fic: Locker Room Adventures (Aren't Usually Like This)
Locker Room Adventures (Aren't Usually Like This)
Evan/Johnny
R for sexual content
2722 words
Warnings: Extremely implausible set-up, which should be apparent from the cut-tag. If you can accept that, you're pretty much good to go.
Many thanks to nova33 for doing a most thorough beta and catching the mistakes I didn't, and to forochel for telling me that all sentences have to end some time.
I disclaim.
The thing about figure skating is that you're certain to have bad days.
Evan was having an all right day. He'd landed the quad twice, and he'd stumbled once but he hadn't fallen, and even if his mind was furiously listing the various pluses and minuses (footwork was good, didn't land on the right edge of his skate for the triple axel) for all the things that went well, and didn't go well, he thought all in all it had been a satisfactory training session.
He was thinking about getting an early start on his daily affirmations. He might do them in the shower instead of on the drive home, even though it was probably best to do them at the same time every day. He was thinking about all these things as he walked into the changing room, when who should he come across but Johnny fucking Weir.
It sounded stupid, but this was both a surprise and not a surprise; to see him there. They'd been sharing the same rink for a month or so. Ever since the USFSA had decided to sponsor Johnny's move to L.A. where he could get better support, and had screwed up by not thinking about who else was in Los Angeles and might conceivably have many good reasons for not wanting to see Johnny Weir's face.
To be fair, when Evan had spoken to the guys there they had been appropriately apologetic, but because they apparently hated Johnny Weir more than they loved Evan Lysacek (that was life, Evan thought, even when they hated Johnny, people had to hate him more than they loved Evan), they had also simply turned around and told Johnny to suck it up. They told Johnny that he could stand to learn a lot from Evan, which Evan couldn't help preening over before realising that he didn't actually want to teach Johnny anything.
Frank and Galina had by some miracle managed to adjust their training schedules such that their contact was minimal, but they still had to see each other far too often, and in general any time Evan had to see Johnny was not a good time. When Evan entered the locker room, Johnny was sitting on the bench and gripping his stupidly long hair , his hands slipping over his face. Evan couldn’t help but be reminded of the time he’d gone on a farm as a kid, and there had been a small black pony with a rough silky mane. It had been two months before the season had started proper, and his mother hadn’t let him ride it because she said he might do his ankle in.
When Evan entered Johnny jerked up and stared at Evan, like Evan didn't even have a right to be there. Johnny didn't look like he was crying, but he scrubbed his hands wearily over his face. He looked unhappy, and Evan didn’t know if he should count that as a victory or not.
"What are you doing here?" Johnny hissed, like Evan had no fucking right to be there.
"I'm training," Evan pointed out. "I just finished training."
"You're training and you just finished training," Johnny said, mimicking Evan's inflexions perfectly, and Evan felt himself turning red, but thank god Johnny didn’t seem to notice.
"What are you doing here?" Evan asked instead, dropping his towel on the bench. Johnny flinched and turned away. Unhappiness showed on his face for a moment before snapping his head up and looking at Evan. He was dressed in practice gear, Evan noted, black turtleneck and bright leggings and everything. "Nothing," he said brightly. "Just sussing out the competition, and hanging out in locker rooms, you know how things go."
Evan inclined his head. The problem with Johnny was that you never knew if what he said could be taken seriously or not, and by the time you'd wrapped your head around it he'd lost interest, or (worse) was looking at you like you were stupidest thing on earth. And Evan really hated that. He wasn't dumb. He might not be the cleverest person, but he’d been on honour roll in high school. That had to count for something. Johnny Weir just seemed to have an uncanny knack of reassuring him that it didn’t.
"You didn't actually go out and watch me practice," he pointed out, thinking that that was the safest thing to say.
Johnny groaned, and dropped his head back into his hands before pushing off the bench and standing up. "Never mind," he said condescendingly. Evan wanted to punch Johnny, but he’d never thought of himself as the kind of guy who was, like, mean to girls. When Johnny pushed up his sleeves Evan found himself looking at Johnny’s forearms. Something must have shown in his face, but clearly Johnny wasn’t reading it right, because he just said, "Never mind, okay? I'm -- sorry," like the word actually pained him to say, even though he accompanied it with an eye roll. "Bad day. Bad day."
"How could you have had a bad day?" Evan asked. "You didn't even get on the ice."
