fic: one more mouth [michael phelps/patrick kane]
So this happened, and basically the internet dared me to write a story where MPhelps and Kaner met and fucked and that union caused a newfound appreciation in hockey for the human mermaid himself.
I'm not saying it makes a lot of sense, I'm just saying this is a thing that exists. Set at a Young Athletes conference in Washington DC that never happened, because I know Phelpsy has a house in Maryland.
one more mouth (also on AO3)
michael phelps/patrick kane
5300 words, nc-17
Thanks to imntsaying for the idea, gigantic for the 'round the world encouragement and 1001cranes without whom I'd be lost.
Michael isn't sure what he expected from the evening, but it wasn't necessarily ...this. "What?" Patrick asks. "I can handle this man, don't even." He has a plate of what the catering service is calling 'wilted greens' in front of him, drizzled in a cream sauce with a consistency that can only really be described as 'come like'.
Michael's mom raised him right, so he doesn't say, "It looks like you're eating three day old salad covered in spunk," but it's really annoying how close he comes. He settles for saying nothing, which serves him pretty well, because Patrick just keeps talking. He's got a little bit of the cream sauce at the dip of his lip, and that might be distracting to someone other than Michael. He's fine, though. He's kept his cool in way more intimidating situations than this one.
"You're, like, Michael Phelps," Patrick says, waving his fork around a little, like that could possibly indicate Michael's whole person. "It's not cheating if I'm eating it with you."
That kind of twisted logic could get a man in trouble. Michael knows from twisted men and twisted logic, considering how many times Lochte got him to almost try things fried on sticks in Beijing. "I'm just sitting here," Michael says, and then, because that's a little awkward, he gestures around the place, a hotel ballroom converted over for some Young Athletes of Tomorrow bull. Michael shouldn't even be at this thing, he handed in any potential young athletic title a long time ago. Also, he's retired.
"Also you're retired," Patrick says, gesturing with his wilted greens again. Wilted Greens? Michael thinks. Wilted greens? Wilted Greens? Is it a title or an adjective? It's probably good he's not considering a profession in the foodservice industry. The only thing Michael's really good at making is protein shakes and egg white omelettes and even then, his eggs are almost always a little runny.
There's a pause. Michael looks over at Patrick again and Patrick's staring straight back at him, brows raised like he's waiting. Michael doesn't get the impression that he's a motormouth, more that he just likes talking, enjoys conversation. Michael can't remember the last time he talked to someone about anything other than what possible retirement feels like.
Here's what it feels like: Michael has no idea. He might not be in the pool right now, but he's still going to more events than he ever attended while training and that shit is exhausting for a person who hasn't really had an abundance of free time since he was a kid. "Hm?" Michael says, because he's not polite, not really, but he can fake it pretty well.
Patrick squints at him and Michael takes a minute, wondering if he can lean back enough to see what the place mat in front of Patrick's service says. Michael's own reads, Michael Phelps: Four Time Olympian which is only embarrassing if he purposefully forgets that it's a title that will follow him for the rest of his life.
"Your diet," Patrick says, indicating with his fork again. The dressing is still on his lip and Michael is valiantly not distracted. He looks up at Patrick's eyes instead, and that might've been a big mistake, because they're big and bright and blue and Michael's always been a sucker for a color like that. "You're not eating 6450 calories a day anymore, not if you're not training, and somebody has to eat the rest, right? That's just math."
"Right," Michael says. He's not really paying attention, but it sounds good. It sounds - actually it sounds crazy. He snaps his eyes up to Patrick's face again to find that guy staring at him shrewdly. It's the only way to describe it, shrewdly. His eyes are narrowed, like he knows what Michael's been thinking about his mouth. Except - Michael hasn't exactly been thinking it, it's just the cream sauce and honestly, who puts cream sauce on a salad?
"You're not listening to me at all, huh?" Patrick asks, and he doesn't seem dejected as he sets down his fork, but he does look a little like he's about to start bugging the guy on his other side, whoever he is. Michael seriously needs to start paying attention to other sports. That's what happens now, right? Less swimming, more everything else.
So Michael says, "no, no, Patrick. Go ahead. I mean, I was - am a little distracted, but please. Tell me about my diet." He's wincing before he even has all the words out, but that's okay, he thinks. He's Michael Phelps. He has something like 53 gold medals at home, doesn't he? 53 gold medals and a title he will carry with him for the rest of his life. A life sentence, even.
Patrick's smirking a little as he leans forward, and he licks his lips, like he finally noticed the errant sauce and just couldn't wait for the use of a napkin. "You want me to talk about your diet?" he asks. "That doesn't sound very interesting."
"It's really not," Michael says, and Patrick's eyes flick up to his for just a second before he starts to laugh. He does it easily, rocking a little and Michael - well. Michael can objectively notice when somebody is attractive, okay? This is 2012. People aren't as stingy with their compliments as they used to be. "Hey," Michael says. "Do you want to get out of here?"
Someone on the makeshift stage is talking about mentoring the youth of tomorrow. Or, The Youth of Tomorrow; Michael can practically hear the capitals. Probably through sports. Possibly through swimming and whatever it is that Patrick does. Patrick Kane sounds like it's a name that could be familiar, but he could just as easily be a fly fisherman or maybe even a seat-filler that just didn't get booted out in time. Michael's pretty sure dudes with mouths like that have no business playing sports.
"Uh, please," Patrick says, and they devise a plan that involves a lot of skulking behind the huge potted palms that live in the lobby.
Michael makes it out first, excusing himself from his tablemates quietly, and thinks about just walking out of the hotel in general. Patrick knows he's Michael Phelps, obviously, but he doesn't have Michael's home address, doesn't have -
"Hey," Patrick says quietly from behind him, and Michael doesn't jump, but it's a closer thing than he'd like to admit. "Who knew the great Michael Phelps liked to skip?" he asks, but it's not - it is and it's not malicious. Michael doesn't know how to describe it, but the choice gets taken away from him when Patrick changes the topic quickly, yanking at his tie a little bit. "You'd think I'd be used to this fancy crap after so many years of wearing suits and ties for team dinners, but I still hate it." He looks a little embarrassed when their eyes meet, but he doesn't drop his gaze.
"Team dinners," Michael says, trying to sound confident.
Patrick rolls his eyes, but he doesn't look offended, so that's probably good in the great scheme of things. "Yeah," Patrick says, smirking. "In hockey, we usually have those before or after games. Sometimes on weekends, although you don't usually have to wear a suit for those."
"Hockey," Michael says, with what's hopefully a tone of: Right! Of course! That's how I know you! Except Michael doesn't. He probably couldn't pick a single current player out of a lineup if it was a life or death situation. "Sure, sure," Michael adds, because sometimes he just can't stop talking. "Of course."
