Fic: Starstruck
Title: Starstruck
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3158
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: Evan Lysacek has just survived a red eye back to LA, only to find Viacheslav Romanov waiting for an interview.
Notes: I blame the wonders of this post where there's clips of the new BGJW (episode 8) :D Thanks as always to beta-pixie! Also, my dolls are still up for sale here where you can order a skater of your very own!
"Ah yes, here he is now! Golden Olympian!"
The Russian lilt catches Evan's attention, surprise on his face as he enters the lobby of his hotel and gets an armful of a blond Russian woman. Practically glued to his side, he blinks at the stranger, looking around for security and exits just in case it's some crazy woman who intends on causing him harm.
"I am wishing to do interview with you. My name is Viacheslav Romanov, you will do interview with me now yes?" Cattish green eyes flicker with mischief behind black glasses that have slipped partially down the woman's nose. Evan stares and stares at the face, the wide grin, and oh hey a bit of stubble there just under the jaw.
Oh shit, its Johnny.
"What, what are you-?"
"Nyet, nyet, you will not refuse me!" Johnny takes Evan's hand and drags him toward the elevator. Thank god he's without his flock of women, Evan thinks, though he's a bit concerned about being seen. Another reason to be happy with the man upstairs, the lobby was practically a ghost town that time of night. He'd just flown in on a red eye and really needed to get in some sleep or relaxation before Anna tackled him with more training in the morning.
"What is your floor?" the Russian accent asks, close enough to his ear to make Evan shiver. He wasn't paying attention to how close Johnny was still standing against him, seemingly content with one of Evan's hands lightly in his own. Evan wanted to shake the man, to tell him to take life seriously for once in his fucking life and get the hell away, but that smile had been long absent from his would-be rivals face.
So what the fuck, Evan thinks with a sigh, he can humor Johnny for a little while. Then he's out on his ass so Evan can sleep and try to ignore how weird his life's become.
Johnny is wearing a fur coat, subtle as always, with what looks like a snug fit pair of jeans, heeled boots, and a soft blue shirt that makes his eyes pop -especially with that blond wig. Fuck, Evan shakes away the thought and turns back to the elevator, as it dings in front of them, he's not checking out random Johnny in drag. Nope, no way, no.
"Floor, Mr. Gold, what is it?" Evan looks at the expectant gaze and rubs his face, "Sixth floor." Johnny pushes the button once he's shuffled both of them inside. Idly he hums along with the muzak playing from the speaker above them; even his hums have the hard Russian sounds to them.
Evan figures if Johnny wants to play, he might as well at least attempt to turn the tables and have some fun too. "So, Miss Romanov," he begins- only to be interrupted by a soft laughter, partially hidden behind a well-manicured hand. "Please please, call me Viacheslav," though Johnny pauses, obviously noticing the sounds would be a bit too much for Evan's tongue. "Slava, you may call me, since you are such the good boy."
The elevator dings and Evan offers his arm, which Johnny takes with a smile. "Okay, Slava," he continues, "What is this interview for? Usually these things get scheduled ahead of time so I can prepare." Johnny smirks, watching Evan out of the corner of his eye as they walk down the hall toward his room. "Nyet, nyet, Mr. Lysacek-" "Evan," because again, two can play at that game. Johnny nods politely, "Evan. I have found in my years of interviewing that surprises are better than not. That way answers are true and not fed out of you like candy from Pez toy."
Johnny moves his hand as if playing with an imaginary Pez dispenser and Evan chuckles. He swipes the key through the handle, waiting for the green light, and lets them both inside. "Ladies first," and Johnny lets out a pleased cooing sound as he sweeps into the room, turning on all the lights.
He tosses his coat onto the chair, showing off all of his skinny, long lines in those tighter than tight clothes. Especially with the way those boots make his ass look ridiculously perky… Evan snaps his eyes to his bag, wheeling it by the bed and kicks off his sneakers to stop staring at the other man.
Wasting no time, Johnny sits at the edge of the bed, straight backed and legs crossed. "So tell me, Evan," he pauses to take in the other man as the gray sweatshirt is removed and draped over his standing suitcase. "Tell me of your life, how it's changed since you win Gold."
