Fic: Brown Eyes
Title: Brown Eyes
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3642
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: Evan Lysacek, you just won the Gold Medal! What are you going to do now?
Notes: Thanks as always to the magical beta pixie :D And again, I self-pimp! Check out my etsy store to get your very own pocket Olympian!
He gasps against the unyielding metal of the locker. It's cool, unforgivably so, and he grits his teeth against the moan that threatens to curl up out of his mouth. But the hard, gripping hands on his hips, and the hurried pace of the cock working it's way in and out of his ass are just too much to ignore.
It'd be impossible to be upset with that kind of attention -both furious and affectionate- being poured onto one person. He reaches behind him, tangling his fingers in between the parted grasp of one of the hands on his hip until he feels a returning squeeze. Soft groans, quickening breaths, they stir the air by his ear and make his hair flutter with a maddening softness against his neck. A repeated sound that takes Johnny’s sluggish brain a few too long moments to realize what it was.
Its his name; repeated over and over. On every exhale his name is spoken while the inhale is reserved for some vain struggle for patience and control.
Evan was always crap at keeping a hand on things once his toes touched the edge of a precipice. He pumped the air even before he was off the ice, already declaring the gold his own, before the judges said the same. Control was a hard lesson learned for both of them, but Evan's obvious loss of it was at least humorous.
Johnny's loss of control tended to get him into trouble.
As a teenager, a flare of anger had his fist colliding with Evan's jaw when his subtle teasing went too far. That same spiraling out of control froze him still while the gawky teen tumbled to the locker room floor onto his ass.
He wasn't hurt badly, but there would be an obvious bruise at the corner of his mouth by the next day. Already Johnny felt his heart pounding in his chest, dreams fading before his eyes, as he thought about the reports of 'scandal from Junior Skating' that would send him off the ice forever. Johnny dropped to his knees, apologies falling from his mouth without thinking otherwise, as he cupped Evan's face in order to look him over.
Evan was just staring at him the whole time. Watching Johnny like he was a stranger, someone in Johnny-skin that touched him softly and spoke so sweetly with words of regret and remorse. Johnny knew his face was burning with the shame that seemed to boil over in his stomach and he acted without thinking. He pressed his lips softly against the reddened skin. Soft skin that would be bruised ugly and painful tomorrow, driving Johnny to close his eyes as he kept up the gentle pressure, a childish impulse to 'kiss it better' even though he knew the blooming purple color would be made no less stark upon Evan by the touch of his lips.
The stillness of Evan's face in his hands was what shocked Johnny back into his body. Not the warmth or the touch, no no, that wasn't something he needed Evan goddamned Lysacek for. No, he wasn't thinking about the kiss when he pulled back just enough to quietly meet Evan's surprised eyes.
He still wasn't thinking about it when he leaned in and carefully lined up his lips to Evan's own. Gawky and still growing into that big nose of his, Evan didn't always deserve Johnny's anger. Hell, most of it started as a jagged shard of his own self-loathing that escaped outward at the wrong time. It finished though, with Evan's hands grabbing at Johnny's hair until his fingers were tangled in the still barely blond locks. Bracing for a pull or shove, none came, as Evan made the sweetest, softest little groan and just about tugged Johnny on top of him.
They were teenagers after all, a good stiff breeze was probably enough to send their sex-starved, hormonally insane bodies into aching overdrive. That Evan wasn't letting him up, keeping him pinned close, let Johnny finally exhale something he had been holding onto so tight in his chest. He shivered at the feel of Evan's tongue as they shyly touched after opening their mouths like the stars did in movies.
That they come in their pants was no shock (hello, teenagers). That Evan opens his eyes, an arm still around Johnny's shoulders to stubbornly keep him close and whispered, "Don't tell", was a surprise. The sort of unexpected reply that echoes in Johnny's mind because it opened countless doors before him; some evil, some good, some damn good, and some relatively indifferent.
Looking down at Evan flushed and looking kinda cute all out of breath as he looked up at Johnny with those doe eyes of his, Johnny realized he couldn't hurt the guy. It wasn't in him to do anything but wipe the rink with Evan Lysacek.
That, and being vindictive causes wrinkles.
"Like anyone would believe me anyway," he confided with a smile. Evan relaxed.
Johnny couldn't help but steal one last kiss before they got up and left separately.
