: NATIONALS 2009; WEDNESDAY : Swim Slash : Phelps/Lochte
Nationals 2009; Wednesday
:: Phelps/Lochte, Swim Slash, PG13.
A/N: Apparently I'm trying to make a statement about the suits. Apparently. And this was half-written before I got my prompts. ^^ I'm working on them!
As ever, thanks to leidy--that goes always, and usually without me saying. But also thanks to entropygoddess for giving me another positive opinion. Babies, we are the Power of Three.
Nationals 2009; Wednesday.
Michael had his own meet to worry about.
It was a waste of energy wondering how Ryan was taking his third place in the two Free, and really in the end, it wasn't like Michael had to stop himself from cornering Ryan. Ryan was a big boy, he was a professional, he'd qualified for the relay in Rome. Michael had seen him after the race smiling at catcallers in the stands and swimmers on deck. He assumed Ryan was fine. When wasn't Ryan fine?
Sometimes these days though, Michael got so wrapped up in zoning out the media and the fans that he didn't realize that he was zoning out his friends too, fine or not. And Ryan might never throw his cap or goggles, he might keep smiling, but that didn't mean that he didn't hurt.
Stepping into one of the spartan halls behind the warm-down pool, Michael was reminded of just how far outside the neighborhood of fine Ryan could get.
"Get outta here."
Ryan's voice was choked and he made a jerky turn to put his back to Michael. His shoulder leaned against the wall as he raised a hand to push hair back off his forehead. Michael saw the way his fingers rubbed at his eyes before Ryan turned his face forward and he would make a bet it wasn't pool water that Ryan was wiping away. Michael's throat tightened a bit and sneakers scuffed across the cement floor with a half-step in Ryan's direction. "Ryan--"
"Get the fuck out, Mike!"
In the deserted back hallway, the bark of words rang hollow enough for Michael to hear the cracking voice underneath them. Ryan's arms got raised to cross over his chest and the posture was language enough even from the back; Ryan didn't even have to open his mouth for Michael to know that he wasn't welcome. His broad shoulders made a wall that Michael wasn't sure how to cross.
"Fine," he said. It was obviously bullshit, but he wasn't here to babysit Ryan. Michael shook his head and retraced his single step backward before turning. If Ryan wanted to be alone then Michael could do that for him; he hadn't banked on catching Ryan with his emotional pants down and he wasn't sure what to do except to respect Ryan's wishes and leave. Maybe he'd go tell Mr Steve that he'd seen Ryan come this way and let his dad deal with it.
Michael's fingers were on the heavy metal door back to the main thoroughfares when Ryan spoke up again. "I'm sorry." It was a mutter, the low words spoken almost too quietly to be heard. "I'm just like--" Michael lifted his attention enough to watch the back of Ryan's head shake, curls swinging. "I don't know, right? Walters deserved it." He cleared his throat and then raised his voice just a little, making it easier to hear. "He did good. But he was wearing a fucking suit and man I just have to wonder. You know? Fuck." A short, sharp motion and Michael heard the dull percussion of sound before he realized that it had been made by Ryan's closed fist against the blank white wall. "Fuck," Ryan coughed out.
Glancing back through the high windows of the doors he was standing at, Michael dropped his hand off the bar. There were a few swimmers going back and forth but none so much as glanced in this direction. He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Hilary: With Ry, see u later. Then he stuffed it into his back pocket and headed toward his friend's still-stiff shoulders. "Break anything?" Michael asked evenly.
Ryan turned to face the wall, resting his forehead against it and cradling his right fist in his left hand. "No," he mumbled.
"Well then you'll be swimming tomorrow. And the next day. And in Rome." Michael dropped back against the wall next to Ryan, putting them almost shoulder to shoulder if facing in different directions. He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke to the other side of the hallway. "And next year. And maybe the suits will stick and maybe they won't."
"That's not the point of swimming," Ryan said, turning himself with a sigh to put his back to the wall, too. Finally touching, his shoulder was warm against Michael's. "You know it. It's like, cheating." Ryan scrubbed both sets of fingers almost violently through his hair and blew out a breath. "Shit, um, I want to say fuck technology but like, I love my phone."