"Well, I meet the most interesting of people." His catty reply is met with an equally put upon interviewer laugh; the kind that acknowledges a joke was made but only laughs to be polite. "You flatter me. I am but a simple reporter. Tell me, your life is very, very busy-"
"Quite," Evan replies, interrupting just to be a jerk, as he starts to unpack. He's taking care to put the folded things in the drawers beneath the large television, keeping his back to Johnny and his pointed stare. "Yes, busy, you dance, you skate, you talk to many, many people. Are you happy?"
Evan stands up, not expecting a simple, yet jarring question. Of course he's happy, just about rolls off his tongue, but fuck, this 'reporter' wanted an honest answer so Evan opts to give on. "Yeah I guess," he says after a long pause. "I could use to get laid more often, but who doesn't, right?"
"Yes, sex is very important," Evan will ignore the way Johnny's lips move to make the 'v' sound like a 'w'. "I am certain though, champion like yourself needs a big stick, no?" He enjoys, far too visibly, the way Evan's eyes widen at the question. Johnny laughs again, miming swinging a stick around, "To keep the women away? You swing stick, bat them off of yourself."
"Oh, oh," Evan catches his reflection above the small desk to his left. That he's blushing and behind him, Johnny still has that shit-eating grin on his face is both distressing and irritating. "I didn't understand you there. Your accent is a bit thick, bet that makes interviews difficult." He turns to face Johnny; leaning back against the dresser and watches as the man tips his head, soft blond curls bouncing slightly by his ear. "My accent, most find they like. It is different than what they are used to."
He knows Johnny well enough; the coy expression is merely the gun cocking as aim is being sured up. "Your opponent from Olympics, my dear Evgeni, he is quite fond of accent. Said it makes him think of home, of his lovely, lovely wife." Stupid Plushenko, Evan mentally growls. The guy comes out of retirement then throws what is probably the biggest bitch fit ever after managing one quad in the beginning of what was otherwise a boring, shit program. Shaking one's ass for the last minute in a long program does not, ever, deserve gold.
"That's nice for him," Evan grits his teeth. He's got to get back on the ball; Johnny's gained too much proverbial ground in this weird, fucked-up game. "Still, he was lazy toward the end and thought everyone would just hop on his dick for being able to do a quad. Hell, if you ask me Weir did a better program than Plushenko."
Now that got Johnny's attention. "Oh? This is what you are thinking?" Evan smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. "You wanted honest answers right? So honestly, Plushenko's ego needs to be taken down a notch and Johnny should have gotten to at least skate in the closing ceremonies. Guy set a personal best and people just seem to forget that." He shrugs, looking as nonchalant as possible while Johnny sits there, quietly stunned, before him. "I feel for him, you know? It's like, whatever he tries to do, people forget he's been a thorn in my side for years, knocking me down pegs by handing me my ass on the ice. Sucks to be him, people forget he's a skater just because what? He likes fur and pink and maybe swings a different way than most?"
Evan moves closer, this time leaning into Johnny's personal space. "In the words of a good friend of his, a nice woman named Joy, 'So what? Who cares?' Just because you might want to suck a guy's dick or whatever doesn't mean you ought to be knocked out of competitions because of some Federation bias against making skating interesting again."
Yes, slam dunk or fuck, a shot in the net while the goalie was in the DQ box. Some wonderful sports euphemism that meant he won and that he had the grounds to send Johnny on his way, confused with compliments, and Evan could get some sleep.
"You are… fan of Johnny's?"
Sitting on the bed, flopping over so that he could stretch out his back -too cramped from those small airplane seats- Evan gives a shrug as he looks at Johnny's back. "He gets a lot of shit that most don't have to deal with and still manages to be a good person about it. What those Canadians said about him? God, I would have like, exploded in a fury that ended in whipping my dick out or something." That gets a laugh out of him, a Johnny laugh and not a Russian one, which makes Evan think he's gained another point from the slip-up.
But, he forgot whom he was dealing with, while tallying up the score upon a board he was picturing upon the ceiling, and didn't notice Johnny moving until he was in Evan's lap. Now with those long hands on his stomach, fingers tracing a tattoo on his hip that was hidden by clothing layers -fuck that should not send a jolt to his cock, stupid traitorous body- Johnny tips his head again as if he's examining the torso of the man beneath him. Those eyes of his, hidden by long dark lashes trail up, up, as Evan forces himself to breathe normally until Johnny finally is looking right at him. "What part of the interview is this?" Evan asks, quietly.
"Interview is over." That sharp tone replies. The wig and glasses are cast off, dark locks shaking free from a tie underneath, and all three items are tossed to land on the jacket Johnny removed earlier. There's a gleam of sweat along his hairline, making Evan wonder how long Johnny had the wig on and how long he'd then been waiting for Evan to show up.