When they hit twenty, it happened again. God knows what they were really arguing about, but it got into a childish shoving match in some back room. With nothing but a coffee table covered in expired magazines and a battered couch to act as referee, they practically tore into each other while vainly wrestling before the height from Evan's growth spurt finally gave him the advantage over Johnny. He ended up pinning the other skater to the couch, holding Johnny's wrists by his head while the two glared and snarled at one another with the sharp edge of competition that always set their teeth around one another despite their best efforts at civility. Alone, alone they could mock one another without witnesses, or pounce -as they had- for just a bit of the pent-up physical release that cleverly disguised itself as horseplay between frenemies. It left them pressed from knee to stomach, breathing one another's hurried exhalations while Evan only squeezed his hands tighter at Johnny trying to free his arms as he grunted out his displeasure.
Then it was like a switch flipped.
A current must have literally crackled through the air as Evan was leaning down the same time that his hands finally let up and Johnny's arms were around his shoulders. They kissed like men starved, biting and clawing at thin, fancy layers of costumes after a dress rehearsal while fumbling for hidden zippers to reach hot skin.
Evan actually wrapped his hand around Johnny's dick, reaching down past clinging flimsy layers to wrap his fingers around the hard cock. Johnny's head fell back against the couch, his nails digging into the gaudy colors that were shoved down to Evan's hips. Questions of taste aside, the sequins dug into Johnny's palms with a sharper pain than his nails could have ever done, giving him a whole other reason to damn the idiotic outfit Evan wore. He closed his eyes tight while his heels dug against the opposite arm of the couch in order to press his hips up harder into Evan's grip.
He's jerked off until he comes, biting Evan's lower lip hard enough to taste blood. Victory tastes like sharp iron and the waxiness of Chapstick as his body shudders out the last of his orgasm. That he returned the favor is only... you know, the polite thing to do. Totally didn't have anything to do with the way Evan kept kissing him -where he learned to do that and from who, Johnny wanted to know- but just that he was brought up to be a good guy and good guys returned mind-blowing hand jobs.
Now, when he has the sourest defeat he's ever tasted on his tongue (sixth, fucking sixth, was just a backhanded slap of an insult) and the cool press of the lockers against his cheek, Johnny hates the way he needs Evan now more than ever. Cut off at the knees with a score just low enough to not get into the exhibition show. How convenient that technicalities always wounded him far deeper than any other. It's enough to make a person think about retiring and running away from all this madness.
Evan's breath against his neck is better than a cool cloth on his heated skin. The way he pants his name and fills him, cock hard and rough in this angle because of his height, is better than the burn of a good program in his muscles. That they only do this sort of thing after competing -keeping their fury properly pent up to release on the ice and then, in a far more amusingly Freudian way, upon each other- meant it was a rare sort of meeting.
Johnny turns his face against his arm, shifting his weight from his palms to his forearms in order to angle his hips out further. That Evan just follows, fucking stark naked and fresh from the shower, not wanting to lose the feel of Johnny's skin pressing to his own only makes him burn hotter. He comes when Evan bites his shoulder after a last hiss of his name, those wide sport-friendly fingers doing just the trick along his cock with an added dash of self-loathing at how pathetic he is for getting off with someone he'd been trying so hard to distance himself from. A deadly mixture of poison he's been playing with for years now- it only means he needs more each time to fight some sort of tolerance he's building.
He just bites his lip harder, blocking the sound of the other man's name as he's lifted up onto his toes when Evan's orgasm drives him toward one final deep, hard thrust.
They pull apart and Johnny turns around, leaning his back against the now warmed metal. It sticks uncomfortably to his skin but he ought to be thinking more about how he's leaning on the wet spot and if anyone walked in on a nude Evan leaning over Johnny Weir with his underwear around his ankles… well yeah, end of the world would only be an understatement. Never mind that Evan is still kissing him, that same way that he's always done for years, one hand cupping the back of Johnny's head, holding him like he's just as important as that damn gold that's waiting to be put back around Evan's neck.
Murmuring Johnny's name and soft exhalations of words that could be compliments. Endearing words meant to flatter and Johnny writes it off as pillow talk because oh god, does he not want to let those settle in and let Evan have something else to hold over him. Bad enough that he leans into those kisses. That his body sizzles then cools from the touch of those big hands. Evan doesn't need to know that the word 'beautiful' coming from his lips goes straight to that annoyingly empty spot somewhere in Johnny's gut.