Michael looked over. Ryan was using the thumb and finger of his left hand to rub wetness off his eyelashes and it was hard to see Ryan without a smile. Ryan was a glass half full type of guy even when the chips weren't falling his way. Especially when they weren't. Don't hate the playa hate the game--that was just his normal operating procedure. Seeing him like this made Michael uncomfortable against the backside of his ribs. "Maybe one day they'll all have asterisks by their names," Michael finally said. "But you and me and Aaron, we won't."
"We're still wearing suits," Ryan said, looking at the floor. "Everybody's wearing 'em. And shit, Aaron was in the new X-glide, yeah? I mean it was just legs or whatever but I don't even know what to think, man. Aaron's like, you know. I thought he was all old school." Ryan took a deep breath in and out and dropped his head back against the wall, eyes toward the ceiling. "Fuck it. Fuck it. Aaron fucked some shit up tonight," he said, laughing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "And whatever, most of him was skin."
"Yeah." Michael wished it was that easy--maybe agreeing would make it that easy. He gave a single slow shake of his head because he knew the answer to that and reached over, curling fingers into the front of Ryan's shirt. Ryan tore his eyes from the far end of the hall and looked at Michael as he was tugged on; for a minute he was just vaguely reddened eyes (that could have been from the chlorine, sure) and about a hundred and ninety-five pounds of stubborn. Michael pressed his lips together and tugged again but he wasn't going to keep making the offer because someone might walk in or it would be weird, pushing too hard.
Ryan moved. He made a huffing sound and slouched his weight away from the wall and it became this awkward combination of him shuffling and Michael directing and they ended up chest to chest. There was no one else; the noise from the swimmer-trafficked halls of the IUPUI Nat didn't make it through the heavy set of double doors.
For a minute it was still weird despite everything, the quiet made it kind of weird and the angle made it kind of weird and the fact that their hugs had always been more of a touch-and-go thing than anything full on made it kind of weird. Ryan's elbows bumped Michael's chest and his eyes stared at their toes. Finally Michael wrapped his arms around Ryan's neck and felt how the shoulders under his arms just dropped like the act had snapped strings that had been holding him up. Ryan breathed out and sank forward, dropping his face against Michael's shoulder. Michael palmed the back of Ryan's still-damp head and held on.
For a long few minutes, Ryan didn't move at all and Michael didn't push it. It was just the gentle in out of even breath and the weight of Michael's arms helping to keep Ryan's shoulders away from his ears. Ryan's tanned skin was warm and smelled like the pool, the sharpness of chemicals, and his hair a muted sort of lemon from the rinse he used. When he took a deep breath and released it he felt Ryan lean into him, felt fingers curl into the sides of his shirt.
"You swam your best," Michael said, just a murmur. "That's all you can do. You know that."
Hot air puffed against Michael's shoulder and dampened the fabric of his tee. After a minute there was a small almost-shake of Ryan's head and then he said in an only half-intelligible mumble, "I know. Still pissed."
The hand on Ryan's head hesitated and then slid low enough to squeeze his neck. "I know," Michael said. There wasn't anything else that he could say; it sucked. Walters wore a suit and Walters out-touched Ryan. It was frustrating as hell to have nobody kids dropping a second and a half off World Records, five seconds off their personal bests in half a year, but that was just the way shit was shaking down. Bob had specifically forbid his swimmers from using the polyurethane suits but he knew that even if Coach Gregg didn't like them, he didn't set the restrictions so Ryan had nothing to fall back on but himself. It was a heavy thing. Michael was sure that Ryan was up for it, that he'd be up for it tomorrow, and the day after, and in Rome. Right now he just needed to decompress.
It was a little like coming up from a deep sea dive. Do it too quick and you got the bends.
Michael felt the brush of soft hair against the bridge of his nose and he closed his eyes, squeezing Ryan's neck again. Ryan had let go of his shirt and he curled his arms up between them as he sank closer to Michael, cocking one hip out. He took a deep breath in and huffed it out. Let it go, Michael thought.
"Maybe we'll all have asterisks next to our names one day, huh?" Ryan tapped the toe of his sneaker against the instep of Michael's foot. "Pretty fucked up looking record book."
Michael sighed, putting his head back against the wall and looking at the pipes that ran the length of the ceiling. Ryan's forehead was a warm, heavy weight on his shoulder. "I know," he said, and kept holding on.