The whole stalker aspect of how the hell Johnny knew where he was can be overlooked; it's Johnny he's just… like that.
"I was just starting to like her too," Evan teases but is shut up with a hard kiss he's not expecting. Though really, it was Johnny, and he should have known. He tries not to think about how his arm fits around the narrow waist, fingers pushing up at the expensive tee to get at pale skin or the weight of that charm necklace as it hits his sternum with the sudden dip of Johnny's posture. Nor should he find it fascinating that Johnny's mouth still has a sting of mint to it and his hair, despite being a bit tangled and dirty, is amazingly soft beneath his hands. "Are you that horny, Mongoose?" Johnny asks, teasingly. Evan bites at Johnny's lower lip, giving it a tug that makes the other man gasp softly and that, shit, that makes his cock practically leap out of his pants to say hello.
"Thought the interview was over."
"Just making sure you're not making a convenient booty call out of this." Of course Johnny would want to be wanted; need to be needed. It was in the blood of every athlete to have to be seen as the best of the best, to stand tall above the rest for one special reason or another. Scandals weren't the best of footholds, but Johnny Weir was probably the most well known name of any figure skater at the present time for merely being himself. For not being a person who backed down and took shit from anyone -public fights with the Federation, taking on what became an almost smear the queer debacle by some loose-lipped sportscaster- and Evan admired that, really he did.
"If I said you could fuck me and even crash here, room service breakfast and everything, would you be happy?" Evan brushes his fingers through Johnny's hair again, watching the cocky veneer on those blue-green-blue eyes melt into something warmer.
Johnny stays until Wednesday. He wears Evan's oversized shirts and his little underwear beneath, rubbing sore muscles from Anna's dancing lessons on the large queen-size bed while they watch cheesy movies on the television. Evan feels pampered and appreciated, groaning when those hands rub his calves -sore from the Venetian Waltz- and throws his arm over his eyes. "I don't want to fly out to skate," he complains. Johnny just rolls his eyes, sighing a bit, "At least you were invited, you jerk."
He pinches the sore muscle and Evan hisses, pulling his leg back away from the other man's grasp. Sitting up, albeit slowly, Evan tugs Johnny closer and puts Johnny's back to his chest as he holds him in a loose hug. "Don't take it personally, you got other gigs lined up, and Plushenko's all rabid for your ass so you know you're always welcome on his tours in Russia."
While that's a minor consolation, Evan knows that it's the rejection of his home country -the one he's worked hard to make proud- that burns worse than any other opportunity before him. Johnny does glare out of the corner of his eye; mouth set into a sulk that Evan knows will take effort on his part to remove. He rubs at Johnny's arms, thumbing lightly the inner curve of his elbows, "C'mon. I have to leave in the morning and it'd be nice-"
"What? To get some action before you go shake your ass for Smuckers?" Johnny stands up, looming over Evan on the bed and puts his hands on his skinny hips. Evan knows he's a hairs breadth away from Johnny making a break for it and running out on what's been a rather nice few days of company, sex, and relaxation.
Fire is the best way to fight fire when it comes to Johnny; so immaturity will be met the same. Evan ignores his aching body and shifts his weight, grabbing at Johnny's legs and tackles him to the bed. Pinning him down from the waist up, though someone's been obviously watching too much MMA fighting as Johnny hooks his legs up and pushes, knocking Evan onto his back and is sitting on the taller skater's chest with a look of triumph on his flushed face.
"You gonna make me beg, Swan?" Evan asks, putting the game spin back on as that's comfortable for them. Fighting is boring, old, and something they're old hands at by now. The light teasing, prodding, and gentle shoves toward one another is new ground that's borderline flirting if Evan thinks about it for too long. Johnny is intrigued though and that leads to, thankfully, not verbal begging. Instead, its Evan letting Johnny fuck his mouth until all the moans he was purposefully making nearly sent the other man over the edge.
"God, I wish I could hate you like I used to," Johnny whispers against Evan's mouth while tugging Evan's clothes off so he could push his cock, only spit-slick, into his once rival's body. He's still wearing Evan's shirt, the material sliding down his back and Evan grips at it gratefully against the initial burn. Sensing that flare, Johnny strokes Evan's dick and leans his head down to tongue at his nipples. The sparks those generate leap along his spine and Evan plants his feet on the bed to better roll his hips against Johnny's.
