Fic (Figure Skating RPS) Such a Dreamer (NC-17)
Such a Dreamer
Figure Skating RPS (Johnny Weir/ Stephane Lambiel, NC-17)
Author's Notes: 1263 words. Dreams, trains, a hotel room, porn and sex. That's about it. A flip-turn ocelot to Leksa who betaed.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect on the personalities or behaviours of the persons mentioned within. Pure fantasy.
I've seen the worst of you too - Uh Huh Her.
Dreams on the train to Moscow: Johnny chases a blonde child, a boy, four or five years old, through a crowded market place, loses his way and winds up at the rink in New Jersey. He looks around corners, follows endless hallways, teeters on a ledge overlooking a cityscape.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, he travels to distant places in his mind. He’s sharing a compartment and that’s just uncomfortable. He’s used to sleeping alone most of the time.
Flash-forward past practice, the press conferences and the performance. Tonight is a hotel, with clean sheets and fresh towels. He’s not hungry but he reads the room service menu. It makes him feel civilised.
He should be dead on his feet. He should be asleep. His body is exhausted but his brain won’t shut down. He thinks about money, skating, the familiar ache in his back. He sits on the end of the bed in his underwear and flips through the porn channels on the wide screen TV. It’s not his kind porn but he watches it anyway. A blow job is a blow job is a blow job after all.
A knock on the door and he jumps. Flips TV channels until he find one that’s safe. Russian MTV. “Just a minute,” he says. He dresses in sweat pants. No shirt.
It’s Stephane. It’s always Stephane. It’s been Stephane since they were juniors, before they were champions, before there were fans. There are boyfriends (a girlfriend) and retirement in between, but in the end it’s midnight, a hotel room, a foreign city and Stephane.
“You’re not very subtle,” Johnny tells him. Stephane is bursting with sexual energy. He doesn’t watch for cameras like Johnny.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stephane says. He kisses Johnny on the cheek, lets himself in and sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. He looks less than innocent.
“I suppose you want to get laid tonight,” Johnny says. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the attention, but he counts the years sometimes and it makes him feel old.
“It’s been so long, Johnny.” Stephane pouts and Johnny leans against the bathroom wall, puts a safe distance between them. He knows this will end badly. “I missed you,” Stephane says.
In Sofia, Stephane kissed him. In Sofia, his back is against the toilet door, his costume around his waist. There are hands and hips, spearmint chewing gum, a kiss that goes on forever. Time, years, continents and at least there’s a bed now. Johnny says it doesn’t mean anything but there it is all the same.
“No, you didn’t,” Johnny says. He misses Stephane though. Skating is serious and Stephane skates like he’s in love. Stephane does everything like he’s in love. His enthusiasm is like a waterfall, spilling over and over in torrents.
“I missed you in Vancouver,” Stephane says. “You were very busy.”
The quilt on Johnny’s bed is orange. The wallpaper is gold and brown. Stephane is wearing tight black jeans and it’s like something out of a porno. The universe is trying to tell Johnny something.
He tries not to think about porn. “I need the publicity,” Johnny says. “No one pays me to sell watches.”
“Oh, poor Johnny,” Stephane says. He’s precocious; a man child and a coquette. If he were less earnest he would be manipulative. “You need to relax,” Stephane says. He pats the bed beside him. “Come sit with me.”
Johnny feels the stretch of the year between them. Twenty-five is a watershed year. Twenty-five and adulthood comes crashing down. Twenty-five and fucking your way through the elite figure skating world doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
Which reminds him: it’s Stephane’s birthday in two days.
Johnny sits down next to Stephane, their shoulders touching. “You’re going to get us into trouble,” he says.
“With who?” Stephane says. “This is not the Olympics. There are no coaches, no officials.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Johnny says, but he doesn’t know what he means and he’s out of excuses. He puts his fingers on Stephane’s chin and kisses him. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Stephane pushes Johnny backwards onto the bed. “Yes, you did,” he says, and he slides down next to Johnny, splays his fingers across Johnny’s chest. The room smells musty but Stephane smells like cinnamon and peppermint.
There’s no pretending anymore. Johnny puts his arm around Stephane’s neck and kisses him again. When that’s not enough he grabs at Stephane’s clothes, pulls his t-shirt over his head, and tugs at the clasp on his pants.
“Fuck me,” Johnny says. He’s impatient as usual. He’s not selfless enough to enjoy foreplay.
Stephane pushes Johnny’s sweatpants and underwear to his thighs, and Johnny wriggles out of them, kicks them to the floor.
“So romantic,” Stephane says, but he’s already tearing at a condom wrapper and positioning himself between Johnny’s legs. He leaves his jeans hanging around his hips, just low enough to get his dick out, roll a condom onto it and line it up against Johnny’s ass.