"You have no idea who I am," Patrick says, but he doesn't sound mad about that, either.
"No." You would think Michael would have gotten the How to be a Better Liar memo when they were handing it out, but he missed it. He was probably in the pool, training. Shit, and that's not an excuse he'll ever get to use again.
Patrick clenches and unclenches his hands once, twice, and Michael would have to be blind to ignore the way the muscles in his arms cord. Shit. "That's okay," he says, and takes a step closer, randomly intimidating even though Michael's a good half foot taller. Maybe even more in these shoes.
"Yeah?" Michael asks. He has no idea how this conversation got away from him. Down the hall, he can hear the faint roar of applause from the crowd in the ballroom. They should probably get back in there, but for some reason he can't seem to get his feet to move.
Patrick shrugs, nonchalant, but in a way that seems a little forced. When their eyes meet, his gaze doesn't waver. "I kind of want to make my ex jealous. Do you really need to know who I am to fuck me?"
It’s not like Michael’s suffering from a lack of excellent moments in his life. It’s not even like he’s never been propositioned before. He’s an Olympic champion, okay? The Olympic Villages are rarely as bad as Bob Costas makes them out to be but - but okay, sometimes they’re worse.
“Is your ex here?” Michael asks, because he’s learned that asking leading questions is sometimes the best way to get out of a sticky situation. Also, he tries not to get too many incriminating photos taken of him anymore. He’s never been too chatty about his sexuality, but getting his picture taken while sticking his dick into a professional hockey player isn’t on his Top Ten List of ways to spend the evening.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick says, and then he honest-to-god leers, because apparently, along with being in retirement, Michael’s life is a porno, now. Good to know. “No incriminating photographs necessary.”
Michael blinks. “So he saw us leave?” he asks. That might be good enough on the jealousy front, right? Implication is almost as good as actual deed, for sure. Michael could still get out of this. There’s a protein shake and a DVR full of episodes of Breaking Bad waiting for him to get through at home.
“No,” Patrick says. “But a bunch of our teammates did.” He smirks again, lips curving over his teeth in this way that shouldn’t be appealing at all. “So you wanna get out of here? My hotel’s a few blocks over.”
“I,” Michael says, thinking of television and protein shakes. “Yes. Obviously.”
Patrick grins at him and says, “smart choice, Phelps,” and then elbows him in the side like that seals the deal.
;;
Patrick’s hotel is one of the boutiques, bigger than it looks on the outside and right in the middle of everything. This is DC, so the staff is discreet. Doesn’t even comment when Michael comes hulking in after Patrick. They’re alone in the elevator, which is a relief, too, and they stand far enough apart that this could be just a friendly transaction. Hang out. Something. Transaction makes it sound too much like Patrick is his dealer, and -
“I don’t, uh,” Michael says, and Patrick makes a face reflected back to them in the shine from the elevator door. “I mean - no pictures, okay?”
Patrick’s quiet for a while, and Michael gets the sense that he’s offended, but when he sneaks a glance over, he looks about the same. “You know how many times my sex life gets speculated on by Deadspin, man?” he asks. “I wouldn’t do that shit.”
It makes Michael feel a little bad, but not bad enough, apparently. He soldiers on with, “I just have less of a cover now. With swimming - ” Patrick raises his brows, like he just can’t wait to hear how the sentence ends.
Here’s the problem: Michael doesn’t know either.
“I know I sound like an asshole,” he tries.
Patrick nods, “It’s good to be able to recognize your faults,” he says, and then he cracks up, like spouting half-baked wisdom is suddenly the most hilarious thing he’s heard all year. The curve of his neck is really nice, though; as is the way the light glints off his hair. “Nobody forced you to come with me,” he adds eventually, but then the elevator is dinging and they’re at his floor.
So. If Michael were going to turn around and go back downstairs, this would be that time. “Hey,” he could say. “It was really nice to meet you and ogle various parts of you exclusively, but I just remembered I’m not exactly out to the press and I can’t be sure you’re not a gossip columnist with really great hands, so. Peace.”
He could say that. Maybe he should say that. What he says instead is, “I wanted to, yeah,” which probably isn’t the most eloquent thing ever said to get into somebody’s pants, but he’s fairly positive Patrick’s a sure thing.
“Good,” Patrick says, and then he’s tugging Michael out of the elevator, one hand circling around his wrist like an anchor. His room is only a few doors down, nice, if a little cramped, with two suitcases spread on the floor and one side much messier than the other. Michael doesn’t mean to be looking, but he can’t help the way Patrick’s mouth curves down at the sight of the mess. He says, “uh. Sorry. My roommate is an asshole,” and then drops Michael’s hand in favor of unbuckling his pants. “Ignore all that,” he says with a vague wave behind him.
Michael’s surprised by how neatly he folds his slacks, how he tugs his button-down and blazer off and hangs them both in the closet. Maybe he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he knows anything about this guy at all.
“You know,” he says, settling down on the edge of the bed in just a pair of dark boxer briefs, “this works better if you’re naked too.” Michael blinks. Patrick blinks back. Michael blinks again. This could go on for a while, probably, until Patrick adds, “No, so. Seriously. You’re hot and everything, but either you fuck me and then I ruin my diet by ordering room service chicken wings, or you don’t fuck me, I don’t preemptively burn off calories, order probably terrible room service chicken wings, get fat, and then never get back in shape enough for what’s looking like a truncated season. If there’s even a season.”
“Hockey,” Michael says, because occasionally he knows the right thing to say. This wasn’t the right thing to say, but at least Patrick smiles at him a little bit. So that’s something. He has a great mouth, even if he does lisp a little.
“Yup,” Patrick continues, a little cheerlessly. “Right as we speak, people who get paid way more than me and probably even you, although, seriously, you’re just one guy and we could probably go toe to toe for investment deals - ”
“Wheaties,” Michael says, cutting him off.
Patrick smirks a little. “NHL ‘10,” he counters.
“Subway,” Michael says, and maybe Patrick could say something else, maybe this is the moment where things could get more comfortable, but he reaches forward instead, tugging Michael closer by the belt loops and basically forcing him to tumble onto the bed next to him.
“Hey,” Patrick says. Michael can’t say anything, surprisingly winded, but apparently Patrick doesn’t need conversation. He scoots, hitching one leg over Michael’s waist and leans down to fit their mouths together.
He tastes surprisingly minty, like he’d been sucking on spearmint flavored gum, or one of those IceBreakers lifesavers. It’s not entirely unpleasant. Michael lets his hands settle on Patrick’s waist, surprised again by how pliant he is, how good it feels to span his hands over all that bare skin.
“Have you, uh,” Patrick says, pulling back. He’s breathing a little hard, twin pink spots curling over the tops of his cheeks. “You’ve been with dudes before, right?” he asks. He’s chewing on his mouth like he’s concerned, eyes a little wide.