They go at it hard and messy, biting and pulling, leaving mark after mark either by hand or grip. Johnny's pale skin was already showing reddened finger marks from Evan's hands on him, keeping him close and tight so his thrusts would stay deep. Meanwhile Evan's neck and shoulder was littered with hickies or teeth marks due to Evan's rapid pace just about tearing Johnny's control from his body in what's an all-too soon orgasm.
Evan bites Johnny's lower lip as he feels the flush of heat from the other man as he comes. The tang of iron, coppery blood on his tongue strangely makes him whimper and his dick jump between them. His hand slides down, jerking himself quickly as Johnny presses his panting lips down for deep kisses that he let Evan lead. Soft whispers of his name barely heard over the rush of his heart in Evan's ears as he came. Johnny was -yes, thank god, yes- still inside of him as his body gave that beautiful horrific head to toe seizure of tension. His muscles hated him before he even got to the hotel that night, he's going to be an utter wreck tomorrow since his leg still hurt even as he laid in the wonderful tingly, sleepy post-orgasm mode.
Johnny settles beside him, eyes shut and cuddled in to rest his cheek against Evan's shoulder. "I'm not mad that you're going," he says, more to a pectoral than an ear. "I'm just pissed they say there's no room for me but keep on adding other people. If I'm going to be lied to, I wish it'd be with something a bit more thought was put into." Evan kisses his hair, breathing in the fruity scent of the conditioner Johnny used and the sharpness of the sweat cooling on his scalp. "You could always just come as a viewer and one of us could sneak you onto the ice."
He gets a pinch for that, but hey, can't blame a guy for trying.
"I'm coming back next Sunday," Evan breaks the thick silence. "I could ask them to hold the room for me, you could meet me here." That gets Johnny to sit up. He shifts onto his stomach, one hand propping up his head as he faces Evan. "So," Johnny pauses to blow some hair from his eyes, "You're wanting to meet me here like some secret sex rendezvous? Like I'm an affair you're having out of the public eye?"
Evan hesitates; maybe that's not what he ought to be going for, but Johnny's already grinning. "I like that. In fact, I've got a whole corner of my wardrobe that I've been saving for a reason like that."
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3158
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: Evan Lysacek has just survived a red eye back to LA, only to find Viacheslav Romanov waiting for an interview.
Notes: I blame the wonders of this post where there's clips of the new BGJW (episode 8) :D Thanks as always to beta-pixie! Also, my dolls are still up for sale here where you can order a skater of your very own!
"Ah yes, here he is now! Golden Olympian!"
The Russian lilt catches Evan's attention, surprise on his face as he enters the lobby of his hotel and gets an armful of a blond Russian woman. Practically glued to his side, he blinks at the stranger, looking around for security and exits just in case it's some crazy woman who intends on causing him harm.
"I am wishing to do interview with you. My name is Viacheslav Romanov, you will do interview with me now yes?" Cattish green eyes flicker with mischief behind black glasses that have slipped partially down the woman's nose. Evan stares and stares at the face, the wide grin, and oh hey a bit of stubble there just under the jaw.
Oh shit, its Johnny.
"What, what are you-?"
"Nyet, nyet, you will not refuse me!" Johnny takes Evan's hand and drags him toward the elevator. Thank god he's without his flock of women, Evan thinks, though he's a bit concerned about being seen. Another reason to be happy with the man upstairs, the lobby was practically a ghost town that time of night. He'd just flown in on a red eye and really needed to get in some sleep or relaxation before Anna tackled him with more training in the morning.
"What is your floor?" the Russian accent asks, close enough to his ear to make Evan shiver. He wasn't paying attention to how close Johnny was still standing against him, seemingly content with one of Evan's hands lightly in his own. Evan wanted to shake the man, to tell him to take life seriously for once in his fucking life and get the hell away, but that smile had been long absent from his would-be rivals face.
So what the fuck, Evan thinks with a sigh, he can humor Johnny for a little while. Then he's out on his ass so Evan can sleep and try to ignore how weird his life's become.
Johnny is wearing a fur coat, subtle as always, with what looks like a snug fit pair of jeans, heeled boots, and a soft blue shirt that makes his eyes pop -especially with that blond wig. Fuck, Evan shakes away the thought and turns back to the elevator, as it dings in front of them, he's not checking out random Johnny in drag. Nope, no way, no.
