Olympics RPS - The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist) (Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, NC1
People need to get down and kiss Jason Lezak's ass. Or his biceps. Whatever works for you.
ANYROAD. So. Yeah. I wrote this, but it was totally a group effort of OMG!Look. To that end I would like to thank (in alphabetical order): alethialia, amberlynne, lyra_sena, them0rgue, serialkarma, sparky77 and thorne_scratch. Going to hell is a group activity.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, Michael/Ian Thorpe & Michael/Ian Crocker
Rated NC17 Crack!
Disclaimer: If I'm going to hell, I'm pulling out all the stops.
The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
Michael is introduced to Ryan Lochte in Athens by his coach Bob Bowman. They're going to swim the 4X200 Free together eventually, but Michael's not really thinking about Ryan's wide grin or tight ass right now. He has a moment of 'Huh,' and duly exchanges the pleasantries that his sponsors, his mom and his years of competition have engrained in him.
The 'huh' that passes through Michael's mind is not the one that will get him in trouble with his current, World Record-breaking boyfriend because he's been staring too long, but the 'huh' of, 'Duly noted. Not bad. Let's move on; I have swimming to do.'
So Michael moves on. And he gets a few gold medals, and he breaks a few records, because that's his fucking job. And then Ian Thorpe breaks his heart by dumping him, because apparently, Michael's just a little too good at his job. It's not like Michael even beat him at the 200 Free.
Some people are so fucking competitive.
Michael hates swimming sometimes.
Bob tells him to ignore it. He'll get over it. He'll do better in Beijing. Ian was an asshole anyway. All the things that your friends are supposed to tell you after a bad break-up are the things that Michael hears from his coach instead.
Michael's kind of lacking in the friendship department, and his entire life has been about swimming, so his social skills are kind of stunted. He probably wouldn't curse so much if he didn't have to be on his best behavior with the media the rest of the time, either.
It's also never helped his cause that he's kind of freakishly built, with the ears, the crooked teeth, the super long arms, the slight lisp and the ADHD attention span.
Bob's the one who suggests he get in touch with Ryan Lochte. Bob never liked Ian anyway; he's very into keeping American talent in America, but Michael was never serious about immigrating to Sydney. At least he doesn't think he was. Instead of agreeing, he makes a grunting sound and swims another 1000M. He may still be hung up on Ian fucking Thorpe. The Thorpedo. Ian 'I'm an asshole, who can't take any competition from the guy I'm fucking' -- that's not going to help him now.
Michael's got Ryan's phone number somewhere in his phone, but what's he supposed to say? "Hey, Ryan, do you remember me? We swam the 4X200 together and I kicked your ass a few times, but my asshole boyfriend dumped me and I'm lonely. You want to fly a couple thousand miles to play Halo?"
Hooking up with Ian Crocker seems like a good idea at the time. Maybe it's a thank you/you're welcome for Michael giving up that spot in the 4X100 in Athens. Maybe not. Regardless, Ian sucks dick like a fucking Hoover. Except that Michael's never been that good with relationships, and he was really not looking for an Ian v 2.0. Apparently he should've mentioned that to Ian Crocker before he put his dick up Ian's ass. Whoops.
Bob starts leaving notes in his locker. Call Ryan Lochte. Call Ryan Lochte. If you don't fucking call Ryan Lochte, I will drown your ass. Okay, he doesn't leave that last one, but he might as well have. So, Michael calls, and it should be weird and awkward because Michael has no idea what to say, except, "Hey, it's Michael. From the Olympics. Do you remember me?"
And there's this pause where Michael thinks his stunted social skills have fucked him over, yet again, but it turns out it's just Ryan exhaling a loud, long breath. Michael knows instantly what that's all about; there is not a swimmer alive who hasn't inhaled from time to time. Except, maybe, him.
"Dude," Ryan says in a scratchy tone, "What's up? I thought your punk ass was never going to call."
And it's Michael's turn to pause, because he doesn't remember saying he was going to call Ryan, but Ian had him so turned around that he probably would've licked his own asshole. And anyway, who cares? It's nice to have someone who wants to hear from him besides his mom.
Michael's in Michigan and Ryan's in Florida, so their friendship shouldn't come as easily as it does, but everything about Ryan seems to defy logic that way. He's in Florida, doing ollies on his skateboard, egging houses for fun, drinking every night and reporting back to Michael religiously about all his shenanigans.
In fact, Ryan's doing all the shit that Michael thought he would be doing in college instead of sleeping, eating, swimming, rinse, repeat. Michael's been doing that his entire life.
Maybe that vicarious living is what makes it such a good relationship for Michael. It's the best one he has going, because he can call Ryan and e-mail him and text message until his thumbs are arthritic, but he doesn't have to actually do anything. He doesn't have to explain himself at all. He can sit at home on Friday night and watch TV with his dog and not get yelled at for being antisocial. He can sleep as long as he wants and leave his shoes all over the floor and not talk to anybody except Bob, his mom or Ryan for days on end.
Of course, he and Ryan see each other at swim meets every now and then. Their friendship gets Michael through a chunk of his time at Michigan, and it's all good.
Especially the part where Ryan jacks him off after their races are over.
The first time Ryan gives him a hand job, Michael's so shocked that he pretty much misses the entire experience until he comes all over Ryan's fist. Then Ryan winks at him, tucks Michael back in his Speedos and walks off.
The motivation to win just so Michael can have Ryan's hands on him should not be underestimated at all.
It's not a relationship. Not like that fiasco Michael had going with Ian Thorpe where he obsessed and fawned and thought the sun rose out of Ian's ass, and Ian just smirked and they had sex sometimes. Okay, maybe that wasn't really a relationship either, because when Michael thinks back on it, he's not sure if Ian ever really liked him at all. Competitiveness makes people weird. And yes, Michael's kind of fucked up because his dad was a dicktard, but he's pretty sure that to be in a real relationship everyone should be on the same page. Or at least in the same book. Or the same library.