“Just head and some hand jobs,” Michael says, honestly. “I let somebody fuck me once, but it wasn’t - ”
“Was it Lochte?” Patrick asks, and he’s cackling a little bit, a flush of amusement skipping down his cheeks and pooling in the base of his throat. He’s paler than he should be, probably, considering it’s only September, but maybe playing hockey means you don’t like a lot of sunshine, even in the summertime. Michael himself has only just recently come to appreciate sleeping past 5am.
“No,” Michael says. “Not Lochte.” Not for lack of trying, either, but the years Michael was interested, Ryan wasn’t, and when Ryan was, Michael -
“I’m telling everybody it was Lochte,” Patrick says, laughing again when Michael reaches down and bumps his knuckles against his bare hip. “Everybody.”
“Are those the same people you’re telling you fucked Michael Phelps?” Michael asks, and tries not to feel like a total loser, talking about himself in the third person. Patrick just laughs again, so maybe it’s okay that his jokes are terrible.
“I was kind of hoping Michael Phelps would be the one fucking me,” Patrick says, and he doesn’t flutter his eyelashes or anything, it’s not anything nearly that ridiculous or sexy. His voice isn’t even that great, just sort of flat and nasally, but it works. Maybe Michael’s just easy. That’s got to be it. “But yeah. You ever wonder where internet rumors start?”
His fingers dig tightly against Michael’s hips. “With you?” Michael asks, and he’s proud he’s only a little breathless.
Patrick grins. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s go with that.” They kiss for a while, Patrick’s tongue mapping the outline of Michael’s lips and then inside, when his lips part. He feels a little weightless, like he’s being had, and the wine he’d had with dinner isn’t doing a lot to help him keep his head.
“Wait,” he says, before he really realizes it. Patrick stops almost immediately, dropping his head back and raising his brows again. Maybe that’s his patented move. “Let me just, uh,” Michael stutters, tugging the buttons of his shirt open and kicking off his pants.
His limbs are longer, he covers Patrick basically from head to toe and then some, but he’s not expecting all the muscles he gets to feel, once their bare skin is pressed together. It doesn’t really feel like anything he can accurately describe.
“You good?” Patrick asks, maybe a little gentler than Michael’s expecting.
He’s still a little off-balance. This definitely isn’t how he thought he’d spend the back half of his evening, but he’s also not complaining. “No,” Michael says, and watches Patrick frown. “No, no, I mean. I’m good. Yeah. Great.”
“Great,” Patrick mocks, and then they’re kissing again, Patrick’s hands hooked over Michael’s neck like they’re cramped in the backseat of a car and this is prom night. Michael never went to prom, but he’s pretty sure the hotel room afterwards wouldn’t have been this fancy, or the mouth under his hotter or more willing. “Um,” Patrick says after a little while. “If you wanted to fuck now, I think that would be cool.”
Michael’s not hard, but he’s getting there, and Patrick helps him push his boxers down his thighs, using his free hand to smooth along the length of him dry. It’s not a perfect angle, but it works, it’s enough to get his dick interested in the rest of the party, anyway.
“Lotion’s in the drawer,” Patrick mumbles, spitting on his palm and starting to work on himself. His underwear are off, mixed with Michael’s pants and shirt on the floor, and Michael’s about to complain, maybe; this isn’t his hotel room, and this definitely wasn’t his idea, but -
But Patrick moans, tipping his head back against the mussed sheets and blankets, and Michael’s moving faster than he has since he got out of the pool the last time.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, because he’s not new to sex, but Patrick’s still pretty great to look at.
There are condoms and lotion in the drawer, but Michael fumbles a little bit, because he’s torn between looking at Patrick and what he’s actually supposed to be doing.
“Get over here,” Patrick says, and his voice is choked, a little restless. Michael gets over there, dropping a handful of condoms on the bedspread next to a bottle of Wet.
“Guess you came prepared, huh?” he asks, because making conversation is easier than actually thinking about fingering. That’s what’s supposed to happen next, he knows. He’s been there. It’s never the most comfortable thing, especially if you’re not with somebody who knows what they’re doing. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits. Patrick’s chewing hard on his lip, right at the dip of it, tearing a seam, and he exhales quietly, opening his eyes.
“I’m always prepared, bro,” he says grinning, eyes a little manic. “Slick up your fingers. I’ll tell you what to do.”
Michael does.
Patrick’s not loose, exactly, but when Michael starts to work his first finger in, there’s not as much resistance as he’s expecting. “Did you, uh,” he says, but it doesn’t even come out correctly, his voice lost amidst the groan he lets out and the way Patrick’s breath is stuttering, the slick sounds of his hand still striping his cock.
“Just keep going,” Patrick says, but at least he sounds equally as breathless. At least he sounds like he’s just as fucked as Michael is.
He works in a second finger, moving them slowly, because he’s really never done this before, really, really never, not to himself, not to women, not to the non-existent men he’s never fucked, and maybe it should be gross? Maybe it is gross, but all he can feel is Patrick’s heat spreading out around him and the tight clench of his rim curving around Michael’s fingers.
“Do you know how you feel right now?” Michael manages, a little proud that he made proper English, but not proud enough to stop moving.
Patrick laughs a little, and the sound is - he sounds completely fucking wrecked, voice choked in his throat and raspy, like he’s been running for miles with no release. “I have an idea,” he says, and then, “another, man. Come on. I want you to fuck me sometime this century, yeah?”
“You’re kind of an asshole,” Michael says, and then - and then they both laugh, and Patrick’s blushing, and it’s not fucking cute, because nothing about this is cute, but Michael still dips down to kiss him, braving the teeth just to taste Patrick’s mouth again.
“Um, obviously you like it,” Patrick gasps, and then Michael’s fitting in a third finger alongside the rest, and they’re mostly quiet after that, riding the sensation.
It’s such a cliche to say it, but Michael’s not sure how long they’re at it for. There’s no timer he can look at, and the hands of the clock are too small and too blurry from his location on the bed.
All he knows is that Patrick when says, “Okay, fuck, okay. Condom, now,” Michael breaks some sort of world record, tugging open the condom wrapper and smoothing it onto his dick in an almost fluid motion. Patrick doesn’t laugh, which is nice, but his legs are also fit over Michael’s shoulders, so maybe he’s not in the right position for it. “Fuck me,” he says quietly, meeting Michael’s eyes head on. “Do it,” he adds, almost like he’s taunting, and Michael doesn’t know anything about hockey, but that kind of persistence can only pay off, he imagines.
He slicks a palmful of lotion onto his dick, to ease the edge off, and when he starts to push in, they’re both entirely silent.
Michael’s never been with anyone like that. Patrick’s eyes are closed, but his lashes are fluttering with every push of Michael inside of him, and when he bottoms out - when he bottoms out they both groan, Patrick’s fingernails digging hard against his shoulders.
