her brother looking any other way even though the three years since the accident had seemed to pass in no time at all. Michael wore it well; there were creases around his mouth from laughing that complimented him and the cocky tilt of his chin that he'd gotten from the Beijing Games had come to London as a confident set to broad shoulders.
Ryan kissed Hilary on the cheek before sweeping up his nephew with a smile and blew a raspberry on Carter's forehead as the two-year old laughed. Megan tugged on her son's toe and hugged Ryan, David waited to shake his hand. Devon was there fresh off a Sports Management degree and Brandon was starting to grow upward like a weed. Mom and Mrs Ileana spent more time on the phone every week. Kristen had gotten engaged six months ago and the Phelps' and Flickingers' were all invited to the wedding in December--and to stay for Christmas after. All right, so a lot had happened in three years, fast moving or not.
Hilary looked at Whitney; her sister was splitting her attention between Michael and keeping an eye on Connor, who was chasing Taylor between tables and around legs. But she glanced up and smiled and Hilary smiled back. Michael's presence here at the Games had special significance for her; the year after his accident Whitney had stepped up as his biggest supporter, her longer fuse working wonders when Hilary and even mom had to step back and cool down. Whitney had been the one pushing Michael through his therapy without ever caring if Michael shoved back.
Whitney, and Ryan.
Through the winter after Michael's accident Ryan's name might have shown up on psych sheets next to the Daytona Beach Club and Gregg Troy, but it was only through phone calls and video conferencing; he'd spent the season as an NBAC swimmer in all but cap. Ryan had gotten the Vanderkaay boys to spend a week in Baltimore, as well as Aaron and Eric Shantaeu--Ian had spent two. It was like Ryan had known that every visit would make Michael a little more hungry for the things he'd sworn to leave behind. And by March when Ryan left Baltimore himself (he told Hilary that he needed to "seriously thaw out a little"), Michael was back in cap and goggles.
Two and a half years later he qualified to swim three events in the 2012 Games and Ryan was already taking bets on Michael for Chicago.
Mom grabbed Connor as he ran past and put him up on her hip. Immediately he turned and reached over her shoulder to stick his fingers in Carter's dark hair, who had been shifted into Mr Steve's possession, and mom moved with him. Connor adored Carter; he loved to pat his cheeks and call him Turd, which tended to amuse Ryan to no end.
"Here, Michael."
Michael turned from saying something to Devon and took the folded paper that Whitney handed him. "What's this?" he asked, holding it between two long fingers.
Whitney smiled as Taylor climbed into her lap. "Just a reminder."
The paper unfolded into a day-by-day calendar page, complete with cheesy inspirational quote in rolling script. THURSDAY JULY 16, 2009. The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible. -Arthur C. Clarke. Michael looked at Whitney. "It's from that summer," he said.
"I threw away the calendar they had in the hospital room," Whitney laughed. "But I saved that day. It was a terrible day." She smoothed Taylor's hair back, pulling it absently into a ponytail.
"Was I there?" Taylor asked, putting her hands on her knees and swinging her legs lightly, tapping heels against Whitney's shins.
"Yes," Whitney said. "But you were only four. It was when Uncle Michael hurt his leg."
Hilary watched Michael focus on the square piece of paper, fingertip tracing one edge, and wondered what he was thinking. So much had happened since then. He'd come back from so much to be standing here, looking happy and relaxed and whole, easy in his own skin again. Michael had proven to everyone--for the second time in his life--that he was a force to be reckoned with, and that with the right determination and support a person could accomplish anything they wanted.
And speaking of.
Ryan stepped up, putting he and Michael shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow as he looked at the paper. Ryan had grown up in the last few years along with Michael; his face was leaner than it used to be, his hair worn a little shorter--but his smile was the same, bright and open. And no one could miss the way Michael responded to it, always leaning in a little closer.
"That was the day I got to Rome," Ryan said, looking up at Whitney. His nose scrunched upward. "That day sucked." He reached over Michael's arm and tapped the paper. "We should totally get it framed, hang it up in our place." Michael glanced at Ryan, raised one of his eyebrows. Ryan grinned and bumped his elbow. "Dude, that's why she's giving it to you."
"Remember the last time we tried to hang something?" Michael asked.
Ryan rubbed his chin. "Was that you putting the hammer through the wall?"
"It was you putting the hammer through the wall," Michael said with a grimace, palming the back of Ryan's head down as Ryan laughed. It had taken two months of arguing for them to decide to just keep both of their houses and spend the winters in Florida and the summers in Maryland. Nobody had complained although Hilary thought that mom called Michael too much.
They hadn't come out to anyone or everyone; Michael and Ryan still had the same support group as they'd always had. Their families knew, their friends knew, their coaches knew. Michael had told Hilary that as far as he and Ryan were concerned, they might never offically come out to the public at all since it wasn't any of their business. If people found out--and they would probably catch on sooner or later since the gossip rags were already blurbing--then they found out. Michael and Ryan would deal with it if and when. Her brother had a plain platinum band that he wore on the ring finger of his right hand; Ryan had called it a gag gift but Hilary hadn't seen Michael take it off unless he was competing. He was wearing it now.
She sat down next to Ryan's mom and watched as Michael and Ryan settled shoulder to shoulder again, their closeness as easy and natural as breathing.
"Mike really makes him happy," Mrs Ileana said.
Hilary glanced at her before looking back at Michael and Ryan. Michael had draped an arm over Ryan's broad shoulders, he was laughing at something Devon was saying as Ryan made a face and tried to slug his little brother. They both looked happy. They'd both grown up a lot and now it seemed that they might finish growing up together.
"I think that Ryan makes my brother better," Hilary said finally without taking her eyes from the two of them laughing with Devon. She felt Mrs Ileana's hand pat hers and Hilary smiled as Ryan's mom amended her words.
"I think they both make each other better."
Watching Michael and Ryan, Hilary couldn't help but agree.