This then begs the question as to why Michael nearly shits himself when, after more than a year of their "arrangement", Ryan says he's thinking about coming to Ann Arbor -- maybe tomorrow -- and would it be cool if he crashed at Michael's place?
Michael's not going to say no, not to the person who leaves whole sections of Young Jeezy songs as voicemail messages, and yet, he kind of freaks out. It's one thing to talk to somebody everyday and get hand jobs every few months, it's something else entirely to have them on your couch.
When he mentions Ryan coming up to Bob, Bob even gives him the day off.
Michael can't remember the last time he had a day off. This is big; he might be panicking.
Ryan's high when he arrives; apparently, he finds long flights irritating. He's even got this cloud of marijuana smoke around his head that envelopes Michael when he answers the door. Michael he can hear his mother's disapproving voice in his head, but considering how pleased his mom has been about his new 'friend', he thinks even she would let it slide.
Ryan's got a duffle bag strapped across his chest and four paper bags from McDonalds in his hands. It's nice to have someone else around who eats as much as Michael does.
"What's this, your afternoon snack?" Michael mocks. "Did you bring me some?"
Ryan scoffs. "This is all mine, dude. Get your own."
Michael blinks at the halo of brown curls that surrounds Ryan's head, at the lack of skin on display because this isn't a swim meet, and then blinks again at the enormous grin that Ryan gives him.
"You like 'em, dude?" Ryan asks, speaking through the several carats of diamonds adorning his teeth. "I've got bling in my grill; I know you're mad jealous."
Michael just laughs weakly. It's worse than jealousy; it might be lust.
Michael drops his container of orange juice when he walks in on Ryan taking advantage of his vacuum. Apparently, Ryan isn't the kind of guy who sucks dick like a Hoover; he's the kind of guy who plugs in the actual Hoover to get the job done. Michael's not sure what's got him more stunned: Ryan with his dick in the vacuum or the fact that Ryan's sprawled out on Michael's sofa as naked as the day he was born.
Michael's known Ryan for a while at this point; he really shouldn't be surprised. Even Herman's lying at Ryan's feet like he sees these sort of things every day, but he's a bulldog; he's very hard to faze.
Ryan gives Michael a wide, stoned smile. "Dude, you have no idea how awesome this feels when you're high. Just saying."
He's just saying. While sitting naked on Michael's leather sofa.
Michael turns around and walks back out, tracking orange juice behind him, before he does something stupid like jumping Ryan's ass, necessitating a trip to the ER to explain how Olympic swimmer Ryan Lochte's dick got stuck in Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps' Dyson vacuum cleaner.
Michael forgot he even had a vacuum.
Considering all the hand jobs that Ryan's given Michael, it should be easy for them to take it to the next level, but every time Ryan crowds Michael's space, Michael gets kind of freaked out and moves off. Three days after Ryan arrives, Michael wakes up at 6:13 a.m. to find Ryan standing over him in his University of Florida swim trunks. Normally, Michael's on his way to the pool by now, but Bob's been really lenient with Ryan in town. Really lenient.
"Like, do you only want to have sex with me when I'm wearing this shit?" Ryan asks, pointing to his blue Speedos. With the sunlight streaming in behind him, he looks kind of like one of those Hottest Men of the Beach calendars. Not that Michael has ever had one of those. "I can do role play, if that's what you're into."
Michael clutches the sheets to his chest for a minute, because damn, he didn't see this one coming. Except he did, because they speak their own language, and Ryan jerks him off and Michael has been thinking about Ryan's mouth on him for the last sixteen to eighteen months.
Michael swallows and then throws back his covers, because he will never get laid if he keeps hiding in the bed.
On Michael's left hip he has the Michigan logo, and on his right, the Olympics rings. Ryan spends an inordinate amount of time tracing these tattoos with his tongue before he sucks Michael's cock. Michael means to complain about this, but he's kind of obsessed with his fingers in Ryan's hair and the way Ryan keeps wetly mouthing the head of his cock. Slurping has never been so obscene. Michael's pretty sure that Ryan could put the entire vacuum industry out of business with suction action like this. He almost chokes on his tongue when a very wet finger circles around his asshole several times and Ryan goes down on his cock.
Afterwards, Ryan collapses next to him panting. He's got stuff on the corner of his mouth, and Michael wipes it away with his thumb and licks it off automatically. Ryan eyes him keenly; Michael's never seen him look this sober and calm.
"Fucking swimmer stamina," Ryan protests mildly. "I'm going to get lockjaw."
Michael just raises an eyebrow. "I don't think your mouth has to work for you to fuck me."
Ryan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
There's a first time for everything.
After Ryan goes back to Gainesville, it takes Michael three weeks to ask Bob for some time off to go to Florida. He's not really expecting Bob to say 'yes,' but when he does finally muster up the balls to ask, Bob just looks at him as though the answer is obvious.
"Of course you can, Michael," he says dryly. "I think you're old enough to fly unaccompanied now."
And the thing is, Michael is old enough to do everything on his own. He's legal to drink in all 50 states finally, but since he was 11, his life has been about swimming, and going swimming, and thinking about swimming. Swimming is his life; he followed Bob to Michigan not to screw up his status quo.
Sometimes Michael forgets it's possible for him to have another life.
Six days later though, he's on his way to Florida, and he's so excited to leave that he forgets his bags and the cab has to go back. Twice.
Ryan's waiting for him at the Gainesville airport when he arrives. He's standing in the baggage area, rocking back and forth in his Chuck Taylors, with a huge grin on his face and a massive gash on his knee.
They hug manfully, pounding each other on the back hard enough to bruise.
"Welcome to my hood, dude," Ryan says graciously. "You're never going to want to leave." That's kind of what Michael's afraid of as he follows Ryan through the maze of parking structures to his car. Michael throws his bag in the trunk, climbs in the car and is presented with a carton of two dozen eggs.