“Jesus fuck,” he says, dropping his mouth open on a groan. When he opens his eyes, they’re this hazy, liquid blue, and Michael’s not lying when he says he’s never seen anything like it before.
“You should see your face,” he says, but it probably doesn’t come out like that, the sounds in his throat snarled and mostly incoherent.
It takes him a while, but eventually, Patrick says, “Swear to god, Phelps. You don’t fuck me in the next five seconds and I’ll - ”
Michael doesn’t argue, just snaps his hips, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back all the way, and it’s definitely not the smoothest beginning he’s ever had, but it shuts Patrick up, so that’s something, anyway.
His thrusts are erratic at best. He’s not going to last for very long and they both know it, but at least Patrick seems to be enjoying himself, eyes heavy-lidded as he chews on his mouth, free hand working on his cock in time with Michael’s thrusts.
Michael’s not coordinated enough to jerk Patrick off and fuck him as hard as he seems to want, so he spends his excess energy mouthing at Patrick’s neck, not leaving marks, exactly, but licking at the corded muscles there and reveling in the way he can feel Patrick’s pulse stutter against his teeth.
“Shit,” he says, or maybe they both say. For the moment everything is a combination of sweat, curses, and skin.
“I’m gonna come in about ten seconds,” Patrick says, closing his eyes and digging his teeth hard against the torn up flesh of his bottom lip.
Michael hadn’t - the thing is, Michael hasn’t been thinking about the long run, or the end game, mostly he’s been concentrating on his thrusts, on the heat of Patrick’s skin beneath his own. “Yeah?” he asks, because it’s not like he’s up for sterling conversation, just now.
Patrick doesn’t bother opening his eyes when he says, “Yeah, but you can - ” he grunts and comes, a salty hot mess against both their stomachs. “You can keep going,” he adds, but it doesn’t take long for Michael to follow.
Michael blacks out a little, sparks whiting out his vision, but when he shakes himself out of it, Patrick’s still on his back beneath him, naked and sweating. Even his hairline is damp, and Michael presses a messy kiss to his forehead before he remembers that they’re still joined together at the hips, and maybe kissing isn’t okay after the fact.
He moves back, says, “I’m gonna. I should pull out now right?”
“Go slow,” Patrick says. “This is the worst part.” Michael knows, but he doesn’t say so, bracing his palms on either side of Patrick’s head and moving out slowly. Patrick turns away, pressing his face against the inner part of his own arm, and Michael gets it, he does, but it still feels deliberate.
They’re quiet for a little while after that, and Michael’s pretty good at ignoring the elephant in the room until the come on his thighs starts to stick. Patrick can’t feel much better, has to feel worse, actually, so Michael pitches to his feet and ties off the condom, dropping it in the trash and heading into the bathroom in search of a hand towel to clean them both off with.
Patrick’s dozing when he comes back out, freshly clean himself, and Michael makes quick work of wiping down his stomach, the stickiness on his ass and thighs. His lashes flutter once, twice, but he’s breathing a little heavily, and if he’s faking, Michael doesn’t know him well enough to notice.
“I should probably get going,” Michael says awkwardly, shivering a little as he stands naked in the air conditioned room. He’s half-expecting Patrick to continue on faking - or maybe. Maybe it’s not a fake at all. Maybe he really is just exhausted. Michael could fall asleep on his feet right now if he weren’t so wired.
Patrick snaps his eyes open, though, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “Hey,” he says. His voice sounds even worse than before, gravelly with wear and use. Michael imagines fucking his mouth and almost loses his balance. “You don’t have to, like.” Michael’s half dressed already, pants already tugged up. “That was fun,” he adds, changing tracks. “You’re a pretty good lay, Phelps.”
Michael does not indignantly squawk, “pretty good?” because he’s pretty sure Patrick is just fucking with him. “Yeah,” he says instead, which is much smoother. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Patrick grins at him, and it’s not practiced or anything, something small and crooked, a pre-cursor to an eye-roll, probably. “I mean,” Patrick says. “Definite 8s all around. Pretty dece for your first time out.”
“8s?” Michael asks, sounding a little hysterical. This whole situation is hysterical. Maybe he’s dreaming it up. Weirder things have happened, he’s pretty sure, even though he can’t name any of them right at the moment.
Patrick shrugs. “The Russian judge, man,” he says. “She has a prejudice against Americans. Has since the 80s.”
“The Cold War was a terrible time for everybody,” Michael deadpans, and the force of Patrick’s grin is a little staggering.
Patrick eases himself to his feet, stark naked and uncaring about it, apparently. There are goose pimples all over him, blooming unabashedly over his skin and Michael only keeps himself from staring through sheer force of will. “If you’re ever in the greater Chicago area, you should give me a call,” Patrick says, and then he’s bending over the arm chair by the window and rifling through his pants for his phone.
His back is a pale, smooth arc, skin marred with the kind of scrapes and bruises that come from being a professional athlete. Michael eyes the dip of his spine and the way the pucker of his ass is a dull red. It makes his fingers tingle, and he swallows hard, needing to look at the wall to keep his composure.
“Digits,” Patrick says when he turns around, tossing his phone to Michael and holding his hand out like he’s waiting for Michael’s in return. Michael doesn’t catch it, because he’s got terrible reflexes, and Patrick laughs at him again, especially when, instead of throwing his own, he walks it over. If it’s possible to sound fond and mocking at the same time, he’s got it down pat. “You’re terrible,” Patrick says. “I have no idea why I just fucked you.”
Michael clears his throat. “You couldn’t resist this,” he says, gesturing down his body like a dork. When Patrick laughs again, he’s pretty sure it was the right choice.
“You’re not bad to look at,” Patrick concedes, and then tosses Michael’s phone back. He catches it, but it’s almost a lost cause.
“You either,” Michael says, because apparently he’s in the eighth grade. Patrick just grins at him again, though, so maybe it was the right thing to say for once. “Um,” he adds, and then, “your ex was an ass,” he blurts, because apparently this is eighth grade.
Patrick blinks at him, eyes going a little wide before he answers. “Nah,” he says instead of anything else. “I mean,” he laughs a little bit, but it sounds different. Michael watches as the muscles in his stomach jump. “Yes. He’s a dick, but it wasn’t - it’s a fucking cliche to say it wasn’t his fault, but it really wasn’t.” He scrunches up his face like he’s thinking really hard, and says, “It was my decision to see other people, so that’s what I did.” He holds his hand up awkwardly. “Hi, other people.”
“Hi,” Michael says.
When he turns to face him again, Patrick’s tugging on a loose fitting pair of sweatpants. “You should call or text or whatever,” he says. “If you want.”
“I want,” Michael says, probably surprising the both of them.