:: Phelps/Lochte, Swim Slash, PG13.
A/N: Apparently I'm trying to make a statement about the suits. Apparently. And this was half-written before I got my prompts. ^^ I'm working on them!
As ever, thanks to leidy--that goes always, and usually without me saying. But also thanks to entropygoddess for giving me another positive opinion. Babies, we are the Power of Three.
Nationals 2009; Wednesday.
Michael had his own meet to worry about.
It was a waste of energy wondering how Ryan was taking his third place in the two Free, and really in the end, it wasn't like Michael had to stop himself from cornering Ryan. Ryan was a big boy, he was a professional, he'd qualified for the relay in Rome. Michael had seen him after the race smiling at catcallers in the stands and swimmers on deck. He assumed Ryan was fine. When wasn't Ryan fine?
Sometimes these days though, Michael got so wrapped up in zoning out the media and the fans that he didn't realize that he was zoning out his friends too, fine or not. And Ryan might never throw his cap or goggles, he might keep smiling, but that didn't mean that he didn't hurt.
Stepping into one of the spartan halls behind the warm-down pool, Michael was reminded of just how far outside the neighborhood of fine Ryan could get.
"Get outta here."
Ryan's voice was choked and he made a jerky turn to put his back to Michael. His shoulder leaned against the wall as he raised a hand to push hair back off his forehead. Michael saw the way his fingers rubbed at his eyes before Ryan turned his face forward and he would make a bet it wasn't pool water that Ryan was wiping away. Michael's throat tightened a bit and sneakers scuffed across the cement floor with a half-step in Ryan's direction. "Ryan--"
"Get the fuck out, Mike!"
In the deserted back hallway, the bark of words rang hollow enough for Michael to hear the cracking voice underneath them. Ryan's arms got raised to cross over his chest and the posture was language enough even from the back; Ryan didn't even have to open his mouth for Michael to know that he wasn't welcome. His broad shoulders made a wall that Michael wasn't sure how to cross.
"Fine," he said. It was obviously bullshit, but he wasn't here to babysit Ryan. Michael shook his head and retraced his single step backward before turning. If Ryan wanted to be alone then Michael could do that for him; he hadn't banked on catching Ryan with his emotional pants down and he wasn't sure what to do except to respect Ryan's wishes and leave. Maybe he'd go tell Mr Steve that he'd seen Ryan come this way and let his dad deal with it.
Michael's fingers were on the heavy metal door back to the main thoroughfares when Ryan spoke up again. "I'm sorry." It was a mutter, the low words spoken almost too quietly to be heard. "I'm just like--" Michael lifted his attention enough to watch the back of Ryan's head shake, curls swinging. "I don't know, right? Walters deserved it." He cleared his throat and then raised his voice just a little, making it easier to hear. "He did good. But he was wearing a fucking suit and man I just have to wonder. You know? Fuck." A short, sharp motion and Michael heard the dull percussion of sound before he realized that it had been made by Ryan's closed fist against the blank white wall. "Fuck," Ryan coughed out.
Glancing back through the high windows of the doors he was standing at, Michael dropped his hand off the bar. There were a few swimmers going back and forth but none so much as glanced in this direction. He pulled out his phone and shot a text to Hilary: With Ry, see u later. Then he stuffed it into his back pocket and headed toward his friend's still-stiff shoulders. "Break anything?" Michael asked evenly.
Ryan turned to face the wall, resting his forehead against it and cradling his right fist in his left hand. "No," he mumbled.
"Well then you'll be swimming tomorrow. And the next day. And in Rome." Michael dropped back against the wall next to Ryan, putting them almost shoulder to shoulder if facing in different directions. He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke to the other side of the hallway. "And next year. And maybe the suits will stick and maybe they won't."
"That's not the point of swimming," Ryan said, turning himself with a sigh to put his back to the wall, too. Finally touching, his shoulder was warm against Michael's. "You know it. It's like, cheating." Ryan scrubbed both sets of fingers almost violently through his hair and blew out a breath. "Shit, um, I want to say fuck technology but like, I love my phone."
