Drabble: "The Less Flamboyant One" (Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir)
Title: The Less Flamboyant One
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 478
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events described in the story are not real. Not intended as libel, no money is being made.
A/N: For girl_in_prague who wanted something, anything, on the prompt of tiara, early mornings and home decor that would make me happy. I'm afraid this is not quite what you wanted, dear, but writing my OTP did make me happy last night, as did listening to this remix of Poker Face to go with the mental images. And in case you have not seen it: have some glitter-covered Johnny in high heels.
Johnny Weir is wearing a tiara and it’s the hottest thing Evan has ever seen. Though, arguably, that might not be because of the sparkling piece of jewelry perched on Johnny’s head, but rather because of the glitter sprinkled all over his bare chest, or the stilettos that make Johnny as tall as Evan and his legs endless.
Tinkerbell, Glitterbomb - yes, in every possible way, and Evan is screwed, because he wants to lick every inch of that sparkle-bedecked skin. He’s heard that fairydust can make one fly.
*
It’s early morning and Evan jolts awake; did he miss practice?! Then he remembers; it’s all done and there’s no need to practice anymore and anyway, he’s in no state to stand up, let alone skate. Crystalline vodka and the lucid gold of Johnny’s skin - each a sweet addiction of its own, lethal in combination.
His lips taste funny when he licks across them thirstily, and then he remembers when the body beside him stirs, rolling over onto his back. There are red lipstick smears on Johnny’s still glittery chest, his nipples ruby red from where Evan had kissed and nipped, over and over until Johnny shattered in his arms. Not before painting Evan’s face, though, curled lashes, lipstick, lipgloss and all, show me the real you. Even in his desperate surrender Johnny has won; Evan had never wanted any of these things before Johnny came along. But obsession is part of the sport.
*
There’s a box of Froot Loops for Evan in the kitchen, and an empty shelf for Johnny; I’m still skinnier than you, bitch whenever Paris pays them a visit. There’s random pieces of home décor - candles, souvenirs and such - in the kitchen, too, items Evan doesn’t mind dusting off on Saturday afternoons and that Johnny doesn’t mind knocking over when they fuck on the kitchen counter on Sunday mornings, a rainbow rain of Froot Loops falling to the floor.
Contrary to the popular belief, Johnny doesn’t clean the house in high heels and a French maid outfit (not usually, anyway), and Evan doesn’t hate playing the housewife when he washes Johnny’s underwear and socks. It’s all D&G and John Galliano and I’ll kill you if you shrink them again and it’s your ass getting fat that’s responsible, not me. But of course Johnny’s ass isn’t (getting fat) and Evan doesn’t (shrink any clothes), because they both know all about diets and designers and dancing underneath a sparkling disco ball. Different my ass.
*
Evan watches the strut, click-clack-click say Johnny’s stilettos on the marble floor; Evan has never seen anyone as eloquent. He closes his eyes, please don’t trip and fall, and wishes he was as brave. But it’s slipperier than ice, this, him, joining Johnny’s parade - fairy glitter, secret lipstick traces, and garish matryoshkas on the kitchen counter. Evan has never wanted any of this, anyway.
~fin
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 478
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The events described in the story are not real. Not intended as libel, no money is being made.
A/N: For girl_in_prague who wanted something, anything, on the prompt of tiara, early mornings and home decor that would make me happy. I'm afraid this is not quite what you wanted, dear, but writing my OTP did make me happy last night, as did listening to this remix of Poker Face to go with the mental images. And in case you have not seen it: have some glitter-covered Johnny in high heels.
Johnny Weir is wearing a tiara and it’s the hottest thing Evan has ever seen. Though, arguably, that might not be because of the sparkling piece of jewelry perched on Johnny’s head, but rather because of the glitter sprinkled all over his bare chest, or the stilettos that make Johnny as tall as Evan and his legs endless.
Tinkerbell, Glitterbomb - yes, in every possible way, and Evan is screwed, because he wants to lick every inch of that sparkle-bedecked skin. He’s heard that fairydust can make one fly.
*
It’s early morning and Evan jolts awake; did he miss practice?! Then he remembers; it’s all done and there’s no need to practice anymore and anyway, he’s in no state to stand up, let alone skate. Crystalline vodka and the lucid gold of Johnny’s skin - each a sweet addiction of its own, lethal in combination.
His lips taste funny when he licks across them thirstily, and then he remembers when the body beside him stirs, rolling over onto his back. There are red lipstick smears on Johnny’s still glittery chest, his nipples ruby red from where Evan had kissed and nipped, over and over until Johnny shattered in his arms. Not before painting Evan’s face, though, curled lashes, lipstick, lipgloss and all, show me the real you. Even in his desperate surrender Johnny has won; Evan had never wanted any of these things before Johnny came along. But obsession is part of the sport.
*
There’s a box of Froot Loops for Evan in the kitchen, and an empty shelf for Johnny; I’m still skinnier than you, bitch whenever Paris pays them a visit. There’s random pieces of home décor - candles, souvenirs and such - in the kitchen, too, items Evan doesn’t mind dusting off on Saturday afternoons and that Johnny doesn’t mind knocking over when they fuck on the kitchen counter on Sunday mornings, a rainbow rain of Froot Loops falling to the floor.
Contrary to the popular belief, Johnny doesn’t clean the house in high heels and a French maid outfit (not usually, anyway), and Evan doesn’t hate playing the housewife when he washes Johnny’s underwear and socks. It’s all D&G and John Galliano and I’ll kill you if you shrink them again and it’s your ass getting fat that’s responsible, not me. But of course Johnny’s ass isn’t (getting fat) and Evan doesn’t (shrink any clothes), because they both know all about diets and designers and dancing underneath a sparkling disco ball. Different my ass.
*
Evan watches the strut, click-clack-click say Johnny’s stilettos on the marble floor; Evan has never seen anyone as eloquent. He closes his eyes, please don’t trip and fall, and wishes he was as brave. But it’s slipperier than ice, this, him, joining Johnny’s parade - fairy glitter, secret lipstick traces, and garish matryoshkas on the kitchen counter. Evan has never wanted any of this, anyway.
~fin