Fic (Figure Skating RPS): Truth Waits (Johnny Weir/ Stéphane Lambiel, NC-17)
Truth Waits
Figure Skating RPS (Johnny Weir/ Stéphane Lambiel, NC-17)
Author's Notes: 2458 words. Truth or Dare and vodka. Circa Festa. With undying thanks to leksa who betaed and listened to me whine about not being able to come up with a title.
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.
Stéphane remembers being drunk in Lausanne. He remembers drinking, dancing, singing in the taxi on the way home. The night a blur. The town a kaleidoscope around him.
He wishes he was dancing now. Alcohol fuels his need to move. He pulls his knees against his chest and leans forward, stretching his thigh muscles. He’s been sitting on the floor too long.
Across the room Johnny and Alissa are sharing a bottle of Absolut. Jeremy has a beer. It's Seoul and it’s raining outside so Stéphane offered up his hotel room for the opening night party. No dancing though. No dance floor.
Johnny hands Stéphane the bottle and he pours himself a shot. No ice. No mixer. Alissa took all the juice because she refuses to drink vodka neat. The Canadians had wine earlier. They left after Shizuka. It was a nice party, but it’s getting later and their numbers are steadily dwindling.
There’s a strange mood hanging about the group tonight. This is Seoul. This is 2009. Everything changes this year. Stéphane's struck by an urge to speed up time, to be here one year later with the Olympics behind them. Will they still drink together then?
He sips his vodka. Not too fast. No one wants to watch a hungover skater. Water next. He'll pace himself.
"Midnight," Johnny says, looking at the clock by the bed. It says 12.01. Johnny’s dressed in black from head to toe but he’s taken his shoes off, his bare feet tucked up against his thigh. He looks like a dancer. “Must be time to play truth or dare."
"Oh," Alissa says. "I'm not playing truth or dare with gay boys."
"Stéphane doesn't like to be labelled,” Johnny says. He gives Stéphane a look and Stéphane rolls his eyes. They've had this conversation before. “And what’s wrong with playing truth or dare with gay boys?”
"There's always kissing involved," Alissa says. "And I feel left out. Besides, I'm tired." She gets to her feet. "I'm going back to my room."
"Me too," Jeremy says, putting his beer on the floor. "I mean, my room. Not Alissa's."
"No one thought you meant my room, Jeremy," Alissa says.
They leave together. Alissa knocks Jeremy's empty bottle over as she passes it. Doesn't seem to notice. When they're gone, Stéphane rights it again. Just to focus on something.
Johnny pours vodka into his glass. "Truth or dare, Stéphane."
"Shouldn't there be more people?" Stéphane says. He doesn’t miss the others. Johnny is familiar. A pattern Stéphane falls into.
"Two is enough," Johnny says. "Truth or dare."
Johnny is sitting against the wall, underneath the window, the bottle of Absolut next to his arm. He’s holding his drink in both hands.
Stéphane is sitting against the bed. If they stretched their legs, their toes would touch. Maybe.
"Truth."
"Did you really sleep with Carolina Kostner?"
"Dare," Stéphane says. He's not having that conversation again.
Johnny looks at the ceiling like he’s thinking. "You have to speak in an American accent for the rest of the night," he says.
"Only if you speak in a Swiss accent."
"Too obscure," Johnny says. "And besides, it's my dare."
"Truth or dahr, Jahnny," Stéphane says. It's a terrible accent. He’s not really trying.
Johnny laughs. "Truth," Johnny says. "And that's awful."
"How many languages do you speak?" Stéphane says. He'd have a valid point if he hadn't said it in a woeful American accent. But it makes Johnny laugh. Stéphane likes to see Johnny laugh.
"Okay," Johnny says, holding up his hands in surrender. "You can stop now."
"Truth," Stéphane says. His own accent this time. "Did you sleep with Brian?"
"What?" Johnny says. "No. Did you?"
"It's not my turn," Stéphane says.
"Okay. Truth or dare. Truth. Did you sleep with Brian?"
"No," Stéphane says.
"Well, maybe he's straight after all," Johnny says. "What made you think I did?"
"I don't know," Stéphane says. He looks at the bottle Jeremy left on the floor. Stéphane reads into looks and conversations sometimes and Johnny always has a way about him. It makes Stéphane's head spin.
Johnny holds up the bottle of Absolut. “Another drink?” he says. “And it’s your turn.”
Stéphane shakes his head. He still has a mouthful of vodka in his glass. He puts it on the floor. “Truth or dare.”
Johnny is pouring himself another. How many is that? Stéphane isn’t counting. Johnny gets giggly after a glass of champagne. Stéphane should remind him of that. He doesn’t.