Johnny stared at him and opened and closed his mouth. "Oh, fuck off," he said, and it wasn't even like Evan knew what he'd said. He was still staring bewilderedly at Johnny when Johnny reached away and started pulling his turtleneck off with furious, jerky motions, trying to divest himself of his sweater as quickly as possible, and that might have worked, except that Johnny's T-shirt came off with it and for five seconds Johnny was bare-chested and struggling to get everything back over his torso.
Evan couldn't help it. He laughed.
"Fuck you," Johnny hissed, once he'd gotten his sartorial problems sorted out, and Evan liked to think of himself as a pretty peaceable person most times, except that he'd had a hard (albeit successful; Evan never discounted the successes) practice section and he was hungry, and his right calf was hurting, and he hated it when people swore at him (he didn't think those things should even happen to people who’d won at the Olympics), so he stepped forward, placing his hand on the lockers by Johnny's head, and said, "Hey. Don't talk to me like that." Somehow, he realised, he'd managed to pin Johnny against the lockers. This was actually pretty cool. Evan savoured the way his height, too often a handicap on the ice rink, let him tower over Weir. Johnny's eyes glittered .
"Why?" Johnny asked. "I mean, is it like a word whose meaning which you don't even know what that is, like 'mongoose'?"
"Shut the fuck up," Evan managed, because he couldn't think very hard with Johnny's body so close to his, it was just in the way.
“I can define that for you, if you want.”
He darted his tongue out to lick his lips as he said that, and maybe Evan followed the movement of that a little bit, and maybe Johnny noticed that a little bit because comprehension dawned on his face.
"Evan," he murmured, and now it was Evan's turn to back away, except that he couldn't step very far back before the back of his knees hit the bench in the middle of the locker room.
“What?”
“You know what,” Johnny said. There was a pause. Johnny looked at him expectantly.
"It's not a gay thing," he muttered, and Johnny's smile turned sharp and knowing and still a little predatory.
"Of course it's not," he said, still smiling. "You're not gay."
Evan had to think about what gay meant, because his brain wasn't functioning very well at the moment. There was gay, in the sense of being attracted to guys, and there was gay, like being Johnny Weir or Stephane Lambiel. And at some point he must have spoken aloud, because Johnny gave a sharp laugh like a bark and said, "Stephane's not gay, he's European," like that explained anything.
"So," Johnny said, as if they were casually returning to the more important topic at hand, and Evan didn't know what that was, seeing as how Johnny's face was close enough he could count his eyelashes, "Are you a first category gay or second category gay?"
"I'm not gay," Evan said dumbly, like it was a line at a press conference, although he'd never known any press conference at which he'd had to defend his heterosexuality.
Johnny looked at Evan quickly, a weird mixture of irritation and resignation, before he said, "No, no, of course not," like Evan was supposed to know something he didn't think he did know, and backed away.
"Wait," Evan said, trying to make sense of the whole thing. He stretched out for Johnny. “Johnny, wait.”
"Yes?" Johnny let the word out like a whip.
Evan said, "I didn't mean --" but what he didn't mean the both of them never found out, because quick as lightning Johnny dropped a hand between both their bodies and cupped Evan's crotch through his pants, and Evan groaned and arched his back into Johnny's touch before he even realised what he'd done.
"Sure you aren't," Johnny said, grinning. "That's, like, a total one hundred percent straight reaction, and I should know."
"Shut up," Evan replied. He didn't even feel embarrassed about it coming out slightly breathless, since that was all he could reasonably manage. All that could be expected of him, Evan thought, since he was also achingly hard.
It wasn't Evan's first time with a guy, but it was his first time with a guy in a very long time. Perhaps one could go so far as to call it the second time. The first time had also been Johnny, Evan remembered. In -- fuck, 2001? That was the year, anyway, when they'd had that party after the Juniors and Johnny had kissed a lot of people -- or no, a couple of people in the room, only it seemed like a lot because everyone had had their own kissed-by-Johnny-Weir story by the next day. But Evan had been the only one Johnny had given a handjob to, he was pretty sure about that. Johnny had been happy and loose-limbed and a little bit intoxicated by the punch, which had been spiked, and Evan wasn't even sure if he remembered it, which was why he hadn’t said anything about that the next day. Evan hadn't been drunk, that time. Not even really tipsy.