"Floor, Mr. Gold, what is it?" Evan looks at the expectant gaze and rubs his face, "Sixth floor." Johnny pushes the button once he's shuffled both of them inside. Idly he hums along with the muzak playing from the speaker above them; even his hums have the hard Russian sounds to them.
Evan figures if Johnny wants to play, he might as well at least attempt to turn the tables and have some fun too. "So, Miss Romanov," he begins- only to be interrupted by a soft laughter, partially hidden behind a well-manicured hand. "Please please, call me Viacheslav," though Johnny pauses, obviously noticing the sounds would be a bit too much for Evan's tongue. "Slava, you may call me, since you are such the good boy."
The elevator dings and Evan offers his arm, which Johnny takes with a smile. "Okay, Slava," he continues, "What is this interview for? Usually these things get scheduled ahead of time so I can prepare." Johnny smirks, watching Evan out of the corner of his eye as they walk down the hall toward his room. "Nyet, nyet, Mr. Lysacek-" "Evan," because again, two can play at that game. Johnny nods politely, "Evan. I have found in my years of interviewing that surprises are better than not. That way answers are true and not fed out of you like candy from Pez toy."
Johnny moves his hand as if playing with an imaginary Pez dispenser and Evan chuckles. He swipes the key through the handle, waiting for the green light, and lets them both inside. "Ladies first," and Johnny lets out a pleased cooing sound as he sweeps into the room, turning on all the lights.
He tosses his coat onto the chair, showing off all of his skinny, long lines in those tighter than tight clothes. Especially with the way those boots make his ass look ridiculously perky… Evan snaps his eyes to his bag, wheeling it by the bed and kicks off his sneakers to stop staring at the other man.
Wasting no time, Johnny sits at the edge of the bed, straight backed and legs crossed. "So tell me, Evan," he pauses to take in the other man as the gray sweatshirt is removed and draped over his standing suitcase. "Tell me of your life, how it's changed since you win Gold."
"Well, I meet the most interesting of people." His catty reply is met with an equally put upon interviewer laugh; the kind that acknowledges a joke was made but only laughs to be polite. "You flatter me. I am but a simple reporter. Tell me, your life is very, very busy-"
"Quite," Evan replies, interrupting just to be a jerk, as he starts to unpack. He's taking care to put the folded things in the drawers beneath the large television, keeping his back to Johnny and his pointed stare. "Yes, busy, you dance, you skate, you talk to many, many people. Are you happy?"
Evan stands up, not expecting a simple, yet jarring question. Of course he's happy, just about rolls off his tongue, but fuck, this 'reporter' wanted an honest answer so Evan opts to give on. "Yeah I guess," he says after a long pause. "I could use to get laid more often, but who doesn't, right?"
"Yes, sex is very important," Evan will ignore the way Johnny's lips move to make the 'v' sound like a 'w'. "I am certain though, champion like yourself needs a big stick, no?" He enjoys, far too visibly, the way Evan's eyes widen at the question. Johnny laughs again, miming swinging a stick around, "To keep the women away? You swing stick, bat them off of yourself."
"Oh, oh," Evan catches his reflection above the small desk to his left. That he's blushing and behind him, Johnny still has that shit-eating grin on his face is both distressing and irritating. "I didn't understand you there. Your accent is a bit thick, bet that makes interviews difficult." He turns to face Johnny; leaning back against the dresser and watches as the man tips his head, soft blond curls bouncing slightly by his ear. "My accent, most find they like. It is different than what they are used to."
He knows Johnny well enough; the coy expression is merely the gun cocking as aim is being sured up. "Your opponent from Olympics, my dear Evgeni, he is quite fond of accent. Said it makes him think of home, of his lovely, lovely wife." Stupid Plushenko, Evan mentally growls. The guy comes out of retirement then throws what is probably the biggest bitch fit ever after managing one quad in the beginning of what was otherwise a boring, shit program. Shaking one's ass for the last minute in a long program does not, ever, deserve gold.
"That's nice for him," Evan grits his teeth. He's got to get back on the ball; Johnny's gained too much proverbial ground in this weird, fucked-up game. "Still, he was lazy toward the end and thought everyone would just hop on his dick for being able to do a quad. Hell, if you ask me Weir did a better program than Plushenko."