Sliding his fingers through Evan's hair, Johnny watches as he kneels, kissing his way down Johnny's chest and stomach. Tongue darting out to catch a spatter of cum just beneath his navel while those damned hands drag his briefs up over his hips to hide his spent cock from view. Palming Johnny's ass as he makes sure the fabric lays smooth before looking up at him with those same fucking eyes that Johnny remembers took his breath away as a teenager.
Johnny believes firmly in self-preservation. It's why he pulls away from those warm hands and eyes that seem to say things he's been waiting years for someone to say in his direction. He walks away from Evan, opens his locker, grabs a clean towel and heads for the showers. Escape is the best way when it comes to that heat Evan boils in him.
Thankfully, the lukewarm showers here provide a minor relief to that problem too.
Hanging in his locker when he gets back is Evan's gold medal. Johnny looks around, hearing only the sound of his own breath, and sits down on the bench to hold the priceless award. It's polished, intentionally lumpy surface is aesthetically displeasing in nearly half a dozen ways, but still it brings tears to Johnny's eyes to hold it. His fingers brush over every engraved little Olympic ring reverently until he flips it over and sees a small post it stuck to the back.
'Talk over dinner? You know where I'm at in the village.'
Johnny considers ignoring the invite and keeping the gold medal and fleeing Canada just to spite Evan for thinking he needed pity like that. But the gold is heavy in his barely curled fist and it bites into his the bends of his fingers, as if taking a side in the debate of 'to be a dick, or not to be a dick'.
Damn medal wins, as his hair is still wet when he shows up, Evan opening the door to his private room with the enchanting smell of take-out Chinese food in the air. Johnny knows he's being wooed in some utter backwards way. On one hand, he could appreciate it, but on the other, it's a hell of a lot easier to be pissed than examine the flutter in his stomach the thought causes. He shoves the precious gold into Evan's chest. Whether he invited him over and left the medal out pity or spite, all it does is make Johnny want to scream and never set foot on the ice again.
Evan just drags him into the room, hands tight on Johnny's biceps as he pushes him up against the closed door. "Will you stop being such a moody bitch?" he growls. "Can't you accept a fucking white flag for once?"
"Sure you're not just trying to shove this in my face a bit further, Lysacek? Make sure I see who's the real winner here and bow down to the mighty Evan Lysacek?" Johnny is pushing against Evan's hold, but his height and grasp gives him the leverage to keep the smaller skater put. "Oh the mighty Gold medalist finally beat that stupid queer he's always been competing with, a true American fucking dream!"
Johnny's further comments, dripping with malice and sass were stopped by Evan cupping his face and kissing him fiercely. The sort of rage most would ball up their fists to take out on someone's face -like Johnny had done years ago, had always done- is placed in a kiss that shuts Johnny up, and then melts into something soft, simple, and Johnny sighs out that last wrinkle of tension. Its then that he realizes he's shaking, struggling to breathe without some emotional hiccup breaking that last standing levy after a fuck-all exhausting competition.
The gold dangles from the crook of his elbow, forgotten between them, as Johnny closes his eyes and follows the simple ease with which Evan leads. His hands relax from Johnny's arms, sliding up over his shoulders then down to his hips to pull them close. Lips brushing slower and slower until they're barely touching, brows together and eyes shut as Johnny eventually syncs his breathing with Evan's own steady pace.
"C'mon, stuff's getting cold," Evan says, so soft on an exhale. Johnny just nods, feeling warm and fuzzy and thinks that maybe his brain has gone all stupid from lack of oxygen. Or the cells are dying from the fumes of Evan's toxic spray-on orange coloring.
They watch Batman:Forever while they eat and Johnny nearly chokes on his fortune cookie at Evan being able to recite Two-Face's speech when he holds up the fancy party about halfway through the film. He has to hide his face, laughing that silent, choking sort of laughter where you're unable to really breathe from the hilarity. Evan punches him in the leg but it's worth it, even if the dead-leg maneuver was still aching later when the movie was ignored on behalf of Evan giving Johnny a fan-fucking-tastic blowjob.