Patrick grins at him slowly, something entirely different as he says, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Michael says. He means it.
I'm not saying it makes a lot of sense, I'm just saying this is a thing that exists. Set at a Young Athletes conference in Washington DC that never happened, because I know Phelpsy has a house in Maryland.
one more mouth (also on AO3)
michael phelps/patrick kane
5300 words, nc-17
Thanks to imntsaying for the idea, gigantic for the 'round the world encouragement and 1001cranes without whom I'd be lost.
Michael isn't sure what he expected from the evening, but it wasn't necessarily ...this. "What?" Patrick asks. "I can handle this man, don't even." He has a plate of what the catering service is calling 'wilted greens' in front of him, drizzled in a cream sauce with a consistency that can only really be described as 'come like'.
Michael's mom raised him right, so he doesn't say, "It looks like you're eating three day old salad covered in spunk," but it's really annoying how close he comes. He settles for saying nothing, which serves him pretty well, because Patrick just keeps talking. He's got a little bit of the cream sauce at the dip of his lip, and that might be distracting to someone other than Michael. He's fine, though. He's kept his cool in way more intimidating situations than this one.
"You're, like, Michael Phelps," Patrick says, waving his fork around a little, like that could possibly indicate Michael's whole person. "It's not cheating if I'm eating it with you."
That kind of twisted logic could get a man in trouble. Michael knows from twisted men and twisted logic, considering how many times Lochte got him to almost try things fried on sticks in Beijing. "I'm just sitting here," Michael says, and then, because that's a little awkward, he gestures around the place, a hotel ballroom converted over for some Young Athletes of Tomorrow bull. Michael shouldn't even be at this thing, he handed in any potential young athletic title a long time ago. Also, he's retired.
"Also you're retired," Patrick says, gesturing with his wilted greens again. Wilted Greens? Michael thinks. Wilted greens? Wilted Greens? Is it a title or an adjective? It's probably good he's not considering a profession in the foodservice industry. The only thing Michael's really good at making is protein shakes and egg white omelettes and even then, his eggs are almost always a little runny.
There's a pause. Michael looks over at Patrick again and Patrick's staring straight back at him, brows raised like he's waiting. Michael doesn't get the impression that he's a motormouth, more that he just likes talking, enjoys conversation. Michael can't remember the last time he talked to someone about anything other than what possible retirement feels like.
Here's what it feels like: Michael has no idea. He might not be in the pool right now, but he's still going to more events than he ever attended while training and that shit is exhausting for a person who hasn't really had an abundance of free time since he was a kid. "Hm?" Michael says, because he's not polite, not really, but he can fake it pretty well.
Patrick squints at him and Michael takes a minute, wondering if he can lean back enough to see what the place mat in front of Patrick's service says. Michael's own reads, Michael Phelps: Four Time Olympian which is only embarrassing if he purposefully forgets that it's a title that will follow him for the rest of his life.
"Your diet," Patrick says, indicating with his fork again. The dressing is still on his lip and Michael is valiantly not distracted. He looks up at Patrick's eyes instead, and that might've been a big mistake, because they're big and bright and blue and Michael's always been a sucker for a color like that. "You're not eating 6450 calories a day anymore, not if you're not training, and somebody has to eat the rest, right? That's just math."
"Right," Michael says. He's not really paying attention, but it sounds good. It sounds - actually it sounds crazy. He snaps his eyes up to Patrick's face again to find that guy staring at him shrewdly. It's the only way to describe it, shrewdly. His eyes are narrowed, like he knows what Michael's been thinking about his mouth. Except - Michael hasn't exactly been thinking it, it's just the cream sauce and honestly, who puts cream sauce on a salad?
"You're not listening to me at all, huh?" Patrick asks, and he doesn't seem dejected as he sets down his fork, but he does look a little like he's about to start bugging the guy on his other side, whoever he is. Michael seriously needs to start paying attention to other sports. That's what happens now, right? Less swimming, more everything else.
So Michael says, "no, no, Patrick. Go ahead. I mean, I was - am a little distracted, but please. Tell me about my diet." He's wincing before he even has all the words out, but that's okay, he thinks. He's Michael Phelps. He has something like 53 gold medals at home, doesn't he? 53 gold medals and a title he will carry with him for the rest of his life. A life sentence, even.
Patrick's smirking a little as he leans forward, and he licks his lips, like he finally noticed the errant sauce and just couldn't wait for the use of a napkin. "You want me to talk about your diet?" he asks. "That doesn't sound very interesting."
"It's really not," Michael says, and Patrick's eyes flick up to his for just a second before he starts to laugh. He does it easily, rocking a little and Michael - well. Michael can objectively notice when somebody is attractive, okay? This is 2012. People aren't as stingy with their compliments as they used to be. "Hey," Michael says. "Do you want to get out of here?"
Someone on the makeshift stage is talking about mentoring the youth of tomorrow. Or, The Youth of Tomorrow; Michael can practically hear the capitals. Probably through sports. Possibly through swimming and whatever it is that Patrick does. Patrick Kane sounds like it's a name that could be familiar, but he could just as easily be a fly fisherman or maybe even a seat-filler that just didn't get booted out in time. Michael's pretty sure dudes with mouths like that have no business playing sports.
"Uh, please," Patrick says, and they devise a plan that involves a lot of skulking behind the huge potted palms that live in the lobby.
Michael makes it out first, excusing himself from his tablemates quietly, and thinks about just walking out of the hotel in general. Patrick knows he's Michael Phelps, obviously, but he doesn't have Michael's home address, doesn't have -
"Hey," Patrick says quietly from behind him, and Michael doesn't jump, but it's a closer thing than he'd like to admit. "Who knew the great Michael Phelps liked to skip?" he asks, but it's not - it is and it's not malicious. Michael doesn't know how to describe it, but the choice gets taken away from him when Patrick changes the topic quickly, yanking at his tie a little bit. "You'd think I'd be used to this fancy crap after so many years of wearing suits and ties for team dinners, but I still hate it." He looks a little embarrassed when their eyes meet, but he doesn't drop his gaze.
"Team dinners," Michael says, trying to sound confident.
Patrick rolls his eyes, but he doesn't look offended, so that's probably good in the great scheme of things. "Yeah," Patrick says, smirking. "In hockey, we usually have those before or after games. Sometimes on weekends, although you don't usually have to wear a suit for those."
"Hockey," Michael says, with what's hopefully a tone of: Right! Of course! That's how I know you! Except Michael doesn't. He probably couldn't pick a single current player out of a lineup if it was a life or death situation. "Sure, sure," Michael adds, because sometimes he just can't stop talking. "Of course."
"You have no idea who I am," Patrick says, but he doesn't sound mad about that, either.