Now that got Johnny's attention. "Oh? This is what you are thinking?" Evan smiles, crossing his arms over his chest. "You wanted honest answers right? So honestly, Plushenko's ego needs to be taken down a notch and Johnny should have gotten to at least skate in the closing ceremonies. Guy set a personal best and people just seem to forget that." He shrugs, looking as nonchalant as possible while Johnny sits there, quietly stunned, before him. "I feel for him, you know? It's like, whatever he tries to do, people forget he's been a thorn in my side for years, knocking me down pegs by handing me my ass on the ice. Sucks to be him, people forget he's a skater just because what? He likes fur and pink and maybe swings a different way than most?"
Evan moves closer, this time leaning into Johnny's personal space. "In the words of a good friend of his, a nice woman named Joy, 'So what? Who cares?' Just because you might want to suck a guy's dick or whatever doesn't mean you ought to be knocked out of competitions because of some Federation bias against making skating interesting again."
Yes, slam dunk or fuck, a shot in the net while the goalie was in the DQ box. Some wonderful sports euphemism that meant he won and that he had the grounds to send Johnny on his way, confused with compliments, and Evan could get some sleep.
"You are… fan of Johnny's?"
Sitting on the bed, flopping over so that he could stretch out his back -too cramped from those small airplane seats- Evan gives a shrug as he looks at Johnny's back. "He gets a lot of shit that most don't have to deal with and still manages to be a good person about it. What those Canadians said about him? God, I would have like, exploded in a fury that ended in whipping my dick out or something." That gets a laugh out of him, a Johnny laugh and not a Russian one, which makes Evan think he's gained another point from the slip-up.
But, he forgot whom he was dealing with, while tallying up the score upon a board he was picturing upon the ceiling, and didn't notice Johnny moving until he was in Evan's lap. Now with those long hands on his stomach, fingers tracing a tattoo on his hip that was hidden by clothing layers -fuck that should not send a jolt to his cock, stupid traitorous body- Johnny tips his head again as if he's examining the torso of the man beneath him. Those eyes of his, hidden by long dark lashes trail up, up, as Evan forces himself to breathe normally until Johnny finally is looking right at him. "What part of the interview is this?" Evan asks, quietly.
"Interview is over." That sharp tone replies. The wig and glasses are cast off, dark locks shaking free from a tie underneath, and all three items are tossed to land on the jacket Johnny removed earlier. There's a gleam of sweat along his hairline, making Evan wonder how long Johnny had the wig on and how long he'd then been waiting for Evan to show up.
The whole stalker aspect of how the hell Johnny knew where he was can be overlooked; it's Johnny he's just… like that.
"I was just starting to like her too," Evan teases but is shut up with a hard kiss he's not expecting. Though really, it was Johnny, and he should have known. He tries not to think about how his arm fits around the narrow waist, fingers pushing up at the expensive tee to get at pale skin or the weight of that charm necklace as it hits his sternum with the sudden dip of Johnny's posture. Nor should he find it fascinating that Johnny's mouth still has a sting of mint to it and his hair, despite being a bit tangled and dirty, is amazingly soft beneath his hands. "Are you that horny, Mongoose?" Johnny asks, teasingly. Evan bites at Johnny's lower lip, giving it a tug that makes the other man gasp softly and that, shit, that makes his cock practically leap out of his pants to say hello.
"Thought the interview was over."
"Just making sure you're not making a convenient booty call out of this." Of course Johnny would want to be wanted; need to be needed. It was in the blood of every athlete to have to be seen as the best of the best, to stand tall above the rest for one special reason or another. Scandals weren't the best of footholds, but Johnny Weir was probably the most well known name of any figure skater at the present time for merely being himself. For not being a person who backed down and took shit from anyone -public fights with the Federation, taking on what became an almost smear the queer debacle by some loose-lipped sportscaster- and Evan admired that, really he did.
"If I said you could fuck me and even crash here, room service breakfast and everything, would you be happy?" Evan brushes his fingers through Johnny's hair again, watching the cocky veneer on those blue-green-blue eyes melt into something warmer.
Johnny stays until Wednesday. He wears Evan's oversized shirts and his little underwear beneath, rubbing sore muscles from Anna's dancing lessons on the large queen-size bed while they watch cheesy movies on the television. Evan feels pampered and appreciated, groaning when those hands rub his calves -sore from the Venetian Waltz- and throws his arm over his eyes. "I don't want to fly out to skate," he complains. Johnny just rolls his eyes, sighing a bit, "At least you were invited, you jerk."