"Are these boiled?" he asks. He's kind of hungry, but two dozen at one time is a little extreme, even for him.
Ryan laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "No, those are for egging some houses later on tonight. What's wrong, MP, are they not feeding you in Michigan?"
Michael intends to give Ryan some smartass answer, but when he shifts in his seat, his eyes are drawn to Ryan's mouth and speaking doesn't seem that important. Ryan snorts and waves in Michael's face. "You are, like, really obvious when you want to get laid, you know that?"
Michael can feel himself blushing to the roots of his hair, but he just shrugs. Michael's a 22 year-old guy: all he thinks about is getting his dick sucked. And swimming. Not necessarily in that order.
He ducks away when Ryan ruffles his hair. "So, seriously, what are we going to do now?"
Ryan shrugs as he turns over the engine. "Fuck. Get high. Eat. Swim. We'll do it all, don't worry so much about the order."
And true to his word, over the next four days, Ryan and Michael do everything Ryan promised. Well, except the swimming part. Bob gave Michael a work-out routine before he left, but he doesn't actually look at it. Their only trip to the pool is for a midnight skinny dipping session that ends with them fucking in the pool.
Michael loves swimming sometimes.
Both Bob and his mom comment on the changes in his demeanor. He's more relaxed; he's less stressed. He seems to be enjoying his life more. Whitney just laughs when he reports this. "They mean they're happy you're getting laid," she says.
Michael's kind of scandalized. "Who told them I was getting laid?"
Whitney makes a scoffing noise. "I know you're my baby brother and all," she says, "but you're kind of a prude."
"I am not a prude."
Prudes would not bend Ryan over the kitchen table to practice rimming three times a day, but that might be too much information, even for his sister. What can Michael say? He likes to be good at everything.
Whitney chuckles. "Whatever you say, Mikey."
Except that Michael is happy. And he does feel different. And it's like everything is good and working, and the Olympics are coming up, and he's got Ryan just being Ryan, and his life is pretty damn awesome.
And then, one morning, he slips on ice getting into his Range Rover to go to practice, and his wrist gets all fucked up. Now, he can't swim. He's not allowed. Except that swimming is what he does. He doesn't know how to do anything else.
He gets kind of moody and angry. He takes it out on everybody for months, even after he's back in the water. Finally, Ryan tells him to just get over it, which makes it even worse, because Michael is really not the kind of guy to 'just get over it.' He holds grudges like the Mafia and elephants.
They don't talk for five whole weeks.
It might be the worst five weeks of Michael's life. It's even worse than when he got his DUI.
He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, and he loses a few races. The Olympics aren't in jeopardy, but his morale is for shit. Bob doesn't even yell, he tries to pull some, 'I'm here if you want to talk about it' crap. And then, a few weeks before they're supposed to go to Colorado Springs, Michael gets a text from Ryan's coach that Ryan got all banged up in London, and Michael kind of flips out, which finally knocks some sense into him.
Yes, Michael's a control freak, and yes, he's kind of crazily competitive and Ryan's more laidback than an E-Z Boy recliner, but they work. He needs Ryan, and Ryan, well, Ryan needs a body cast for his own safety.
He text messages Ryan: I've got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one.
It's an apology, or as close to one as he can come right now.
After he hits send, he waits. There's no telling where Ryan is or what kind of shape he's in. He may have lost his phone. He may have deleted Michael's number. He may have -- the phone vibrates in his hand and Ryan's name flashes up with an envelope.
Michael opens the message and smiles: I know you'd like to think your shit don't stank/ But lean a little bit closer/ see roses really smell like poo ooo oop
Scatological humor and Outkast at the same time. That's his Ryan.
Michael gets to the Olympic training facility at Colorado Springs at 10 a.m. on April 23rd. By 10:30 he's dropped off his stuff and started stalking the halls for Ryan. At 10:58 he's on the pool deck, standing at the end of the lane, watching Ryan come crashing towards him with the sort of backstroke that has Michael thinking the media haven't been paying attention to the real stars at all.
It's hard to be singled out in swimming, because the community is so small; all it takes is the spotlight on one person to put everybody else in the dark. Michael acts awkward around everyone else because of the press and expectation, and then everybody else acts weird because he's acting awkward, which just leads to more weirdness.
It's the snake eating its tail.
Michael glances down when he feels water seeping into his shoes. "I just bought these, dude," he complains good-naturedly.
Ryan smiles up at him before griping the side of the pool and propelling himself onto the deck. The water sluices down his body as he stands up, rivulets running down his chest. He hasn't tapered yet. Huh.
Now wouldn't be the most opportune time for Michael to get a hard-on, but at least he's wearing jeans. Ryan's just in his LZR. The bottom half. Wow. Michael's still looking when Ryan envelopes him in a huge, wet hug. "Dude, I was wondering when you'd get here."
Michael smiles despite all the clothes now plastered to his body. "Fashionably late, man, didn't you hear? I'm a star now. Ashy to classy all the way," he quotes from Biggie Smalls.
Ryan rolls his eyes and pulls off his swim cap. "You wish you were classy," he mocks. "You need to get some diamond grills."
Michael follows Ryan off the deck automatically, nodding perfunctorily to two girls who greet Ryan by name. He stands to the side as Ryan towel-dries his hair.
"You don't look that messed up," he comments more appreciatively than he should in public.
"That was weeks ago," Ryan says dismissively, before draping his towel over his shoulders and giving Michael another dazzling smile.
Michael snorts. "Uh huh."
"So, look, I've been thinking," Ryan begins. "I've got this idea."
"Should I hide now?"
"No, dude, you'll like this idea."
"Which is?" Michael prompts.
Ryan leans in conspiratorially, and automatically, Michael leans in as well. Ryan has water dotting his hairline and his eyelashes are plastered together. "A contest."
Michael's smile thins into a careful appraisal. Ryan knows all his weak points. "What kind of contest?"
"A gold medal contest."