"No." You would think Michael would have gotten the How to be a Better Liar memo when they were handing it out, but he missed it. He was probably in the pool, training. Shit, and that's not an excuse he'll ever get to use again.
Patrick clenches and unclenches his hands once, twice, and Michael would have to be blind to ignore the way the muscles in his arms cord. Shit. "That's okay," he says, and takes a step closer, randomly intimidating even though Michael's a good half foot taller. Maybe even more in these shoes.
"Yeah?" Michael asks. He has no idea how this conversation got away from him. Down the hall, he can hear the faint roar of applause from the crowd in the ballroom. They should probably get back in there, but for some reason he can't seem to get his feet to move.
Patrick shrugs, nonchalant, but in a way that seems a little forced. When their eyes meet, his gaze doesn't waver. "I kind of want to make my ex jealous. Do you really need to know who I am to fuck me?"
It’s not like Michael’s suffering from a lack of excellent moments in his life. It’s not even like he’s never been propositioned before. He’s an Olympic champion, okay? The Olympic Villages are rarely as bad as Bob Costas makes them out to be but - but okay, sometimes they’re worse.
“Is your ex here?” Michael asks, because he’s learned that asking leading questions is sometimes the best way to get out of a sticky situation. Also, he tries not to get too many incriminating photos taken of him anymore. He’s never been too chatty about his sexuality, but getting his picture taken while sticking his dick into a professional hockey player isn’t on his Top Ten List of ways to spend the evening.
“Don’t worry,” Patrick says, and then he honest-to-god leers, because apparently, along with being in retirement, Michael’s life is a porno, now. Good to know. “No incriminating photographs necessary.”
Michael blinks. “So he saw us leave?” he asks. That might be good enough on the jealousy front, right? Implication is almost as good as actual deed, for sure. Michael could still get out of this. There’s a protein shake and a DVR full of episodes of Breaking Bad waiting for him to get through at home.
“No,” Patrick says. “But a bunch of our teammates did.” He smirks again, lips curving over his teeth in this way that shouldn’t be appealing at all. “So you wanna get out of here? My hotel’s a few blocks over.”
“I,” Michael says, thinking of television and protein shakes. “Yes. Obviously.”
Patrick grins at him and says, “smart choice, Phelps,” and then elbows him in the side like that seals the deal.
;;
Patrick’s hotel is one of the boutiques, bigger than it looks on the outside and right in the middle of everything. This is DC, so the staff is discreet. Doesn’t even comment when Michael comes hulking in after Patrick. They’re alone in the elevator, which is a relief, too, and they stand far enough apart that this could be just a friendly transaction. Hang out. Something. Transaction makes it sound too much like Patrick is his dealer, and -
“I don’t, uh,” Michael says, and Patrick makes a face reflected back to them in the shine from the elevator door. “I mean - no pictures, okay?”
Patrick’s quiet for a while, and Michael gets the sense that he’s offended, but when he sneaks a glance over, he looks about the same. “You know how many times my sex life gets speculated on by Deadspin, man?” he asks. “I wouldn’t do that shit.”
It makes Michael feel a little bad, but not bad enough, apparently. He soldiers on with, “I just have less of a cover now. With swimming - ” Patrick raises his brows, like he just can’t wait to hear how the sentence ends.
Here’s the problem: Michael doesn’t know either.
“I know I sound like an asshole,” he tries.
Patrick nods, “It’s good to be able to recognize your faults,” he says, and then he cracks up, like spouting half-baked wisdom is suddenly the most hilarious thing he’s heard all year. The curve of his neck is really nice, though; as is the way the light glints off his hair. “Nobody forced you to come with me,” he adds eventually, but then the elevator is dinging and they’re at his floor.
So. If Michael were going to turn around and go back downstairs, this would be that time. “Hey,” he could say. “It was really nice to meet you and ogle various parts of you exclusively, but I just remembered I’m not exactly out to the press and I can’t be sure you’re not a gossip columnist with really great hands, so. Peace.”
He could say that. Maybe he should say that. What he says instead is, “I wanted to, yeah,” which probably isn’t the most eloquent thing ever said to get into somebody’s pants, but he’s fairly positive Patrick’s a sure thing.
“Good,” Patrick says, and then he’s tugging Michael out of the elevator, one hand circling around his wrist like an anchor. His room is only a few doors down, nice, if a little cramped, with two suitcases spread on the floor and one side much messier than the other. Michael doesn’t mean to be looking, but he can’t help the way Patrick’s mouth curves down at the sight of the mess. He says, “uh. Sorry. My roommate is an asshole,” and then drops Michael’s hand in favor of unbuckling his pants. “Ignore all that,” he says with a vague wave behind him.
Michael’s surprised by how neatly he folds his slacks, how he tugs his button-down and blazer off and hangs them both in the closet. Maybe he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he knows anything about this guy at all.
“You know,” he says, settling down on the edge of the bed in just a pair of dark boxer briefs, “this works better if you’re naked too.” Michael blinks. Patrick blinks back. Michael blinks again. This could go on for a while, probably, until Patrick adds, “No, so. Seriously. You’re hot and everything, but either you fuck me and then I ruin my diet by ordering room service chicken wings, or you don’t fuck me, I don’t preemptively burn off calories, order probably terrible room service chicken wings, get fat, and then never get back in shape enough for what’s looking like a truncated season. If there’s even a season.”
“Hockey,” Michael says, because occasionally he knows the right thing to say. This wasn’t the right thing to say, but at least Patrick smiles at him a little bit. So that’s something. He has a great mouth, even if he does lisp a little.
“Yup,” Patrick continues, a little cheerlessly. “Right as we speak, people who get paid way more than me and probably even you, although, seriously, you’re just one guy and we could probably go toe to toe for investment deals - ”
“Wheaties,” Michael says, cutting him off.
Patrick smirks a little. “NHL ‘10,” he counters.
“Subway,” Michael says, and maybe Patrick could say something else, maybe this is the moment where things could get more comfortable, but he reaches forward instead, tugging Michael closer by the belt loops and basically forcing him to tumble onto the bed next to him.
“Hey,” Patrick says. Michael can’t say anything, surprisingly winded, but apparently Patrick doesn’t need conversation. He scoots, hitching one leg over Michael’s waist and leans down to fit their mouths together.
He tastes surprisingly minty, like he’d been sucking on spearmint flavored gum, or one of those IceBreakers lifesavers. It’s not entirely unpleasant. Michael lets his hands settle on Patrick’s waist, surprised again by how pliant he is, how good it feels to span his hands over all that bare skin.
“Have you, uh,” Patrick says, pulling back. He’s breathing a little hard, twin pink spots curling over the tops of his cheeks. “You’ve been with dudes before, right?” he asks. He’s chewing on his mouth like he’s concerned, eyes a little wide.