It only took Evan a split-second to remember this, and he moved a millimetre closer and placed his mouth on Johnny's, reasoning that it shouldn't be that different, or at least that there should be points of similarity between this and the first time. Johnny might have been a little bit stunned, which was possibly why he didn't kiss back. Evan drew back and hovered. He felt awkward and didn’t know what to say.
They stared at each other, Evan craning his neck to look down at Johnny. Johnny looked confused and a tiny bit critical - he always looked at least a little bit critical when he was looking at Evan - and reached up with his long fingers, pulling Evan's face down so they could kiss again.
Johnny licked gently, though not gingerly , into Evan's mouth. Evan let him. It was pretty hard to focus on anything besides the feeling of Johnny pressed tight against him, body coiled tight like he was raring for a fight. Evan kissed back. He wasn't sure how forcefully he should kiss, because this was not a girl and maybe the rules should be different, but he kissed back.
It was by now pretty obvious that Evan wasn't the only one who was hard. He slipped a leg in between Johnny's thighs and Johnny breathed hotly into Evan's mouth. Rocking up to kiss him back properly again, Evan thought that maybe these two things were connected. One of Johnny’s hands was on Evan’s back, thumb rubbing at his spine. Evan breathed out and tried to concentrate on that.
"Wait," Johnny said, pulling back, "I'm not coming in these pants." He shot Evan a pointed stare, like Evan was trying to make him come in his pants purposely or whatever, and Evan didn't even know what was so great about Johnny's pants. They were just plain green all over, one in a spectrum of leggings that spanned all colours of the rainbow. Evan had taken note of that, over a couple of weeks spent training with him (or not training with him, or whatever this game of dancing around each other trying not to bump into each other on the rink was). But if Johnny was going to be a fucking diva bitch again, Evan would - well, not do the same thing, but give as good as he could get. He was used to giving as good as he could get.
"Me neither," he gritted out, and pushed his pants down while Johnny was stepping out of his, looking at Evan over his shoulder, nonplussed. "You're not worth staining my pants for, either," Evan added. He couldn’t help grinning stupidly when his pants were puddled around his knees and his dick sprung out, hard and erect.
"Ooh, burn," Johnny said, and came over again, grasping Evan's bicep and kissing him. Their dicks rubbed together and this time Evan didn't even try to stop his moan.
Evan had been hard, for a long time, or what felt like a long time, so it only took Johnny stepping back a little and grasping Evan's cock, and pumping once, twice, three times, fist twisting when he got to the head, before Evan came hard and threw his head back against the lockers, making a dull thunk sound against them. To be fair, Johnny didn't laugh or point a camera at Evan when he came, but left his other hand on Evan's hip, covering his tattoo, as he stroked Evan through his orgasm.
Evan's skin prickled. He was quite sure he could feel where his tattoo began and ended on his skin.
"Let me --" Evan said when he'd recovered enough to speak, and he made an awkward hand motion, and he didn't think it was an offer Johnny wanted to turn down, exactly, only his body seemed to have other ideas, because Johnny thrust against Evan’s stomach and this was new, the sensation of some other guy’s dick against his abs. Evan had to hold him back, his hand on Johnny’s pelvis. When he was doing that he got an idea, and sank to his knees before he could think the better of it.
"Do you even know how to do that?" Johnny asked breathlessly, above him, and if there was anything else telling Evan this wasn't the best idea - because he hadn't ever actually done it - he ignored that little voice in his head, precisely because of that remark and the fact that fucking Johnny Weir had made it. He held Johnny's cock and tried to do the same thing he usually did with his own dick, tried to get the rhythm the same, only the angle was different. He touched his mouth to it and gave a small lick at first, before sucking the head in and then taking a little more into his mouth. And apparently Johnny didn't have any room to speak, either, because he was coming too, stupidly fast, and all the while Evan was looking up at him and marveling at the way Johnny’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth when he was coming, like he was genuinely shocked by something. As Johnny came down from his orgasm their eyes met.
"Your dick is in my face," Evan said, because he didn't know what to say, and he was pretty nonplussed, too, at the way it was just hanging out there. Johnny rolled his eyes (“Galina is going to kill me,” he mumbled, and Evan blinked) before dropping down to his knees too, and he licked at Evan's cheek. Evan hadn't even realised that some of the come had gotten there.
Johnny made a face. “You’re such an asshole,” he complained, “I can taste your tanning lotion. I knew it, that it had to be a fake tan.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Evan replied. Johnny snorted, but he didn’t say anything to that, either.