"Uh huh."
"Every gold medal is worth a blow job," Ryan says easily.
Michael blinks. He's up for eight medals; this could be a very good Olympics for him. "You just want me to win every medal, huh?"
"You wish," Ryan scoffs. "You better get some good padding for your knees."
"Oh, you think I'm going down?" Michael laughs. "In your dreams."
"Maybe," Ryan says with a sly smile. Michael can feel his dick getting excited about this prospect, but Ryan just shrugs innocently. "A little competition never hurt anybody,"
"I don't know if I'd call it 'little'," Michael mocks, looking Ryan up and down rather obviously.
"Just because you're the bastard child of Zeus and a dolphin, doesn't make you Superman," Ryan teases.
Michael gapes for a moment.
Ryan smirks. "I read that one on-line."
Michael's still gaping. He had no idea Ryan even knew who Zeus was.
"Anyway, dude, you talk about getting the gold, but I'm not the one hanging around the deck in his jeans." Ryan claps him on the shoulder once, winks, and then walks off.
Michael watches him go, taking a second or two to appreciate the view before heading back to his room to change.
Apparently, he's got a whole lot of medals to win.
Epilogue
The first person Michael runs to after Jason kicks ass at the 4X100 Medley is his mom. He can see her at the bottom of the stands; she's so happy, she's shaking with adrenaline. He hands the flowers from the medal ceremony up to her and his sisters, grinning when they blow him entirely too many kisses for public TV. He's got sponsors and that's totally embarrassing. He's not five.
The second person Michael seeks out after the race is Bob. Bob's flushed all the way to his thinning roots with glee. He's high-fiving and bragging to the other coaches like he just became a dad, but Bob's been more of a dad than Michael's sperm donor, so he's earned this right. This is vindication for all their hard work. It's the ultimate 'fuck you' to everyone who ever said 'Michael Phelps who?'
Bob hugs him so tight, Michael thinks he might fracture a few ribs. "You did it, kid," Bob says gruffly. "You're the best in the world, and now everyone else knows it, too."
As Michael gets dragged off for interviews, he catches sight of a huge black behemoth in the stands. It's Ian Thorpe. Michael's got the article where Ian said he couldn't perform in the morning taped up in his locker, but Ian's an asshole who could barely get his dick up in the morning. When he nods at Michael in approval, Michael just looks past him. Michael's got something so much better now.
He doesn't know how many interviews he does, how many mikes are shoved in his face, how many people pat him on the back before he gets a chance to head back to the changing area. He's exhausted. He's been trying not to think about it this week, but it's hard when people keep fucking asking him how tired he is.
He graciously accepts congratulations from some of the other swimmers, shakes a few hands and claps a few backs before he makes it to his locker. When he gets there, his locker is blocked by a familiar shape.
"Eight medals, huh?" Ryan says wryly. "Always the fucking overachiever."
Michael takes two huge steps and wraps Ryan up in the sort of hug that Bob used to bruise his ribs. "I did it," he whispers, still in shock. "We did it."
When he lets go, Ryan's got random wet spots on his shirt. He rolls his eyes and gestures for Michael to open his locker, so he can change and they can get out of here. "Any day now, your highness," he teases.
Inside Michael's locker is the article where Ian said he's a loser; he rips it down, balls it up and flings it over his shoulder. On top of his sneakers is a small plastic baggie. Michael crouches down, peers closer and picks up the bag. It's full of condoms from the Olympic Village; it has to be from Ryan.
He can sense it when Ryan crowds up behind him. "Congratulations, Superman," he says in a low tone.
Michael looks over his shoulder, his smile threatening to split his face in half. "Eight," he says, eying Ryan meaningfully. "I have eight coming. I've been counting."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "You and everybody else. Is your dick chafed from the press riding it so hard?"
Michael's snorts loudly; Ryan's not wrong. The press has completely lost all perspective; at least he has Ryan and his family to keep him grounded.
"Dude, c'mon," Ryan wheedles. "I've been waiting, like, all week long."
This is true; they've been preserving their energy for the race for weeks. Three days ago, Michael even refused to give Ryan a hand job. That probably hurt him more than it did Ryan, but now, Michael can focus on what he really wants. There's a reason he's taking off until February.
When Michael stands up and turns around, Ryan remains where he is. "You need to learn some patience," Michael says solemnly.
Ryan just rolls his eyes.
Michael leans down close enough to count the freckles on Ryan's nose, but there aren't many people left now. Everybody's gone out to celebrate the end of the swimming events.
"I hope you brought a pillow for your knees," Michael mocks. "I mean I'm only required to get down there twice, but you're going down eight times."
He doesn't even pretend to hide his glee.
Ryan just snorts. "Who do you think you're talking to? I've been watching you race for years; I totally packed that shit before I left home."
"So, what was this? Extra incentive?"
Ryan looks around furtively. "I don't know if you've heard, dude," he whispers, "but swimmers are kinda competitive."
And Michael laughs, because, yeah, he's heard.
-end-
--
ETA: 09/03/08: This is now Part I of the Rules & Republics Trilogy
Part II: The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
Part III: The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
--
Sigh. So. I might have been overcome by some sort of Olympics porn fever. I'm pretty sure I plan to write another Michael/Ryan story this week. Fucking Olympics hotass! This is actually an abbreviated version of the story that's happening in my head. Just saying.
sparky77 is responsible for the line about Michael being the child of Zeus and a dolphin. Oh, and telling me about Ryan's diamond grills. It was too good not to use. thorne_scratch is responsible for providing me all those facts that you think I made up.
FYI: Tapering is when swimmers shave off all their body hair. Yes, I know. No, I'm not making this up. Tapering parties are all the rage. I'm not making up the bit about swimmers being huge stoners either. Many people will testify to both. Maybe I will write about Michael and Ryan and stoned tapering sex. Hmm.
And yes, Michael is all about the rap on his iPod. I checked. I admit I smirked at the 'Burn by Usher' bit.