“Just head and some hand jobs,” Michael says, honestly. “I let somebody fuck me once, but it wasn’t - ”
“Was it Lochte?” Patrick asks, and he’s cackling a little bit, a flush of amusement skipping down his cheeks and pooling in the base of his throat. He’s paler than he should be, probably, considering it’s only September, but maybe playing hockey means you don’t like a lot of sunshine, even in the summertime. Michael himself has only just recently come to appreciate sleeping past 5am.
“No,” Michael says. “Not Lochte.” Not for lack of trying, either, but the years Michael was interested, Ryan wasn’t, and when Ryan was, Michael -
“I’m telling everybody it was Lochte,” Patrick says, laughing again when Michael reaches down and bumps his knuckles against his bare hip. “Everybody.”
“Are those the same people you’re telling you fucked Michael Phelps?” Michael asks, and tries not to feel like a total loser, talking about himself in the third person. Patrick just laughs again, so maybe it’s okay that his jokes are terrible.
“I was kind of hoping Michael Phelps would be the one fucking me,” Patrick says, and he doesn’t flutter his eyelashes or anything, it’s not anything nearly that ridiculous or sexy. His voice isn’t even that great, just sort of flat and nasally, but it works. Maybe Michael’s just easy. That’s got to be it. “But yeah. You ever wonder where internet rumors start?”
His fingers dig tightly against Michael’s hips. “With you?” Michael asks, and he’s proud he’s only a little breathless.
Patrick grins. “Sure,” he says. “Let’s go with that.” They kiss for a while, Patrick’s tongue mapping the outline of Michael’s lips and then inside, when his lips part. He feels a little weightless, like he’s being had, and the wine he’d had with dinner isn’t doing a lot to help him keep his head.
“Wait,” he says, before he really realizes it. Patrick stops almost immediately, dropping his head back and raising his brows again. Maybe that’s his patented move. “Let me just, uh,” Michael stutters, tugging the buttons of his shirt open and kicking off his pants.
His limbs are longer, he covers Patrick basically from head to toe and then some, but he’s not expecting all the muscles he gets to feel, once their bare skin is pressed together. It doesn’t really feel like anything he can accurately describe.
“You good?” Patrick asks, maybe a little gentler than Michael’s expecting.
He’s still a little off-balance. This definitely isn’t how he thought he’d spend the back half of his evening, but he’s also not complaining. “No,” Michael says, and watches Patrick frown. “No, no, I mean. I’m good. Yeah. Great.”
“Great,” Patrick mocks, and then they’re kissing again, Patrick’s hands hooked over Michael’s neck like they’re cramped in the backseat of a car and this is prom night. Michael never went to prom, but he’s pretty sure the hotel room afterwards wouldn’t have been this fancy, or the mouth under his hotter or more willing. “Um,” Patrick says after a little while. “If you wanted to fuck now, I think that would be cool.”
Michael’s not hard, but he’s getting there, and Patrick helps him push his boxers down his thighs, using his free hand to smooth along the length of him dry. It’s not a perfect angle, but it works, it’s enough to get his dick interested in the rest of the party, anyway.
“Lotion’s in the drawer,” Patrick mumbles, spitting on his palm and starting to work on himself. His underwear are off, mixed with Michael’s pants and shirt on the floor, and Michael’s about to complain, maybe; this isn’t his hotel room, and this definitely wasn’t his idea, but -
But Patrick moans, tipping his head back against the mussed sheets and blankets, and Michael’s moving faster than he has since he got out of the pool the last time.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, because he’s not new to sex, but Patrick’s still pretty great to look at.
There are condoms and lotion in the drawer, but Michael fumbles a little bit, because he’s torn between looking at Patrick and what he’s actually supposed to be doing.
“Get over here,” Patrick says, and his voice is choked, a little restless. Michael gets over there, dropping a handful of condoms on the bedspread next to a bottle of Wet.
“Guess you came prepared, huh?” he asks, because making conversation is easier than actually thinking about fingering. That’s what’s supposed to happen next, he knows. He’s been there. It’s never the most comfortable thing, especially if you’re not with somebody who knows what they’re doing. “I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits. Patrick’s chewing hard on his lip, right at the dip of it, tearing a seam, and he exhales quietly, opening his eyes.
“I’m always prepared, bro,” he says grinning, eyes a little manic. “Slick up your fingers. I’ll tell you what to do.”
Michael does.
Patrick’s not loose, exactly, but when Michael starts to work his first finger in, there’s not as much resistance as he’s expecting. “Did you, uh,” he says, but it doesn’t even come out correctly, his voice lost amidst the groan he lets out and the way Patrick’s breath is stuttering, the slick sounds of his hand still striping his cock.
“Just keep going,” Patrick says, but at least he sounds equally as breathless. At least he sounds like he’s just as fucked as Michael is.
He works in a second finger, moving them slowly, because he’s really never done this before, really, really never, not to himself, not to women, not to the non-existent men he’s never fucked, and maybe it should be gross? Maybe it is gross, but all he can feel is Patrick’s heat spreading out around him and the tight clench of his rim curving around Michael’s fingers.
“Do you know how you feel right now?” Michael manages, a little proud that he made proper English, but not proud enough to stop moving.
Patrick laughs a little, and the sound is - he sounds completely fucking wrecked, voice choked in his throat and raspy, like he’s been running for miles with no release. “I have an idea,” he says, and then, “another, man. Come on. I want you to fuck me sometime this century, yeah?”
“You’re kind of an asshole,” Michael says, and then - and then they both laugh, and Patrick’s blushing, and it’s not fucking cute, because nothing about this is cute, but Michael still dips down to kiss him, braving the teeth just to taste Patrick’s mouth again.
“Um, obviously you like it,” Patrick gasps, and then Michael’s fitting in a third finger alongside the rest, and they’re mostly quiet after that, riding the sensation.
It’s such a cliche to say it, but Michael’s not sure how long they’re at it for. There’s no timer he can look at, and the hands of the clock are too small and too blurry from his location on the bed.
All he knows is that Patrick when says, “Okay, fuck, okay. Condom, now,” Michael breaks some sort of world record, tugging open the condom wrapper and smoothing it onto his dick in an almost fluid motion. Patrick doesn’t laugh, which is nice, but his legs are also fit over Michael’s shoulders, so maybe he’s not in the right position for it. “Fuck me,” he says quietly, meeting Michael’s eyes head on. “Do it,” he adds, almost like he’s taunting, and Michael doesn’t know anything about hockey, but that kind of persistence can only pay off, he imagines.
He slicks a palmful of lotion onto his dick, to ease the edge off, and when he starts to push in, they’re both entirely silent.
Michael’s never been with anyone like that. Patrick’s eyes are closed, but his lashes are fluttering with every push of Michael inside of him, and when he bottoms out - when he bottoms out they both groan, Patrick’s fingernails digging hard against his shoulders.