Johnny likes to get fucked when he’s tired. Stephane likes to get fucked when he’s winning. It’s not something they discuss, just a rhythm they fall into.
Johnny shoves a pillow under his neck and raises his hips a little. He’d like a quick fuck, something dirty and hard. Stephane isn’t that person but sometimes he's impatient. He pushes lubed fingers into Johnny’s ass, stretches him open, three, then four fingers. When he’s done, Stephane replaces then with his cock. One thrust and he’s all in. Just like that. Johnny bites down hard, clenches his teeth and whines a little. Not meaning to. Stephane grips Johnny’s thigh.
“Did I hurt you?” Stephane says, going slow. It feels good like this, his thighs stretched, Stephane inside him. Stephane’s eyes are deep and black.
“No, it’s good,” he tells Stephane. “It’s perfect.”
Stephane smiles when he comes. He’s almost laughing. No one else Johnny knows does that.
In the afterglow, Stephane is lying on his front, his chin on Johnny’s shoulder and Johnny’s arm under his neck. Johnny is on his back staring up at the faded silk lightshade.
The dream comes back in fragments. “Did you sleep on the train?” Johnny says.
“Yes,” Stephane says. “A little.”
“Did you dream?”
Stephane pauses. “I don’t remember.”
“I had a disturbing dream,” Johnny says. “I was chasing someone. A child. I looked everywhere for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephane says.
“I was in New York, New Jersey, my apartment.” The dream is a blur. The feeling is all that’s left. “It didn’t really make sense.”
“Dreams never make sense.”
”I know,” Johnny says.
Stephane hooks his leg over Johnny’s. “Would you like me to stay?” he says.
Stephane stays, sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on where they are, who they are with. In the end, they always leave.
“Yes,” Johnny says.
“I promise you only good dreams tonight,” Stephane says, and he edges closer to Johnny, lips against Johnny’s neck.
“I don’t believe you,” Johnny says. He trails fingers down Stephane’s back and around his ass. It’s too warm when they’re this close. Too much body heat and sweat. They’ll break apart soon, search for separate spaces in which to sleep.
“It’s a promise,” Stephane says. Sleepy now. His eyes are closed and his breathing is slow.
Their promises are always broken, but lies sound better than truth. It doesn’t mean anything but there it is, year after year.
End.
Figure Skating RPS (Johnny Weir/ Stephane Lambiel, NC-17)
Author's Notes: 1263 words. Dreams, trains, a hotel room, porn and sex. That's about it. A flip-turn ocelot to Leksa who betaed.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect on the personalities or behaviours of the persons mentioned within. Pure fantasy.
I've seen the worst of you too - Uh Huh Her.
Dreams on the train to Moscow: Johnny chases a blonde child, a boy, four or five years old, through a crowded market place, loses his way and winds up at the rink in New Jersey. He looks around corners, follows endless hallways, teeters on a ledge overlooking a cityscape.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, he travels to distant places in his mind. He’s sharing a compartment and that’s just uncomfortable. He’s used to sleeping alone most of the time.
Flash-forward past practice, the press conferences and the performance. Tonight is a hotel, with clean sheets and fresh towels. He’s not hungry but he reads the room service menu. It makes him feel civilised.
He should be dead on his feet. He should be asleep. His body is exhausted but his brain won’t shut down. He thinks about money, skating, the familiar ache in his back. He sits on the end of the bed in his underwear and flips through the porn channels on the wide screen TV. It’s not his kind porn but he watches it anyway. A blow job is a blow job is a blow job after all.
A knock on the door and he jumps. Flips TV channels until he find one that’s safe. Russian MTV. “Just a minute,” he says. He dresses in sweat pants. No shirt.
It’s Stephane. It’s always Stephane. It’s been Stephane since they were juniors, before they were champions, before there were fans. There are boyfriends (a girlfriend) and retirement in between, but in the end it’s midnight, a hotel room, a foreign city and Stephane.
“You’re not very subtle,” Johnny tells him. Stephane is bursting with sexual energy. He doesn’t watch for cameras like Johnny.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stephane says. He kisses Johnny on the cheek, lets himself in and sits on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his hands. He looks less than innocent.
“I suppose you want to get laid tonight,” Johnny says. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the attention, but he counts the years sometimes and it makes him feel old.
“It’s been so long, Johnny.” Stephane pouts and Johnny leans against the bathroom wall, puts a safe distance between them. He knows this will end badly. “I missed you,” Stephane says.
In Sofia, Stephane kissed him. In Sofia, his back is against the toilet door, his costume around his waist. There are hands and hips, spearmint chewing gum, a kiss that goes on forever. Time, years, continents and at least there’s a bed now. Johnny says it doesn’t mean anything but there it is all the same.