ANYROAD. So. Yeah. I wrote this, but it was totally a group effort of OMG!Look. To that end I would like to thank (in alphabetical order): alethialia, amberlynne, lyra_sena, them0rgue, serialkarma, sparky77 and thorne_scratch. Going to hell is a group activity.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, Michael/Ian Thorpe & Michael/Ian Crocker
Rated NC17 Crack!
Disclaimer: If I'm going to hell, I'm pulling out all the stops.
The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
Michael is introduced to Ryan Lochte in Athens by his coach Bob Bowman. They're going to swim the 4X200 Free together eventually, but Michael's not really thinking about Ryan's wide grin or tight ass right now. He has a moment of 'Huh,' and duly exchanges the pleasantries that his sponsors, his mom and his years of competition have engrained in him.
The 'huh' that passes through Michael's mind is not the one that will get him in trouble with his current, World Record-breaking boyfriend because he's been staring too long, but the 'huh' of, 'Duly noted. Not bad. Let's move on; I have swimming to do.'
So Michael moves on. And he gets a few gold medals, and he breaks a few records, because that's his fucking job. And then Ian Thorpe breaks his heart by dumping him, because apparently, Michael's just a little too good at his job. It's not like Michael even beat him at the 200 Free.
Some people are so fucking competitive.
Michael hates swimming sometimes.
Bob tells him to ignore it. He'll get over it. He'll do better in Beijing. Ian was an asshole anyway. All the things that your friends are supposed to tell you after a bad break-up are the things that Michael hears from his coach instead.
Michael's kind of lacking in the friendship department, and his entire life has been about swimming, so his social skills are kind of stunted. He probably wouldn't curse so much if he didn't have to be on his best behavior with the media the rest of the time, either.
It's also never helped his cause that he's kind of freakishly built, with the ears, the crooked teeth, the super long arms, the slight lisp and the ADHD attention span.
Bob's the one who suggests he get in touch with Ryan Lochte. Bob never liked Ian anyway; he's very into keeping American talent in America, but Michael was never serious about immigrating to Sydney. At least he doesn't think he was. Instead of agreeing, he makes a grunting sound and swims another 1000M. He may still be hung up on Ian fucking Thorpe. The Thorpedo. Ian 'I'm an asshole, who can't take any competition from the guy I'm fucking' -- that's not going to help him now.
Michael's got Ryan's phone number somewhere in his phone, but what's he supposed to say? "Hey, Ryan, do you remember me? We swam the 4X200 together and I kicked your ass a few times, but my asshole boyfriend dumped me and I'm lonely. You want to fly a couple thousand miles to play Halo?"
Hooking up with Ian Crocker seems like a good idea at the time. Maybe it's a thank you/you're welcome for Michael giving up that spot in the 4X100 in Athens. Maybe not. Regardless, Ian sucks dick like a fucking Hoover. Except that Michael's never been that good with relationships, and he was really not looking for an Ian v 2.0. Apparently he should've mentioned that to Ian Crocker before he put his dick up Ian's ass. Whoops.
Bob starts leaving notes in his locker. Call Ryan Lochte. Call Ryan Lochte. If you don't fucking call Ryan Lochte, I will drown your ass. Okay, he doesn't leave that last one, but he might as well have. So, Michael calls, and it should be weird and awkward because Michael has no idea what to say, except, "Hey, it's Michael. From the Olympics. Do you remember me?"
And there's this pause where Michael thinks his stunted social skills have fucked him over, yet again, but it turns out it's just Ryan exhaling a loud, long breath. Michael knows instantly what that's all about; there is not a swimmer alive who hasn't inhaled from time to time. Except, maybe, him.
"Dude," Ryan says in a scratchy tone, "What's up? I thought your punk ass was never going to call."
And it's Michael's turn to pause, because he doesn't remember saying he was going to call Ryan, but Ian had him so turned around that he probably would've licked his own asshole. And anyway, who cares? It's nice to have someone who wants to hear from him besides his mom.
Michael's in Michigan and Ryan's in Florida, so their friendship shouldn't come as easily as it does, but everything about Ryan seems to defy logic that way. He's in Florida, doing ollies on his skateboard, egging houses for fun, drinking every night and reporting back to Michael religiously about all his shenanigans.
In fact, Ryan's doing all the shit that Michael thought he would be doing in college instead of sleeping, eating, swimming, rinse, repeat. Michael's been doing that his entire life.
Maybe that vicarious living is what makes it such a good relationship for Michael. It's the best one he has going, because he can call Ryan and e-mail him and text message until his thumbs are arthritic, but he doesn't have to actually do anything. He doesn't have to explain himself at all. He can sit at home on Friday night and watch TV with his dog and not get yelled at for being antisocial. He can sleep as long as he wants and leave his shoes all over the floor and not talk to anybody except Bob, his mom or Ryan for days on end.
Of course, he and Ryan see each other at swim meets every now and then. Their friendship gets Michael through a chunk of his time at Michigan, and it's all good.
Especially the part where Ryan jacks him off after their races are over.
The first time Ryan gives him a hand job, Michael's so shocked that he pretty much misses the entire experience until he comes all over Ryan's fist. Then Ryan winks at him, tucks Michael back in his Speedos and walks off.
The motivation to win just so Michael can have Ryan's hands on him should not be underestimated at all.
It's not a relationship. Not like that fiasco Michael had going with Ian Thorpe where he obsessed and fawned and thought the sun rose out of Ian's ass, and Ian just smirked and they had sex sometimes. Okay, maybe that wasn't really a relationship either, because when Michael thinks back on it, he's not sure if Ian ever really liked him at all. Competitiveness makes people weird. And yes, Michael's kind of fucked up because his dad was a dicktard, but he's pretty sure that to be in a real relationship everyone should be on the same page. Or at least in the same book. Or the same library.