“Jesus fuck,” he says, dropping his mouth open on a groan. When he opens his eyes, they’re this hazy, liquid blue, and Michael’s not lying when he says he’s never seen anything like it before.
“You should see your face,” he says, but it probably doesn’t come out like that, the sounds in his throat snarled and mostly incoherent.
It takes him a while, but eventually, Patrick says, “Swear to god, Phelps. You don’t fuck me in the next five seconds and I’ll - ”
Michael doesn’t argue, just snaps his hips, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back all the way, and it’s definitely not the smoothest beginning he’s ever had, but it shuts Patrick up, so that’s something, anyway.
His thrusts are erratic at best. He’s not going to last for very long and they both know it, but at least Patrick seems to be enjoying himself, eyes heavy-lidded as he chews on his mouth, free hand working on his cock in time with Michael’s thrusts.
Michael’s not coordinated enough to jerk Patrick off and fuck him as hard as he seems to want, so he spends his excess energy mouthing at Patrick’s neck, not leaving marks, exactly, but licking at the corded muscles there and reveling in the way he can feel Patrick’s pulse stutter against his teeth.
“Shit,” he says, or maybe they both say. For the moment everything is a combination of sweat, curses, and skin.
“I’m gonna come in about ten seconds,” Patrick says, closing his eyes and digging his teeth hard against the torn up flesh of his bottom lip.
Michael hadn’t - the thing is, Michael hasn’t been thinking about the long run, or the end game, mostly he’s been concentrating on his thrusts, on the heat of Patrick’s skin beneath his own. “Yeah?” he asks, because it’s not like he’s up for sterling conversation, just now.
Patrick doesn’t bother opening his eyes when he says, “Yeah, but you can - ” he grunts and comes, a salty hot mess against both their stomachs. “You can keep going,” he adds, but it doesn’t take long for Michael to follow.
Michael blacks out a little, sparks whiting out his vision, but when he shakes himself out of it, Patrick’s still on his back beneath him, naked and sweating. Even his hairline is damp, and Michael presses a messy kiss to his forehead before he remembers that they’re still joined together at the hips, and maybe kissing isn’t okay after the fact.
He moves back, says, “I’m gonna. I should pull out now right?”
“Go slow,” Patrick says. “This is the worst part.” Michael knows, but he doesn’t say so, bracing his palms on either side of Patrick’s head and moving out slowly. Patrick turns away, pressing his face against the inner part of his own arm, and Michael gets it, he does, but it still feels deliberate.
They’re quiet for a little while after that, and Michael’s pretty good at ignoring the elephant in the room until the come on his thighs starts to stick. Patrick can’t feel much better, has to feel worse, actually, so Michael pitches to his feet and ties off the condom, dropping it in the trash and heading into the bathroom in search of a hand towel to clean them both off with.
Patrick’s dozing when he comes back out, freshly clean himself, and Michael makes quick work of wiping down his stomach, the stickiness on his ass and thighs. His lashes flutter once, twice, but he’s breathing a little heavily, and if he’s faking, Michael doesn’t know him well enough to notice.
“I should probably get going,” Michael says awkwardly, shivering a little as he stands naked in the air conditioned room. He’s half-expecting Patrick to continue on faking - or maybe. Maybe it’s not a fake at all. Maybe he really is just exhausted. Michael could fall asleep on his feet right now if he weren’t so wired.
Patrick snaps his eyes open, though, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles. “Hey,” he says. His voice sounds even worse than before, gravelly with wear and use. Michael imagines fucking his mouth and almost loses his balance. “You don’t have to, like.” Michael’s half dressed already, pants already tugged up. “That was fun,” he adds, changing tracks. “You’re a pretty good lay, Phelps.”
Michael does not indignantly squawk, “pretty good?” because he’s pretty sure Patrick is just fucking with him. “Yeah,” he says instead, which is much smoother. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Patrick grins at him, and it’s not practiced or anything, something small and crooked, a pre-cursor to an eye-roll, probably. “I mean,” Patrick says. “Definite 8s all around. Pretty dece for your first time out.”
“8s?” Michael asks, sounding a little hysterical. This whole situation is hysterical. Maybe he’s dreaming it up. Weirder things have happened, he’s pretty sure, even though he can’t name any of them right at the moment.
Patrick shrugs. “The Russian judge, man,” he says. “She has a prejudice against Americans. Has since the 80s.”
“The Cold War was a terrible time for everybody,” Michael deadpans, and the force of Patrick’s grin is a little staggering.
Patrick eases himself to his feet, stark naked and uncaring about it, apparently. There are goose pimples all over him, blooming unabashedly over his skin and Michael only keeps himself from staring through sheer force of will. “If you’re ever in the greater Chicago area, you should give me a call,” Patrick says, and then he’s bending over the arm chair by the window and rifling through his pants for his phone.
His back is a pale, smooth arc, skin marred with the kind of scrapes and bruises that come from being a professional athlete. Michael eyes the dip of his spine and the way the pucker of his ass is a dull red. It makes his fingers tingle, and he swallows hard, needing to look at the wall to keep his composure.
“Digits,” Patrick says when he turns around, tossing his phone to Michael and holding his hand out like he’s waiting for Michael’s in return. Michael doesn’t catch it, because he’s got terrible reflexes, and Patrick laughs at him again, especially when, instead of throwing his own, he walks it over. If it’s possible to sound fond and mocking at the same time, he’s got it down pat. “You’re terrible,” Patrick says. “I have no idea why I just fucked you.”
Michael clears his throat. “You couldn’t resist this,” he says, gesturing down his body like a dork. When Patrick laughs again, he’s pretty sure it was the right choice.
“You’re not bad to look at,” Patrick concedes, and then tosses Michael’s phone back. He catches it, but it’s almost a lost cause.
“You either,” Michael says, because apparently he’s in the eighth grade. Patrick just grins at him again, though, so maybe it was the right thing to say for once. “Um,” he adds, and then, “your ex was an ass,” he blurts, because apparently this is eighth grade.
Patrick blinks at him, eyes going a little wide before he answers. “Nah,” he says instead of anything else. “I mean,” he laughs a little bit, but it sounds different. Michael watches as the muscles in his stomach jump. “Yes. He’s a dick, but it wasn’t - it’s a fucking cliche to say it wasn’t his fault, but it really wasn’t.” He scrunches up his face like he’s thinking really hard, and says, “It was my decision to see other people, so that’s what I did.” He holds his hand up awkwardly. “Hi, other people.”
“Hi,” Michael says.
When he turns to face him again, Patrick’s tugging on a loose fitting pair of sweatpants. “You should call or text or whatever,” he says. “If you want.”
“I want,” Michael says, probably surprising the both of them.
Patrick grins at him slowly, something entirely different as he says, “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Michael says. He means it.