By the time the credit rolls, Johnny's naked on his stomach, fingers gripping at the blankets, as Evan's behind him -inside him- moving so slow it's like some deranged sexual torture. Just enough to make his nerves sing with fire, to steal his breath with that impossible fullness, and press against that hot spot in him which makes him groan with every little bit of pressure. Evan loops an arm around him, dragging him up from the bed. He presses them together and Johnny shivers at the feel of Evan's breathing, slow but so labored, against his neck.
The sounds filter into words, soft promises that Evan 'had' him and hey, it's a special occasion. Maybe this night, Johnny can pretend that it won't be like every other competition where Evan owns him in a way unique unto his giant, dumb self. It won't be like the Nationals or the Finals, the ones where he lets go and Evan catches him only to let go all too soon after. The world spins, life moves on, and their post-competition sex high fizzles out.
He settles tucked up next to Evan when they're done and spent. Letting the guy drone on about nothing important just to listen to him talk. "You got a gold," he interrupts. Evan laughs softly, rubbing his face. "Dude, I know right? I'm still getting used to that myself."
Lifting his head, Johnny looks up at Evan and shifts to sit above his hips. That Evan's eyes first look a bit turned on -assuming sex, of course- is something Johnny lets pass as he quickly realizes that the position merely meant a more assertive point in the conversation. Johnny grits his teeth at Evan's shallow perception of his words. "I'm saying, you got the gold, we did our thing here-"
"Our 'thing'?"
"Yeah, the thing where we get all hot and heavy after competition from holding off and once it's out of our system you fuck off one way and I go back to my life." His hands point in opposite directions, thinking
Evan might need a bit of visual aid for his post-sex, post-food, post-win brain. Johnny knows he sounds, perhaps at best bitter, and at worst like he's pouting. That's not entirely the image of himself he's trying to make -he's supposed to be strong and focused, not clamming up like some weepy damsel- especially after he's already given in to the other man that night. Right now, he's supposed to dump Evan before Evan can do something like dump him as the usual predetermined loop of actions demanded. It's how he can get back on his feet, taking the first step to pull away before he lets himself get hurt again.
Evan puts his hands on Johnny's hips, fingers gliding up the lines of his stomach where practice and exercise have made muscles lean yet firm. "Maybe I don't want to fuck off that way," he says. His tone makes Johnny wonder just which one of them is supposed to be the one not pouting in this conversation. "Like you said, I got the gold. Maybe it'd be nice to breathe for a bit and you know… "
Johnny didn't; as the rest of the words were caught in some awkward mumble. He frowns and stops Evan's hands from their soft charting of his body -distracting, very distracting- holding them still until he can get the other man to look at him. Raising his brow, Johnny waits, as Evan's face blushes darker.
He clears his throat, "Date. I said, date. We could try that out."
They can't; their schedules will be shit to align and they both know that. But the words are enough to have Johnny let go of Evan's hands so they can resume their previous stroking of his skin. "Dating," he repeats. The word doesn't feel terrible in his mouth, nor does the idea in his head. While looking down at Evan beneath him, Johnny lets himself have a moment to mull over just what that one little word means. On one hand, they really don't know enough about each other to have more have more than a physical relationship. On the other, isn't that what the whole dating thing was about? Figuring people out and trying new, different things like… you know, getting chummy with Vera Wang or setting up an intervention to help Evan detox off the spray tan.
"At least you know I put out." Shaking himself free from his thoughts, Evan's subtle teasing startles a laugh out of Johnny. He doesn't resist getting pulled down, the other man turning them onto their sides so he could kiss Johnny's smiling lips. "You also have an ass that won't quit, which I do like in a paramour," Johnny adds.
Evan sucks his teeth, murmuring a soft 'Ugh, I hate that band' in between more kisses. For now, Johnny will let that go in favor of giving into that wonderful urge Evan has to nibble at the corner of his lip. Certainly, if he gives into this impossible plan, indulges in what's been a secret between them, then it's going to take a mind-numbing amount of work.
Granted, the sex was amazing. Johnny had rarely felt so good with anyone else -and blamed Evan each and every time, scathingly- and the thought of something steady in his life that wasn't always trying to kill him sounds almost nice. Training so far had been his anchor, his touchstone, since his life started to spin out after that first time seeing Oksana.
"Will you teach me to dance?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Evan just rolls his in reply. "Please, like you're going to behave yourself enough to keep your hands off my dance partner anyway. I heard she's Russian."