This then begs the question as to why Michael nearly shits himself when, after more than a year of their "arrangement", Ryan says he's thinking about coming to Ann Arbor -- maybe tomorrow -- and would it be cool if he crashed at Michael's place?
Michael's not going to say no, not to the person who leaves whole sections of Young Jeezy songs as voicemail messages, and yet, he kind of freaks out. It's one thing to talk to somebody everyday and get hand jobs every few months, it's something else entirely to have them on your couch.
When he mentions Ryan coming up to Bob, Bob even gives him the day off.
Michael can't remember the last time he had a day off. This is big; he might be panicking.
Ryan's high when he arrives; apparently, he finds long flights irritating. He's even got this cloud of marijuana smoke around his head that envelopes Michael when he answers the door. Michael he can hear his mother's disapproving voice in his head, but considering how pleased his mom has been about his new 'friend', he thinks even she would let it slide.
Ryan's got a duffle bag strapped across his chest and four paper bags from McDonalds in his hands. It's nice to have someone else around who eats as much as Michael does.
"What's this, your afternoon snack?" Michael mocks. "Did you bring me some?"
Ryan scoffs. "This is all mine, dude. Get your own."
Michael blinks at the halo of brown curls that surrounds Ryan's head, at the lack of skin on display because this isn't a swim meet, and then blinks again at the enormous grin that Ryan gives him.
"You like 'em, dude?" Ryan asks, speaking through the several carats of diamonds adorning his teeth. "I've got bling in my grill; I know you're mad jealous."
Michael just laughs weakly. It's worse than jealousy; it might be lust.
Michael drops his container of orange juice when he walks in on Ryan taking advantage of his vacuum. Apparently, Ryan isn't the kind of guy who sucks dick like a Hoover; he's the kind of guy who plugs in the actual Hoover to get the job done. Michael's not sure what's got him more stunned: Ryan with his dick in the vacuum or the fact that Ryan's sprawled out on Michael's sofa as naked as the day he was born.
Michael's known Ryan for a while at this point; he really shouldn't be surprised. Even Herman's lying at Ryan's feet like he sees these sort of things every day, but he's a bulldog; he's very hard to faze.
Ryan gives Michael a wide, stoned smile. "Dude, you have no idea how awesome this feels when you're high. Just saying."
He's just saying. While sitting naked on Michael's leather sofa.
Michael turns around and walks back out, tracking orange juice behind him, before he does something stupid like jumping Ryan's ass, necessitating a trip to the ER to explain how Olympic swimmer Ryan Lochte's dick got stuck in Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps' Dyson vacuum cleaner.
Michael forgot he even had a vacuum.
Considering all the hand jobs that Ryan's given Michael, it should be easy for them to take it to the next level, but every time Ryan crowds Michael's space, Michael gets kind of freaked out and moves off. Three days after Ryan arrives, Michael wakes up at 6:13 a.m. to find Ryan standing over him in his University of Florida swim trunks. Normally, Michael's on his way to the pool by now, but Bob's been really lenient with Ryan in town. Really lenient.
"Like, do you only want to have sex with me when I'm wearing this shit?" Ryan asks, pointing to his blue Speedos. With the sunlight streaming in behind him, he looks kind of like one of those Hottest Men of the Beach calendars. Not that Michael has ever had one of those. "I can do role play, if that's what you're into."
Michael clutches the sheets to his chest for a minute, because damn, he didn't see this one coming. Except he did, because they speak their own language, and Ryan jerks him off and Michael has been thinking about Ryan's mouth on him for the last sixteen to eighteen months.
Michael swallows and then throws back his covers, because he will never get laid if he keeps hiding in the bed.
On Michael's left hip he has the Michigan logo, and on his right, the Olympics rings. Ryan spends an inordinate amount of time tracing these tattoos with his tongue before he sucks Michael's cock. Michael means to complain about this, but he's kind of obsessed with his fingers in Ryan's hair and the way Ryan keeps wetly mouthing the head of his cock. Slurping has never been so obscene. Michael's pretty sure that Ryan could put the entire vacuum industry out of business with suction action like this. He almost chokes on his tongue when a very wet finger circles around his asshole several times and Ryan goes down on his cock.
Afterwards, Ryan collapses next to him panting. He's got stuff on the corner of his mouth, and Michael wipes it away with his thumb and licks it off automatically. Ryan eyes him keenly; Michael's never seen him look this sober and calm.
"Fucking swimmer stamina," Ryan protests mildly. "I'm going to get lockjaw."
Michael just raises an eyebrow. "I don't think your mouth has to work for you to fuck me."
Ryan opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
There's a first time for everything.
After Ryan goes back to Gainesville, it takes Michael three weeks to ask Bob for some time off to go to Florida. He's not really expecting Bob to say 'yes,' but when he does finally muster up the balls to ask, Bob just looks at him as though the answer is obvious.
"Of course you can, Michael," he says dryly. "I think you're old enough to fly unaccompanied now."
And the thing is, Michael is old enough to do everything on his own. He's legal to drink in all 50 states finally, but since he was 11, his life has been about swimming, and going swimming, and thinking about swimming. Swimming is his life; he followed Bob to Michigan not to screw up his status quo.
Sometimes Michael forgets it's possible for him to have another life.
Six days later though, he's on his way to Florida, and he's so excited to leave that he forgets his bags and the cab has to go back. Twice.
Ryan's waiting for him at the Gainesville airport when he arrives. He's standing in the baggage area, rocking back and forth in his Chuck Taylors, with a huge grin on his face and a massive gash on his knee.
They hug manfully, pounding each other on the back hard enough to bruise.
"Welcome to my hood, dude," Ryan says graciously. "You're never going to want to leave." That's kind of what Michael's afraid of as he follows Ryan through the maze of parking structures to his car. Michael throws his bag in the trunk, climbs in the car and is presented with a carton of two dozen eggs.
"Are these boiled?" he asks. He's kind of hungry, but two dozen at one time is a little extreme, even for him.