He pinches the sore muscle and Evan hisses, pulling his leg back away from the other man's grasp. Sitting up, albeit slowly, Evan tugs Johnny closer and puts Johnny's back to his chest as he holds him in a loose hug. "Don't take it personally, you got other gigs lined up, and Plushenko's all rabid for your ass so you know you're always welcome on his tours in Russia."
While that's a minor consolation, Evan knows that it's the rejection of his home country -the one he's worked hard to make proud- that burns worse than any other opportunity before him. Johnny does glare out of the corner of his eye; mouth set into a sulk that Evan knows will take effort on his part to remove. He rubs at Johnny's arms, thumbing lightly the inner curve of his elbows, "C'mon. I have to leave in the morning and it'd be nice-"
"What? To get some action before you go shake your ass for Smuckers?" Johnny stands up, looming over Evan on the bed and puts his hands on his skinny hips. Evan knows he's a hairs breadth away from Johnny making a break for it and running out on what's been a rather nice few days of company, sex, and relaxation.
Fire is the best way to fight fire when it comes to Johnny; so immaturity will be met the same. Evan ignores his aching body and shifts his weight, grabbing at Johnny's legs and tackles him to the bed. Pinning him down from the waist up, though someone's been obviously watching too much MMA fighting as Johnny hooks his legs up and pushes, knocking Evan onto his back and is sitting on the taller skater's chest with a look of triumph on his flushed face.
"You gonna make me beg, Swan?" Evan asks, putting the game spin back on as that's comfortable for them. Fighting is boring, old, and something they're old hands at by now. The light teasing, prodding, and gentle shoves toward one another is new ground that's borderline flirting if Evan thinks about it for too long. Johnny is intrigued though and that leads to, thankfully, not verbal begging. Instead, its Evan letting Johnny fuck his mouth until all the moans he was purposefully making nearly sent the other man over the edge.
"God, I wish I could hate you like I used to," Johnny whispers against Evan's mouth while tugging Evan's clothes off so he could push his cock, only spit-slick, into his once rival's body. He's still wearing Evan's shirt, the material sliding down his back and Evan grips at it gratefully against the initial burn. Sensing that flare, Johnny strokes Evan's dick and leans his head down to tongue at his nipples. The sparks those generate leap along his spine and Evan plants his feet on the bed to better roll his hips against Johnny's.
They go at it hard and messy, biting and pulling, leaving mark after mark either by hand or grip. Johnny's pale skin was already showing reddened finger marks from Evan's hands on him, keeping him close and tight so his thrusts would stay deep. Meanwhile Evan's neck and shoulder was littered with hickies or teeth marks due to Evan's rapid pace just about tearing Johnny's control from his body in what's an all-too soon orgasm.
Evan bites Johnny's lower lip as he feels the flush of heat from the other man as he comes. The tang of iron, coppery blood on his tongue strangely makes him whimper and his dick jump between them. His hand slides down, jerking himself quickly as Johnny presses his panting lips down for deep kisses that he let Evan lead. Soft whispers of his name barely heard over the rush of his heart in Evan's ears as he came. Johnny was -yes, thank god, yes- still inside of him as his body gave that beautiful horrific head to toe seizure of tension. His muscles hated him before he even got to the hotel that night, he's going to be an utter wreck tomorrow since his leg still hurt even as he laid in the wonderful tingly, sleepy post-orgasm mode.
Johnny settles beside him, eyes shut and cuddled in to rest his cheek against Evan's shoulder. "I'm not mad that you're going," he says, more to a pectoral than an ear. "I'm just pissed they say there's no room for me but keep on adding other people. If I'm going to be lied to, I wish it'd be with something a bit more thought was put into." Evan kisses his hair, breathing in the fruity scent of the conditioner Johnny used and the sharpness of the sweat cooling on his scalp. "You could always just come as a viewer and one of us could sneak you onto the ice."
He gets a pinch for that, but hey, can't blame a guy for trying.
"I'm coming back next Sunday," Evan breaks the thick silence. "I could ask them to hold the room for me, you could meet me here." That gets Johnny to sit up. He shifts onto his stomach, one hand propping up his head as he faces Evan. "So," Johnny pauses to blow some hair from his eyes, "You're wanting to meet me here like some secret sex rendezvous? Like I'm an affair you're having out of the public eye?"
Evan hesitates; maybe that's not what he ought to be going for, but Johnny's already grinning. "I like that. In fact, I've got a whole corner of my wardrobe that I've been saving for a reason like that."