Evan/Johnny
R for sexual content
2722 words
Warnings: Extremely implausible set-up, which should be apparent from the cut-tag. If you can accept that, you're pretty much good to go.
Many thanks to nova33 for doing a most thorough beta and catching the mistakes I didn't, and to forochel for telling me that all sentences have to end some time.
I disclaim.
The thing about figure skating is that you're certain to have bad days.
Evan was having an all right day. He'd landed the quad twice, and he'd stumbled once but he hadn't fallen, and even if his mind was furiously listing the various pluses and minuses (footwork was good, didn't land on the right edge of his skate for the triple axel) for all the things that went well, and didn't go well, he thought all in all it had been a satisfactory training session.
He was thinking about getting an early start on his daily affirmations. He might do them in the shower instead of on the drive home, even though it was probably best to do them at the same time every day. He was thinking about all these things as he walked into the changing room, when who should he come across but Johnny fucking Weir.
It sounded stupid, but this was both a surprise and not a surprise; to see him there. They'd been sharing the same rink for a month or so. Ever since the USFSA had decided to sponsor Johnny's move to L.A. where he could get better support, and had screwed up by not thinking about who else was in Los Angeles and might conceivably have many good reasons for not wanting to see Johnny Weir's face.
To be fair, when Evan had spoken to the guys there they had been appropriately apologetic, but because they apparently hated Johnny Weir more than they loved Evan Lysacek (that was life, Evan thought, even when they hated Johnny, people had to hate him more than they loved Evan), they had also simply turned around and told Johnny to suck it up. They told Johnny that he could stand to learn a lot from Evan, which Evan couldn't help preening over before realising that he didn't actually want to teach Johnny anything.
Frank and Galina had by some miracle managed to adjust their training schedules such that their contact was minimal, but they still had to see each other far too often, and in general any time Evan had to see Johnny was not a good time. When Evan entered the locker room, Johnny was sitting on the bench and gripping his stupidly long hair , his hands slipping over his face. Evan couldn’t help but be reminded of the time he’d gone on a farm as a kid, and there had been a small black pony with a rough silky mane. It had been two months before the season had started proper, and his mother hadn’t let him ride it because she said he might do his ankle in.
When Evan entered Johnny jerked up and stared at Evan, like Evan didn't even have a right to be there. Johnny didn't look like he was crying, but he scrubbed his hands wearily over his face. He looked unhappy, and Evan didn’t know if he should count that as a victory or not.
"What are you doing here?" Johnny hissed, like Evan had no fucking right to be there.
"I'm training," Evan pointed out. "I just finished training."
"You're training and you just finished training," Johnny said, mimicking Evan's inflexions perfectly, and Evan felt himself turning red, but thank god Johnny didn’t seem to notice.
"What are you doing here?" Evan asked instead, dropping his towel on the bench. Johnny flinched and turned away. Unhappiness showed on his face for a moment before snapping his head up and looking at Evan. He was dressed in practice gear, Evan noted, black turtleneck and bright leggings and everything. "Nothing," he said brightly. "Just sussing out the competition, and hanging out in locker rooms, you know how things go."
Evan inclined his head. The problem with Johnny was that you never knew if what he said could be taken seriously or not, and by the time you'd wrapped your head around it he'd lost interest, or (worse) was looking at you like you were stupidest thing on earth. And Evan really hated that. He wasn't dumb. He might not be the cleverest person, but he’d been on honour roll in high school. That had to count for something. Johnny Weir just seemed to have an uncanny knack of reassuring him that it didn’t.
"You didn't actually go out and watch me practice," he pointed out, thinking that that was the safest thing to say.
Johnny groaned, and dropped his head back into his hands before pushing off the bench and standing up. "Never mind," he said condescendingly. Evan wanted to punch Johnny, but he’d never thought of himself as the kind of guy who was, like, mean to girls. When Johnny pushed up his sleeves Evan found himself looking at Johnny’s forearms. Something must have shown in his face, but clearly Johnny wasn’t reading it right, because he just said, "Never mind, okay? I'm -- sorry," like the word actually pained him to say, even though he accompanied it with an eye roll. "Bad day. Bad day."
"How could you have had a bad day?" Evan asked. "You didn't even get on the ice."