Michael looked over. Ryan was using the thumb and finger of his left hand to rub wetness off his eyelashes and it was hard to see Ryan without a smile. Ryan was a glass half full type of guy even when the chips weren't falling his way. Especially when they weren't. Don't hate the playa hate the game--that was just his normal operating procedure. Seeing him like this made Michael uncomfortable against the backside of his ribs. "Maybe one day they'll all have asterisks by their names," Michael finally said. "But you and me and Aaron, we won't."
"We're still wearing suits," Ryan said, looking at the floor. "Everybody's wearing 'em. And shit, Aaron was in the new X-glide, yeah? I mean it was just legs or whatever but I don't even know what to think, man. Aaron's like, you know. I thought he was all old school." Ryan took a deep breath in and out and dropped his head back against the wall, eyes toward the ceiling. "Fuck it. Fuck it. Aaron fucked some shit up tonight," he said, laughing and wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "And whatever, most of him was skin."
"Yeah." Michael wished it was that easy--maybe agreeing would make it that easy. He gave a single slow shake of his head because he knew the answer to that and reached over, curling fingers into the front of Ryan's shirt. Ryan tore his eyes from the far end of the hall and looked at Michael as he was tugged on; for a minute he was just vaguely reddened eyes (that could have been from the chlorine, sure) and about a hundred and ninety-five pounds of stubborn. Michael pressed his lips together and tugged again but he wasn't going to keep making the offer because someone might walk in or it would be weird, pushing too hard.
Ryan moved. He made a huffing sound and slouched his weight away from the wall and it became this awkward combination of him shuffling and Michael directing and they ended up chest to chest. There was no one else; the noise from the swimmer-trafficked halls of the IUPUI Nat didn't make it through the heavy set of double doors.
For a minute it was still weird despite everything, the quiet made it kind of weird and the angle made it kind of weird and the fact that their hugs had always been more of a touch-and-go thing than anything full on made it kind of weird. Ryan's elbows bumped Michael's chest and his eyes stared at their toes. Finally Michael wrapped his arms around Ryan's neck and felt how the shoulders under his arms just dropped like the act had snapped strings that had been holding him up. Ryan breathed out and sank forward, dropping his face against Michael's shoulder. Michael palmed the back of Ryan's still-damp head and held on.
For a long few minutes, Ryan didn't move at all and Michael didn't push it. It was just the gentle in out of even breath and the weight of Michael's arms helping to keep Ryan's shoulders away from his ears. Ryan's tanned skin was warm and smelled like the pool, the sharpness of chemicals, and his hair a muted sort of lemon from the rinse he used. When he took a deep breath and released it he felt Ryan lean into him, felt fingers curl into the sides of his shirt.
"You swam your best," Michael said, just a murmur. "That's all you can do. You know that."
Hot air puffed against Michael's shoulder and dampened the fabric of his tee. After a minute there was a small almost-shake of Ryan's head and then he said in an only half-intelligible mumble, "I know. Still pissed."
The hand on Ryan's head hesitated and then slid low enough to squeeze his neck. "I know," Michael said. There wasn't anything else that he could say; it sucked. Walters wore a suit and Walters out-touched Ryan. It was frustrating as hell to have nobody kids dropping a second and a half off World Records, five seconds off their personal bests in half a year, but that was just the way shit was shaking down. Bob had specifically forbid his swimmers from using the polyurethane suits but he knew that even if Coach Gregg didn't like them, he didn't set the restrictions so Ryan had nothing to fall back on but himself. It was a heavy thing. Michael was sure that Ryan was up for it, that he'd be up for it tomorrow, and the day after, and in Rome. Right now he just needed to decompress.
It was a little like coming up from a deep sea dive. Do it too quick and you got the bends.
Michael felt the brush of soft hair against the bridge of his nose and he closed his eyes, squeezing Ryan's neck again. Ryan had let go of his shirt and he curled his arms up between them as he sank closer to Michael, cocking one hip out. He took a deep breath in and huffed it out. Let it go, Michael thought.
"Maybe we'll all have asterisks next to our names one day, huh?" Ryan tapped the toe of his sneaker against the instep of Michael's foot. "Pretty fucked up looking record book."
Michael sighed, putting his head back against the wall and looking at the pipes that ran the length of the ceiling. Ryan's forehead was a warm, heavy weight on his shoulder. "I know," he said, and kept holding on.