Author: louie x
Rating: R/NC-17
Series: Olympic Skating RPS
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Evan Lysacek
Word Count: 3642
Disclaimer: Ahhh... it's RPS. Tin hats all around?
Summary: Evan Lysacek, you just won the Gold Medal! What are you going to do now?
Notes: Thanks as always to the magical beta pixie :D And again, I self-pimp! Check out my etsy store to get your very own pocket Olympian!
He gasps against the unyielding metal of the locker. It's cool, unforgivably so, and he grits his teeth against the moan that threatens to curl up out of his mouth. But the hard, gripping hands on his hips, and the hurried pace of the cock working it's way in and out of his ass are just too much to ignore.
It'd be impossible to be upset with that kind of attention -both furious and affectionate- being poured onto one person. He reaches behind him, tangling his fingers in between the parted grasp of one of the hands on his hip until he feels a returning squeeze. Soft groans, quickening breaths, they stir the air by his ear and make his hair flutter with a maddening softness against his neck. A repeated sound that takes Johnny’s sluggish brain a few too long moments to realize what it was.
Its his name; repeated over and over. On every exhale his name is spoken while the inhale is reserved for some vain struggle for patience and control.
Evan was always crap at keeping a hand on things once his toes touched the edge of a precipice. He pumped the air even before he was off the ice, already declaring the gold his own, before the judges said the same. Control was a hard lesson learned for both of them, but Evan's obvious loss of it was at least humorous.
Johnny's loss of control tended to get him into trouble.
As a teenager, a flare of anger had his fist colliding with Evan's jaw when his subtle teasing went too far. That same spiraling out of control froze him still while the gawky teen tumbled to the locker room floor onto his ass.
He wasn't hurt badly, but there would be an obvious bruise at the corner of his mouth by the next day. Already Johnny felt his heart pounding in his chest, dreams fading before his eyes, as he thought about the reports of 'scandal from Junior Skating' that would send him off the ice forever. Johnny dropped to his knees, apologies falling from his mouth without thinking otherwise, as he cupped Evan's face in order to look him over.
Evan was just staring at him the whole time. Watching Johnny like he was a stranger, someone in Johnny-skin that touched him softly and spoke so sweetly with words of regret and remorse. Johnny knew his face was burning with the shame that seemed to boil over in his stomach and he acted without thinking. He pressed his lips softly against the reddened skin. Soft skin that would be bruised ugly and painful tomorrow, driving Johnny to close his eyes as he kept up the gentle pressure, a childish impulse to 'kiss it better' even though he knew the blooming purple color would be made no less stark upon Evan by the touch of his lips.
The stillness of Evan's face in his hands was what shocked Johnny back into his body. Not the warmth or the touch, no no, that wasn't something he needed Evan goddamned Lysacek for. No, he wasn't thinking about the kiss when he pulled back just enough to quietly meet Evan's surprised eyes.
He still wasn't thinking about it when he leaned in and carefully lined up his lips to Evan's own. Gawky and still growing into that big nose of his, Evan didn't always deserve Johnny's anger. Hell, most of it started as a jagged shard of his own self-loathing that escaped outward at the wrong time. It finished though, with Evan's hands grabbing at Johnny's hair until his fingers were tangled in the still barely blond locks. Bracing for a pull or shove, none came, as Evan made the sweetest, softest little groan and just about tugged Johnny on top of him.
They were teenagers after all, a good stiff breeze was probably enough to send their sex-starved, hormonally insane bodies into aching overdrive. That Evan wasn't letting him up, keeping him pinned close, let Johnny finally exhale something he had been holding onto so tight in his chest. He shivered at the feel of Evan's tongue as they shyly touched after opening their mouths like the stars did in movies.
That they come in their pants was no shock (hello, teenagers). That Evan opens his eyes, an arm still around Johnny's shoulders to stubbornly keep him close and whispered, "Don't tell", was a surprise. The sort of unexpected reply that echoes in Johnny's mind because it opened countless doors before him; some evil, some good, some damn good, and some relatively indifferent.
Looking down at Evan flushed and looking kinda cute all out of breath as he looked up at Johnny with those doe eyes of his, Johnny realized he couldn't hurt the guy. It wasn't in him to do anything but wipe the rink with Evan Lysacek.
That, and being vindictive causes wrinkles.
"Like anyone would believe me anyway," he confided with a smile. Evan relaxed.