Johnny stared at him and opened and closed his mouth. "Oh, fuck off," he said, and it wasn't even like Evan knew what he'd said. He was still staring bewilderedly at Johnny when Johnny reached away and started pulling his turtleneck off with furious, jerky motions, trying to divest himself of his sweater as quickly as possible, and that might have worked, except that Johnny's T-shirt came off with it and for five seconds Johnny was bare-chested and struggling to get everything back over his torso.
Evan couldn't help it. He laughed.
"Fuck you," Johnny hissed, once he'd gotten his sartorial problems sorted out, and Evan liked to think of himself as a pretty peaceable person most times, except that he'd had a hard (albeit successful; Evan never discounted the successes) practice section and he was hungry, and his right calf was hurting, and he hated it when people swore at him (he didn't think those things should even happen to people who’d won at the Olympics), so he stepped forward, placing his hand on the lockers by Johnny's head, and said, "Hey. Don't talk to me like that." Somehow, he realised, he'd managed to pin Johnny against the lockers. This was actually pretty cool. Evan savoured the way his height, too often a handicap on the ice rink, let him tower over Weir. Johnny's eyes glittered .
"Why?" Johnny asked. "I mean, is it like a word whose meaning which you don't even know what that is, like 'mongoose'?"
"Shut the fuck up," Evan managed, because he couldn't think very hard with Johnny's body so close to his, it was just in the way.
“I can define that for you, if you want.”
He darted his tongue out to lick his lips as he said that, and maybe Evan followed the movement of that a little bit, and maybe Johnny noticed that a little bit because comprehension dawned on his face.
"Evan," he murmured, and now it was Evan's turn to back away, except that he couldn't step very far back before the back of his knees hit the bench in the middle of the locker room.
“What?”
“You know what,” Johnny said. There was a pause. Johnny looked at him expectantly.
"It's not a gay thing," he muttered, and Johnny's smile turned sharp and knowing and still a little predatory.
"Of course it's not," he said, still smiling. "You're not gay."
Evan had to think about what gay meant, because his brain wasn't functioning very well at the moment. There was gay, in the sense of being attracted to guys, and there was gay, like being Johnny Weir or Stephane Lambiel. And at some point he must have spoken aloud, because Johnny gave a sharp laugh like a bark and said, "Stephane's not gay, he's European," like that explained anything.
"So," Johnny said, as if they were casually returning to the more important topic at hand, and Evan didn't know what that was, seeing as how Johnny's face was close enough he could count his eyelashes, "Are you a first category gay or second category gay?"
"I'm not gay," Evan said dumbly, like it was a line at a press conference, although he'd never known any press conference at which he'd had to defend his heterosexuality.
Johnny looked at Evan quickly, a weird mixture of irritation and resignation, before he said, "No, no, of course not," like Evan was supposed to know something he didn't think he did know, and backed away.
"Wait," Evan said, trying to make sense of the whole thing. He stretched out for Johnny. “Johnny, wait.”
"Yes?" Johnny let the word out like a whip.
Evan said, "I didn't mean --" but what he didn't mean the both of them never found out, because quick as lightning Johnny dropped a hand between both their bodies and cupped Evan's crotch through his pants, and Evan groaned and arched his back into Johnny's touch before he even realised what he'd done.
"Sure you aren't," Johnny said, grinning. "That's, like, a total one hundred percent straight reaction, and I should know."
"Shut up," Evan replied. He didn't even feel embarrassed about it coming out slightly breathless, since that was all he could reasonably manage. All that could be expected of him, Evan thought, since he was also achingly hard.
It wasn't Evan's first time with a guy, but it was his first time with a guy in a very long time. Perhaps one could go so far as to call it the second time. The first time had also been Johnny, Evan remembered. In -- fuck, 2001? That was the year, anyway, when they'd had that party after the Juniors and Johnny had kissed a lot of people -- or no, a couple of people in the room, only it seemed like a lot because everyone had had their own kissed-by-Johnny-Weir story by the next day. But Evan had been the only one Johnny had given a handjob to, he was pretty sure about that. Johnny had been happy and loose-limbed and a little bit intoxicated by the punch, which had been spiked, and Evan wasn't even sure if he remembered it, which was why he hadn’t said anything about that the next day. Evan hadn't been drunk, that time. Not even really tipsy.