Ryan laughs and claps him on the shoulder. "No, those are for egging some houses later on tonight. What's wrong, MP, are they not feeding you in Michigan?"
Michael intends to give Ryan some smartass answer, but when he shifts in his seat, his eyes are drawn to Ryan's mouth and speaking doesn't seem that important. Ryan snorts and waves in Michael's face. "You are, like, really obvious when you want to get laid, you know that?"
Michael can feel himself blushing to the roots of his hair, but he just shrugs. Michael's a 22 year-old guy: all he thinks about is getting his dick sucked. And swimming. Not necessarily in that order.
He ducks away when Ryan ruffles his hair. "So, seriously, what are we going to do now?"
Ryan shrugs as he turns over the engine. "Fuck. Get high. Eat. Swim. We'll do it all, don't worry so much about the order."
And true to his word, over the next four days, Ryan and Michael do everything Ryan promised. Well, except the swimming part. Bob gave Michael a work-out routine before he left, but he doesn't actually look at it. Their only trip to the pool is for a midnight skinny dipping session that ends with them fucking in the pool.
Michael loves swimming sometimes.
Both Bob and his mom comment on the changes in his demeanor. He's more relaxed; he's less stressed. He seems to be enjoying his life more. Whitney just laughs when he reports this. "They mean they're happy you're getting laid," she says.
Michael's kind of scandalized. "Who told them I was getting laid?"
Whitney makes a scoffing noise. "I know you're my baby brother and all," she says, "but you're kind of a prude."
"I am not a prude."
Prudes would not bend Ryan over the kitchen table to practice rimming three times a day, but that might be too much information, even for his sister. What can Michael say? He likes to be good at everything.
Whitney chuckles. "Whatever you say, Mikey."
Except that Michael is happy. And he does feel different. And it's like everything is good and working, and the Olympics are coming up, and he's got Ryan just being Ryan, and his life is pretty damn awesome.
And then, one morning, he slips on ice getting into his Range Rover to go to practice, and his wrist gets all fucked up. Now, he can't swim. He's not allowed. Except that swimming is what he does. He doesn't know how to do anything else.
He gets kind of moody and angry. He takes it out on everybody for months, even after he's back in the water. Finally, Ryan tells him to just get over it, which makes it even worse, because Michael is really not the kind of guy to 'just get over it.' He holds grudges like the Mafia and elephants.
They don't talk for five whole weeks.
It might be the worst five weeks of Michael's life. It's even worse than when he got his DUI.
He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, and he loses a few races. The Olympics aren't in jeopardy, but his morale is for shit. Bob doesn't even yell, he tries to pull some, 'I'm here if you want to talk about it' crap. And then, a few weeks before they're supposed to go to Colorado Springs, Michael gets a text from Ryan's coach that Ryan got all banged up in London, and Michael kind of flips out, which finally knocks some sense into him.
Yes, Michael's a control freak, and yes, he's kind of crazily competitive and Ryan's more laidback than an E-Z Boy recliner, but they work. He needs Ryan, and Ryan, well, Ryan needs a body cast for his own safety.
He text messages Ryan: I've got 99 problems, but a bitch ain't one.
It's an apology, or as close to one as he can come right now.
After he hits send, he waits. There's no telling where Ryan is or what kind of shape he's in. He may have lost his phone. He may have deleted Michael's number. He may have -- the phone vibrates in his hand and Ryan's name flashes up with an envelope.
Michael opens the message and smiles: I know you'd like to think your shit don't stank/ But lean a little bit closer/ see roses really smell like poo ooo oop
Scatological humor and Outkast at the same time. That's his Ryan.
Michael gets to the Olympic training facility at Colorado Springs at 10 a.m. on April 23rd. By 10:30 he's dropped off his stuff and started stalking the halls for Ryan. At 10:58 he's on the pool deck, standing at the end of the lane, watching Ryan come crashing towards him with the sort of backstroke that has Michael thinking the media haven't been paying attention to the real stars at all.
It's hard to be singled out in swimming, because the community is so small; all it takes is the spotlight on one person to put everybody else in the dark. Michael acts awkward around everyone else because of the press and expectation, and then everybody else acts weird because he's acting awkward, which just leads to more weirdness.
It's the snake eating its tail.
Michael glances down when he feels water seeping into his shoes. "I just bought these, dude," he complains good-naturedly.
Ryan smiles up at him before griping the side of the pool and propelling himself onto the deck. The water sluices down his body as he stands up, rivulets running down his chest. He hasn't tapered yet. Huh.
Now wouldn't be the most opportune time for Michael to get a hard-on, but at least he's wearing jeans. Ryan's just in his LZR. The bottom half. Wow. Michael's still looking when Ryan envelopes him in a huge, wet hug. "Dude, I was wondering when you'd get here."
Michael smiles despite all the clothes now plastered to his body. "Fashionably late, man, didn't you hear? I'm a star now. Ashy to classy all the way," he quotes from Biggie Smalls.
Ryan rolls his eyes and pulls off his swim cap. "You wish you were classy," he mocks. "You need to get some diamond grills."
Michael follows Ryan off the deck automatically, nodding perfunctorily to two girls who greet Ryan by name. He stands to the side as Ryan towel-dries his hair.
"You don't look that messed up," he comments more appreciatively than he should in public.
"That was weeks ago," Ryan says dismissively, before draping his towel over his shoulders and giving Michael another dazzling smile.
Michael snorts. "Uh huh."
"So, look, I've been thinking," Ryan begins. "I've got this idea."
"Should I hide now?"
"No, dude, you'll like this idea."
"Which is?" Michael prompts.
Ryan leans in conspiratorially, and automatically, Michael leans in as well. Ryan has water dotting his hairline and his eyelashes are plastered together. "A contest."
Michael's smile thins into a careful appraisal. Ryan knows all his weak points. "What kind of contest?"
"A gold medal contest."
"Uh huh."
"Every gold medal is worth a blow job," Ryan says easily.
