saturday exercise
Olympiad rps, slight slash
caelumi influences me, it's true.
PG-13, Hansen/Phelps but just barely (special guest Kitajima)
8/16/2008 10:40 AM
"Hanso"
It wasn’t about gold.
It wasn’t about history.
It sure as hell wasn’t about anybody else’s expectations.
Whatever he did, he knew he was damned, one way, or the other. The weak link. But not this time. There was no way he was going out like that. Whatever Aaron handed him, he’d better it. Then, it was up to somebody else. Up to that guy who had already grabbed out one miracle, and that other guy. The one who shouldn’t be anything special, but who was, if you stopped to think about it, really pretty damn scary.
He wanted to go out to the pool, but security was too tight for that. No chance for someone to do anything suspicious to the facilities with so much on the line and the whole world watching. There was almost nowhere he could go, but his room was too small. He ended up following the stairs up to the roof.
The night air wasn’t as clean as it would have been back home. Not as clean as it would have been in Austin. The stars overhead were veiled and dim.
It might have been enough, anyway. A space to clear his thoughts. To find the center that had been wobbling around inside of him for a while now.
When he finally turned to go back, a shadow caught his eye.
Hadn’t he been alone?
Inexplicably, his heart kicked into a faster beat, as he blinked, trying to resolve that shadow into something recognizable.
“Do it.”
The words were quiet, and so calm.
The shadow turned, resolved, the stairwell door opened and closed. Too short to be nearly any other swimmer. Even two words could be accented.
Brenden Hansen just stood, waited.
Then he moved, not as fast as in the water but not a walk. He caught the other at the bottom of the stairs, feet hushed by athletic shoes. There was no welcoming look when he reached out, just a hard, straight stare. Do it. Nothing more, nothing less.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to ask any questions, didn’t want anything, nothing, except…
He looked again for his elusive center and found it right away, right where he’d left it.
Fingers grazed, skimmed a fold of fabric, fell away.
Another door opened, closed, and he was alone.
And maybe it never happened.
The hallways were quiet. His bed was waiting. The muffled, tiny sounds of earpbuds turned up too loud weren’t especially dreamlike, nor was the figure slouched against the wall. You get lost?
The sounds were thumbed down as dark eyes took him in, searched. The concern was honest, and what made it impossible to hate this man. He simply shook his head. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.
A smile was hinted at. A nod. The sounds were thumbed back up. Shoulders turned.
There was an inquiring look when he reached out. Lips were slack in shock when he pressed his mouth over them. His fingers held that squared shoulder, he took his time. The hard beat in miniature, a girl’s voice wailing, a man’s chanting, not clear enough to understand but a nice counterpoint to the heartbeat tempo of tongue sliding over full surfaces, slipping between surprised lips. It was like jumping off the roof - about that crazy. His fingers tightened, gripped, then loosened and fell away as he pulled apart, stepped past, leaving that other figure frozen in the hall.
The tiny sounds receded back down the hall. His bed was waiting.
In the dark, alone, Brendan smiled.
8/16/2008 11:31 AM
caelumi influences me, it's true.
PG-13, Hansen/Phelps but just barely (special guest Kitajima)
8/16/2008 10:40 AM
"Hanso"
It wasn’t about gold.
It wasn’t about history.
It sure as hell wasn’t about anybody else’s expectations.
Whatever he did, he knew he was damned, one way, or the other. The weak link. But not this time. There was no way he was going out like that. Whatever Aaron handed him, he’d better it. Then, it was up to somebody else. Up to that guy who had already grabbed out one miracle, and that other guy. The one who shouldn’t be anything special, but who was, if you stopped to think about it, really pretty damn scary.
He wanted to go out to the pool, but security was too tight for that. No chance for someone to do anything suspicious to the facilities with so much on the line and the whole world watching. There was almost nowhere he could go, but his room was too small. He ended up following the stairs up to the roof.
The night air wasn’t as clean as it would have been back home. Not as clean as it would have been in Austin. The stars overhead were veiled and dim.
It might have been enough, anyway. A space to clear his thoughts. To find the center that had been wobbling around inside of him for a while now.
When he finally turned to go back, a shadow caught his eye.
Hadn’t he been alone?
Inexplicably, his heart kicked into a faster beat, as he blinked, trying to resolve that shadow into something recognizable.
“Do it.”
The words were quiet, and so calm.
The shadow turned, resolved, the stairwell door opened and closed. Too short to be nearly any other swimmer. Even two words could be accented.
Brenden Hansen just stood, waited.
Then he moved, not as fast as in the water but not a walk. He caught the other at the bottom of the stairs, feet hushed by athletic shoes. There was no welcoming look when he reached out, just a hard, straight stare. Do it. Nothing more, nothing less.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to ask any questions, didn’t want anything, nothing, except…
He looked again for his elusive center and found it right away, right where he’d left it.
Fingers grazed, skimmed a fold of fabric, fell away.
Another door opened, closed, and he was alone.
And maybe it never happened.
The hallways were quiet. His bed was waiting. The muffled, tiny sounds of earpbuds turned up too loud weren’t especially dreamlike, nor was the figure slouched against the wall. You get lost?
The sounds were thumbed down as dark eyes took him in, searched. The concern was honest, and what made it impossible to hate this man. He simply shook his head. I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.
A smile was hinted at. A nod. The sounds were thumbed back up. Shoulders turned.
There was an inquiring look when he reached out. Lips were slack in shock when he pressed his mouth over them. His fingers held that squared shoulder, he took his time. The hard beat in miniature, a girl’s voice wailing, a man’s chanting, not clear enough to understand but a nice counterpoint to the heartbeat tempo of tongue sliding over full surfaces, slipping between surprised lips. It was like jumping off the roof - about that crazy. His fingers tightened, gripped, then loosened and fell away as he pulled apart, stepped past, leaving that other figure frozen in the hall.
The tiny sounds receded back down the hall. His bed was waiting.
In the dark, alone, Brendan smiled.
8/16/2008 11:31 AM