Johnny couldn't help but steal one last kiss before they got up and left separately.
When they hit twenty, it happened again. God knows what they were really arguing about, but it got into a childish shoving match in some back room. With nothing but a coffee table covered in expired magazines and a battered couch to act as referee, they practically tore into each other while vainly wrestling before the height from Evan's growth spurt finally gave him the advantage over Johnny. He ended up pinning the other skater to the couch, holding Johnny's wrists by his head while the two glared and snarled at one another with the sharp edge of competition that always set their teeth around one another despite their best efforts at civility. Alone, alone they could mock one another without witnesses, or pounce -as they had- for just a bit of the pent-up physical release that cleverly disguised itself as horseplay between frenemies. It left them pressed from knee to stomach, breathing one another's hurried exhalations while Evan only squeezed his hands tighter at Johnny trying to free his arms as he grunted out his displeasure.
Then it was like a switch flipped.
A current must have literally crackled through the air as Evan was leaning down the same time that his hands finally let up and Johnny's arms were around his shoulders. They kissed like men starved, biting and clawing at thin, fancy layers of costumes after a dress rehearsal while fumbling for hidden zippers to reach hot skin.
Evan actually wrapped his hand around Johnny's dick, reaching down past clinging flimsy layers to wrap his fingers around the hard cock. Johnny's head fell back against the couch, his nails digging into the gaudy colors that were shoved down to Evan's hips. Questions of taste aside, the sequins dug into Johnny's palms with a sharper pain than his nails could have ever done, giving him a whole other reason to damn the idiotic outfit Evan wore. He closed his eyes tight while his heels dug against the opposite arm of the couch in order to press his hips up harder into Evan's grip.
He's jerked off until he comes, biting Evan's lower lip hard enough to taste blood. Victory tastes like sharp iron and the waxiness of Chapstick as his body shudders out the last of his orgasm. That he returned the favor is only... you know, the polite thing to do. Totally didn't have anything to do with the way Evan kept kissing him -where he learned to do that and from who, Johnny wanted to know- but just that he was brought up to be a good guy and good guys returned mind-blowing hand jobs.
Now, when he has the sourest defeat he's ever tasted on his tongue (sixth, fucking sixth, was just a backhanded slap of an insult) and the cool press of the lockers against his cheek, Johnny hates the way he needs Evan now more than ever. Cut off at the knees with a score just low enough to not get into the exhibition show. How convenient that technicalities always wounded him far deeper than any other. It's enough to make a person think about retiring and running away from all this madness.
Evan's breath against his neck is better than a cool cloth on his heated skin. The way he pants his name and fills him, cock hard and rough in this angle because of his height, is better than the burn of a good program in his muscles. That they only do this sort of thing after competing -keeping their fury properly pent up to release on the ice and then, in a far more amusingly Freudian way, upon each other- meant it was a rare sort of meeting.
Johnny turns his face against his arm, shifting his weight from his palms to his forearms in order to angle his hips out further. That Evan just follows, fucking stark naked and fresh from the shower, not wanting to lose the feel of Johnny's skin pressing to his own only makes him burn hotter. He comes when Evan bites his shoulder after a last hiss of his name, those wide sport-friendly fingers doing just the trick along his cock with an added dash of self-loathing at how pathetic he is for getting off with someone he'd been trying so hard to distance himself from. A deadly mixture of poison he's been playing with for years now- it only means he needs more each time to fight some sort of tolerance he's building.
He just bites his lip harder, blocking the sound of the other man's name as he's lifted up onto his toes when Evan's orgasm drives him toward one final deep, hard thrust.
They pull apart and Johnny turns around, leaning his back against the now warmed metal. It sticks uncomfortably to his skin but he ought to be thinking more about how he's leaning on the wet spot and if anyone walked in on a nude Evan leaning over Johnny Weir with his underwear around his ankles… well yeah, end of the world would only be an understatement. Never mind that Evan is still kissing him, that same way that he's always done for years, one hand cupping the back of Johnny's head, holding him like he's just as important as that damn gold that's waiting to be put back around Evan's neck.
Murmuring Johnny's name and soft exhalations of words that could be compliments. Endearing words meant to flatter and Johnny writes it off as pillow talk because oh god, does he not want to let those settle in and let Evan have something else to hold over him. Bad enough that he leans into those kisses. That his body sizzles then cools from the touch of those big hands. Evan doesn't need to know that the word 'beautiful' coming from his lips goes straight to that annoyingly empty spot somewhere in Johnny's gut.