Michael blinks. He's up for eight medals; this could be a very good Olympics for him. "You just want me to win every medal, huh?"
"You wish," Ryan scoffs. "You better get some good padding for your knees."
"Oh, you think I'm going down?" Michael laughs. "In your dreams."
"Maybe," Ryan says with a sly smile. Michael can feel his dick getting excited about this prospect, but Ryan just shrugs innocently. "A little competition never hurt anybody,"
"I don't know if I'd call it 'little'," Michael mocks, looking Ryan up and down rather obviously.
"Just because you're the bastard child of Zeus and a dolphin, doesn't make you Superman," Ryan teases.
Michael gapes for a moment.
Ryan smirks. "I read that one on-line."
Michael's still gaping. He had no idea Ryan even knew who Zeus was.
"Anyway, dude, you talk about getting the gold, but I'm not the one hanging around the deck in his jeans." Ryan claps him on the shoulder once, winks, and then walks off.
Michael watches him go, taking a second or two to appreciate the view before heading back to his room to change.
Apparently, he's got a whole lot of medals to win.
Epilogue
The first person Michael runs to after Jason kicks ass at the 4X100 Medley is his mom. He can see her at the bottom of the stands; she's so happy, she's shaking with adrenaline. He hands the flowers from the medal ceremony up to her and his sisters, grinning when they blow him entirely too many kisses for public TV. He's got sponsors and that's totally embarrassing. He's not five.
The second person Michael seeks out after the race is Bob. Bob's flushed all the way to his thinning roots with glee. He's high-fiving and bragging to the other coaches like he just became a dad, but Bob's been more of a dad than Michael's sperm donor, so he's earned this right. This is vindication for all their hard work. It's the ultimate 'fuck you' to everyone who ever said 'Michael Phelps who?'
Bob hugs him so tight, Michael thinks he might fracture a few ribs. "You did it, kid," Bob says gruffly. "You're the best in the world, and now everyone else knows it, too."
As Michael gets dragged off for interviews, he catches sight of a huge black behemoth in the stands. It's Ian Thorpe. Michael's got the article where Ian said he couldn't perform in the morning taped up in his locker, but Ian's an asshole who could barely get his dick up in the morning. When he nods at Michael in approval, Michael just looks past him. Michael's got something so much better now.
He doesn't know how many interviews he does, how many mikes are shoved in his face, how many people pat him on the back before he gets a chance to head back to the changing area. He's exhausted. He's been trying not to think about it this week, but it's hard when people keep fucking asking him how tired he is.
He graciously accepts congratulations from some of the other swimmers, shakes a few hands and claps a few backs before he makes it to his locker. When he gets there, his locker is blocked by a familiar shape.
"Eight medals, huh?" Ryan says wryly. "Always the fucking overachiever."
Michael takes two huge steps and wraps Ryan up in the sort of hug that Bob used to bruise his ribs. "I did it," he whispers, still in shock. "We did it."
When he lets go, Ryan's got random wet spots on his shirt. He rolls his eyes and gestures for Michael to open his locker, so he can change and they can get out of here. "Any day now, your highness," he teases.
Inside Michael's locker is the article where Ian said he's a loser; he rips it down, balls it up and flings it over his shoulder. On top of his sneakers is a small plastic baggie. Michael crouches down, peers closer and picks up the bag. It's full of condoms from the Olympic Village; it has to be from Ryan.
He can sense it when Ryan crowds up behind him. "Congratulations, Superman," he says in a low tone.
Michael looks over his shoulder, his smile threatening to split his face in half. "Eight," he says, eying Ryan meaningfully. "I have eight coming. I've been counting."
Ryan rolls his eyes. "You and everybody else. Is your dick chafed from the press riding it so hard?"
Michael's snorts loudly; Ryan's not wrong. The press has completely lost all perspective; at least he has Ryan and his family to keep him grounded.
"Dude, c'mon," Ryan wheedles. "I've been waiting, like, all week long."
This is true; they've been preserving their energy for the race for weeks. Three days ago, Michael even refused to give Ryan a hand job. That probably hurt him more than it did Ryan, but now, Michael can focus on what he really wants. There's a reason he's taking off until February.
When Michael stands up and turns around, Ryan remains where he is. "You need to learn some patience," Michael says solemnly.
Ryan just rolls his eyes.
Michael leans down close enough to count the freckles on Ryan's nose, but there aren't many people left now. Everybody's gone out to celebrate the end of the swimming events.
"I hope you brought a pillow for your knees," Michael mocks. "I mean I'm only required to get down there twice, but you're going down eight times."
He doesn't even pretend to hide his glee.
Ryan just snorts. "Who do you think you're talking to? I've been watching you race for years; I totally packed that shit before I left home."
"So, what was this? Extra incentive?"
Ryan looks around furtively. "I don't know if you've heard, dude," he whispers, "but swimmers are kinda competitive."
And Michael laughs, because, yeah, he's heard.
-end-
--
ETA: 09/03/08: This is now Part I of the Rules & Republics Trilogy
Part II: The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
Part III: The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
--
Sigh. So. I might have been overcome by some sort of Olympics porn fever. I'm pretty sure I plan to write another Michael/Ryan story this week. Fucking Olympics hotass! This is actually an abbreviated version of the story that's happening in my head. Just saying.
sparky77 is responsible for the line about Michael being the child of Zeus and a dolphin. Oh, and telling me about Ryan's diamond grills. It was too good not to use. thorne_scratch is responsible for providing me all those facts that you think I made up.
FYI: Tapering is when swimmers shave off all their body hair. Yes, I know. No, I'm not making this up. Tapering parties are all the rage. I'm not making up the bit about swimmers being huge stoners either. Many people will testify to both. Maybe I will write about Michael and Ryan and stoned tapering sex. Hmm.
And yes, Michael is all about the rap on his iPod. I checked. I admit I smirked at the 'Burn by Usher' bit.