“No, you didn’t,” Johnny says. He misses Stephane though. Skating is serious and Stephane skates like he’s in love. Stephane does everything like he’s in love. His enthusiasm is like a waterfall, spilling over and over in torrents.
“I missed you in Vancouver,” Stephane says. “You were very busy.”
The quilt on Johnny’s bed is orange. The wallpaper is gold and brown. Stephane is wearing tight black jeans and it’s like something out of a porno. The universe is trying to tell Johnny something.
He tries not to think about porn. “I need the publicity,” Johnny says. “No one pays me to sell watches.”
“Oh, poor Johnny,” Stephane says. He’s precocious; a man child and a coquette. If he were less earnest he would be manipulative. “You need to relax,” Stephane says. He pats the bed beside him. “Come sit with me.”
Johnny feels the stretch of the year between them. Twenty-five is a watershed year. Twenty-five and adulthood comes crashing down. Twenty-five and fucking your way through the elite figure skating world doesn’t seem like such a good idea anymore.
Which reminds him: it’s Stephane’s birthday in two days.
Johnny sits down next to Stephane, their shoulders touching. “You’re going to get us into trouble,” he says.
“With who?” Stephane says. “This is not the Olympics. There are no coaches, no officials.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Johnny says, but he doesn’t know what he means and he’s out of excuses. He puts his fingers on Stephane’s chin and kisses him. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I didn’t get you anything.”
Stephane pushes Johnny backwards onto the bed. “Yes, you did,” he says, and he slides down next to Johnny, splays his fingers across Johnny’s chest. The room smells musty but Stephane smells like cinnamon and peppermint.
There’s no pretending anymore. Johnny puts his arm around Stephane’s neck and kisses him again. When that’s not enough he grabs at Stephane’s clothes, pulls his t-shirt over his head, and tugs at the clasp on his pants.
“Fuck me,” Johnny says. He’s impatient as usual. He’s not selfless enough to enjoy foreplay.
Stephane pushes Johnny’s sweatpants and underwear to his thighs, and Johnny wriggles out of them, kicks them to the floor.
“So romantic,” Stephane says, but he’s already tearing at a condom wrapper and positioning himself between Johnny’s legs. He leaves his jeans hanging around his hips, just low enough to get his dick out, roll a condom onto it and line it up against Johnny’s ass.
Johnny likes to get fucked when he’s tired. Stephane likes to get fucked when he’s winning. It’s not something they discuss, just a rhythm they fall into.
Johnny shoves a pillow under his neck and raises his hips a little. He’d like a quick fuck, something dirty and hard. Stephane isn’t that person but sometimes he's impatient. He pushes lubed fingers into Johnny’s ass, stretches him open, three, then four fingers. When he’s done, Stephane replaces then with his cock. One thrust and he’s all in. Just like that. Johnny bites down hard, clenches his teeth and whines a little. Not meaning to. Stephane grips Johnny’s thigh.
“Did I hurt you?” Stephane says, going slow. It feels good like this, his thighs stretched, Stephane inside him. Stephane’s eyes are deep and black.
“No, it’s good,” he tells Stephane. “It’s perfect.”
Stephane smiles when he comes. He’s almost laughing. No one else Johnny knows does that.
In the afterglow, Stephane is lying on his front, his chin on Johnny’s shoulder and Johnny’s arm under his neck. Johnny is on his back staring up at the faded silk lightshade.
The dream comes back in fragments. “Did you sleep on the train?” Johnny says.
“Yes,” Stephane says. “A little.”
“Did you dream?”
Stephane pauses. “I don’t remember.”
“I had a disturbing dream,” Johnny says. “I was chasing someone. A child. I looked everywhere for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephane says.
“I was in New York, New Jersey, my apartment.” The dream is a blur. The feeling is all that’s left. “It didn’t really make sense.”
“Dreams never make sense.”
”I know,” Johnny says.
Stephane hooks his leg over Johnny’s. “Would you like me to stay?” he says.
Stephane stays, sometimes he doesn’t. It depends on where they are, who they are with. In the end, they always leave.
“Yes,” Johnny says.
“I promise you only good dreams tonight,” Stephane says, and he edges closer to Johnny, lips against Johnny’s neck.
“I don’t believe you,” Johnny says. He trails fingers down Stephane’s back and around his ass. It’s too warm when they’re this close. Too much body heat and sweat. They’ll break apart soon, search for separate spaces in which to sleep.
“It’s a promise,” Stephane says. Sleepy now. His eyes are closed and his breathing is slow.
Their promises are always broken, but lies sound better than truth. It doesn’t mean anything but there it is, year after year.
End.