Sliding his fingers through Evan's hair, Johnny watches as he kneels, kissing his way down Johnny's chest and stomach. Tongue darting out to catch a spatter of cum just beneath his navel while those damned hands drag his briefs up over his hips to hide his spent cock from view. Palming Johnny's ass as he makes sure the fabric lays smooth before looking up at him with those same fucking eyes that Johnny remembers took his breath away as a teenager.
Johnny believes firmly in self-preservation. It's why he pulls away from those warm hands and eyes that seem to say things he's been waiting years for someone to say in his direction. He walks away from Evan, opens his locker, grabs a clean towel and heads for the showers. Escape is the best way when it comes to that heat Evan boils in him.
Thankfully, the lukewarm showers here provide a minor relief to that problem too.
Hanging in his locker when he gets back is Evan's gold medal. Johnny looks around, hearing only the sound of his own breath, and sits down on the bench to hold the priceless award. It's polished, intentionally lumpy surface is aesthetically displeasing in nearly half a dozen ways, but still it brings tears to Johnny's eyes to hold it. His fingers brush over every engraved little Olympic ring reverently until he flips it over and sees a small post it stuck to the back.
'Talk over dinner? You know where I'm at in the village.'
Johnny considers ignoring the invite and keeping the gold medal and fleeing Canada just to spite Evan for thinking he needed pity like that. But the gold is heavy in his barely curled fist and it bites into his the bends of his fingers, as if taking a side in the debate of 'to be a dick, or not to be a dick'.
Damn medal wins, as his hair is still wet when he shows up, Evan opening the door to his private room with the enchanting smell of take-out Chinese food in the air. Johnny knows he's being wooed in some utter backwards way. On one hand, he could appreciate it, but on the other, it's a hell of a lot easier to be pissed than examine the flutter in his stomach the thought causes. He shoves the precious gold into Evan's chest. Whether he invited him over and left the medal out pity or spite, all it does is make Johnny want to scream and never set foot on the ice again.
Evan just drags him into the room, hands tight on Johnny's biceps as he pushes him up against the closed door. "Will you stop being such a moody bitch?" he growls. "Can't you accept a fucking white flag for once?"
"Sure you're not just trying to shove this in my face a bit further, Lysacek? Make sure I see who's the real winner here and bow down to the mighty Evan Lysacek?" Johnny is pushing against Evan's hold, but his height and grasp gives him the leverage to keep the smaller skater put. "Oh the mighty Gold medalist finally beat that stupid queer he's always been competing with, a true American fucking dream!"
Johnny's further comments, dripping with malice and sass were stopped by Evan cupping his face and kissing him fiercely. The sort of rage most would ball up their fists to take out on someone's face -like Johnny had done years ago, had always done- is placed in a kiss that shuts Johnny up, and then melts into something soft, simple, and Johnny sighs out that last wrinkle of tension. Its then that he realizes he's shaking, struggling to breathe without some emotional hiccup breaking that last standing levy after a fuck-all exhausting competition.
The gold dangles from the crook of his elbow, forgotten between them, as Johnny closes his eyes and follows the simple ease with which Evan leads. His hands relax from Johnny's arms, sliding up over his shoulders then down to his hips to pull them close. Lips brushing slower and slower until they're barely touching, brows together and eyes shut as Johnny eventually syncs his breathing with Evan's own steady pace.
"C'mon, stuff's getting cold," Evan says, so soft on an exhale. Johnny just nods, feeling warm and fuzzy and thinks that maybe his brain has gone all stupid from lack of oxygen. Or the cells are dying from the fumes of Evan's toxic spray-on orange coloring.
They watch Batman:Forever while they eat and Johnny nearly chokes on his fortune cookie at Evan being able to recite Two-Face's speech when he holds up the fancy party about halfway through the film. He has to hide his face, laughing that silent, choking sort of laughter where you're unable to really breathe from the hilarity. Evan punches him in the leg but it's worth it, even if the dead-leg maneuver was still aching later when the movie was ignored on behalf of Evan giving Johnny a fan-fucking-tastic blowjob.