It only took Evan a split-second to remember this, and he moved a millimetre closer and placed his mouth on Johnny's, reasoning that it shouldn't be that different, or at least that there should be points of similarity between this and the first time. Johnny might have been a little bit stunned, which was possibly why he didn't kiss back. Evan drew back and hovered. He felt awkward and didn’t know what to say.
They stared at each other, Evan craning his neck to look down at Johnny. Johnny looked confused and a tiny bit critical - he always looked at least a little bit critical when he was looking at Evan - and reached up with his long fingers, pulling Evan's face down so they could kiss again.
Johnny licked gently, though not gingerly , into Evan's mouth. Evan let him. It was pretty hard to focus on anything besides the feeling of Johnny pressed tight against him, body coiled tight like he was raring for a fight. Evan kissed back. He wasn't sure how forcefully he should kiss, because this was not a girl and maybe the rules should be different, but he kissed back.
It was by now pretty obvious that Evan wasn't the only one who was hard. He slipped a leg in between Johnny's thighs and Johnny breathed hotly into Evan's mouth. Rocking up to kiss him back properly again, Evan thought that maybe these two things were connected. One of Johnny’s hands was on Evan’s back, thumb rubbing at his spine. Evan breathed out and tried to concentrate on that.
"Wait," Johnny said, pulling back, "I'm not coming in these pants." He shot Evan a pointed stare, like Evan was trying to make him come in his pants purposely or whatever, and Evan didn't even know what was so great about Johnny's pants. They were just plain green all over, one in a spectrum of leggings that spanned all colours of the rainbow. Evan had taken note of that, over a couple of weeks spent training with him (or not training with him, or whatever this game of dancing around each other trying not to bump into each other on the rink was). But if Johnny was going to be a fucking diva bitch again, Evan would - well, not do the same thing, but give as good as he could get. He was used to giving as good as he could get.
"Me neither," he gritted out, and pushed his pants down while Johnny was stepping out of his, looking at Evan over his shoulder, nonplussed. "You're not worth staining my pants for, either," Evan added. He couldn’t help grinning stupidly when his pants were puddled around his knees and his dick sprung out, hard and erect.
"Ooh, burn," Johnny said, and came over again, grasping Evan's bicep and kissing him. Their dicks rubbed together and this time Evan didn't even try to stop his moan.
Evan had been hard, for a long time, or what felt like a long time, so it only took Johnny stepping back a little and grasping Evan's cock, and pumping once, twice, three times, fist twisting when he got to the head, before Evan came hard and threw his head back against the lockers, making a dull thunk sound against them. To be fair, Johnny didn't laugh or point a camera at Evan when he came, but left his other hand on Evan's hip, covering his tattoo, as he stroked Evan through his orgasm.
Evan's skin prickled. He was quite sure he could feel where his tattoo began and ended on his skin.
"Let me --" Evan said when he'd recovered enough to speak, and he made an awkward hand motion, and he didn't think it was an offer Johnny wanted to turn down, exactly, only his body seemed to have other ideas, because Johnny thrust against Evan’s stomach and this was new, the sensation of some other guy’s dick against his abs. Evan had to hold him back, his hand on Johnny’s pelvis. When he was doing that he got an idea, and sank to his knees before he could think the better of it.
"Do you even know how to do that?" Johnny asked breathlessly, above him, and if there was anything else telling Evan this wasn't the best idea - because he hadn't ever actually done it - he ignored that little voice in his head, precisely because of that remark and the fact that fucking Johnny Weir had made it. He held Johnny's cock and tried to do the same thing he usually did with his own dick, tried to get the rhythm the same, only the angle was different. He touched his mouth to it and gave a small lick at first, before sucking the head in and then taking a little more into his mouth. And apparently Johnny didn't have any room to speak, either, because he was coming too, stupidly fast, and all the while Evan was looking up at him and marveling at the way Johnny’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth when he was coming, like he was genuinely shocked by something. As Johnny came down from his orgasm their eyes met.
"Your dick is in my face," Evan said, because he didn't know what to say, and he was pretty nonplussed, too, at the way it was just hanging out there. Johnny rolled his eyes (“Galina is going to kill me,” he mumbled, and Evan blinked) before dropping down to his knees too, and he licked at Evan's cheek. Evan hadn't even realised that some of the come had gotten there.
Johnny made a face. “You’re such an asshole,” he complained, “I can taste your tanning lotion. I knew it, that it had to be a fake tan.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Evan replied. Johnny snorted, but he didn’t say anything to that, either.