By the time the credit rolls, Johnny's naked on his stomach, fingers gripping at the blankets, as Evan's behind him -inside him- moving so slow it's like some deranged sexual torture. Just enough to make his nerves sing with fire, to steal his breath with that impossible fullness, and press against that hot spot in him which makes him groan with every little bit of pressure. Evan loops an arm around him, dragging him up from the bed. He presses them together and Johnny shivers at the feel of Evan's breathing, slow but so labored, against his neck.
The sounds filter into words, soft promises that Evan 'had' him and hey, it's a special occasion. Maybe this night, Johnny can pretend that it won't be like every other competition where Evan owns him in a way unique unto his giant, dumb self. It won't be like the Nationals or the Finals, the ones where he lets go and Evan catches him only to let go all too soon after. The world spins, life moves on, and their post-competition sex high fizzles out.
He settles tucked up next to Evan when they're done and spent. Letting the guy drone on about nothing important just to listen to him talk. "You got a gold," he interrupts. Evan laughs softly, rubbing his face. "Dude, I know right? I'm still getting used to that myself."
Lifting his head, Johnny looks up at Evan and shifts to sit above his hips. That Evan's eyes first look a bit turned on -assuming sex, of course- is something Johnny lets pass as he quickly realizes that the position merely meant a more assertive point in the conversation. Johnny grits his teeth at Evan's shallow perception of his words. "I'm saying, you got the gold, we did our thing here-"
"Our 'thing'?"
"Yeah, the thing where we get all hot and heavy after competition from holding off and once it's out of our system you fuck off one way and I go back to my life." His hands point in opposite directions, thinking
Evan might need a bit of visual aid for his post-sex, post-food, post-win brain. Johnny knows he sounds, perhaps at best bitter, and at worst like he's pouting. That's not entirely the image of himself he's trying to make -he's supposed to be strong and focused, not clamming up like some weepy damsel- especially after he's already given in to the other man that night. Right now, he's supposed to dump Evan before Evan can do something like dump him as the usual predetermined loop of actions demanded. It's how he can get back on his feet, taking the first step to pull away before he lets himself get hurt again.
Evan puts his hands on Johnny's hips, fingers gliding up the lines of his stomach where practice and exercise have made muscles lean yet firm. "Maybe I don't want to fuck off that way," he says. His tone makes Johnny wonder just which one of them is supposed to be the one not pouting in this conversation. "Like you said, I got the gold. Maybe it'd be nice to breathe for a bit and you know… "
Johnny didn't; as the rest of the words were caught in some awkward mumble. He frowns and stops Evan's hands from their soft charting of his body -distracting, very distracting- holding them still until he can get the other man to look at him. Raising his brow, Johnny waits, as Evan's face blushes darker.
He clears his throat, "Date. I said, date. We could try that out."
They can't; their schedules will be shit to align and they both know that. But the words are enough to have Johnny let go of Evan's hands so they can resume their previous stroking of his skin. "Dating," he repeats. The word doesn't feel terrible in his mouth, nor does the idea in his head. While looking down at Evan beneath him, Johnny lets himself have a moment to mull over just what that one little word means. On one hand, they really don't know enough about each other to have more have more than a physical relationship. On the other, isn't that what the whole dating thing was about? Figuring people out and trying new, different things like… you know, getting chummy with Vera Wang or setting up an intervention to help Evan detox off the spray tan.
"At least you know I put out." Shaking himself free from his thoughts, Evan's subtle teasing startles a laugh out of Johnny. He doesn't resist getting pulled down, the other man turning them onto their sides so he could kiss Johnny's smiling lips. "You also have an ass that won't quit, which I do like in a paramour," Johnny adds.
Evan sucks his teeth, murmuring a soft 'Ugh, I hate that band' in between more kisses. For now, Johnny will let that go in favor of giving into that wonderful urge Evan has to nibble at the corner of his lip. Certainly, if he gives into this impossible plan, indulges in what's been a secret between them, then it's going to take a mind-numbing amount of work.
Granted, the sex was amazing. Johnny had rarely felt so good with anyone else -and blamed Evan each and every time, scathingly- and the thought of something steady in his life that wasn't always trying to kill him sounds almost nice. Training so far had been his anchor, his touchstone, since his life started to spin out after that first time seeing Oksana.
"Will you teach me to dance?" he asks, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Evan just rolls his in reply. "Please, like you're going to behave yourself enough to keep your hands off my dance partner anyway. I heard she's Russian."