“Dare,” Johnny says. “My truth is boring.” His sips his vodka delicately. So precise.
“Kiss me,” Stéphane says.
Johnny raises his eyebrows. “Cliche much?”
“You didn’t say I had to be original,” Stéphane says.
“Fine,” Johnny says. He puts his drink on the floor next to the Absolut and leans forward onto his hands, crawls toward Stéphane cat-like. He kisses Stéphane lightly, a press of lips against lips. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for Stéphane to close his eyes and open his mouth a little. Enough to want more.
Johnny crawls slowly back to his spot under the window, a look of satisfaction on his face. He enjoys being a tease. “Truth or dare?” he says.
Stéphane would like to think about the kiss a little longer. It feels warm, the taste of Johnny lingering on his lips. Stéphane drinks the remaining vodka in his glass, washes Johnny away. “Dare,” he says eventually. “My truth is boring too.”
"Show me your underwear."
Stéphane shrugs and drags the waist band of his jeans down on one side, just low enough to see the Frankie Morello logo on his underpants.
"Not good enough," Johnny says.
"I showed you my underwear," Stéphane says.
"You showed me a piece of your underwear," Johnny says. "Drop your pants and show me the whole thing."
Stéphane doesn’t pretend to be modest. He stands up, undoes his belt and drops his pants around his thighs.
Johnny looks at Stéphane’s crotch and takes a sip of his vodka. “Nice,” he says.
The whole process in reverse: Frankie Morellos, pants, belt, the floor again. Stéphane’s groin stirs a little, vaguely aroused. This is what Johnny wanted. He knows how to tease.
“Truth or dare,” Stéphane says.
“Truth,” Johnny says, and he smirks a little. Still teasing.
Stéphane looks at the floor and searches his memory for a question. There was a boy at the rink in New Jersey. Just once. There was something there maybe, but it must have been brief. Stéphane doesn’t care about the fly-by-nights.
He can’t think of a question. It’s a silly game. What is truth anyway?
"What do you call this?" Stéphane says.
“A hotel?” Johnny says.
“No,” Stéphane says. “I mean - us.” There has to be a word for it.
“Seriously?” Johnny says. “That’s your question?”
“The truth,” Stéphane says. He counts the number of times they’ve been here. In hotels, playing games. It’s useless. The memories blur.
"I don't know," Johnny says. "Don't you have fuck buddies in Switzerland?"
Fuck buddies. Friends who fuck. It sounds easy.
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes,” Johnny says. He frowns. “No. Does it matter?”
Does anything matter? Stéphane’s head feels light, stuffed with cotton. In Lausanne, in a taxi, he kissed a boy with green eyes and thought of Johnny. The resemblance ended there. Maybe all boys make him think of Johnny?
What was the question?
“I’m drunk,” Stéphane says. It isn’t a bad feeling.
“Me too,” Johnny says.
They laugh. They’re both so easy. “I wish I had stayed in New Jersey,” Stéphane says. “I wanted you to show me New York.”
“I’m glad you left,” Johnny says. “I’m not nice when I’m losing. It isn’t pretty.”
“If I had been there, maybe it would have been different?” He doesn’t even know why he’s saying that. It’s weird. He feels like he failed in America. Try something different and it blows up in your face.
“You can’t perform miracles,” Johnny says. “You’re not that amazing.”
“I would have married you,” Stéphane says. “Then you could skate for Switzerland.” He laughs. The idea. The media would fall all over themselves.
“Now I wish you had stayed,” Johnny says, laughing too. “I would have designed our wedding outfits.”
“You would love Lausanne,” Stéphane says.
"I’m sure I would,” Johnny says. He looks at the vodka bottle on the floor. “One more?”
“Okay,” Stéphane says.
Johnny pours them both a mouthful and they drink it fast. Stéphane leans his head back on the bed. The vodka is warm and the night is long. He wants to hold on to that feeling.
“Is it my turn?” Johnny says.
"I think so."
"Dare only,” Johnny says. “Take off your clothes."
“That’s against the rules.”
“Fuck the rules,” Johnny says. “I want you naked.”
Johnny’s serious and Stéphane is too aroused to protest. He stands up, takes his T-shirt off first, pants and underwear next. Too fast. Not much of a striptease.
When he’s done, he holds out his hands out in a “is this what you want” pose. His dick stirs again. It’s obvious now. No hiding under his pants.
Johnny crawls across the floor, less cat-like this time, and comes to a kneeling position in front of Stéphane. He looks up briefly, their eyes meet, and Johnny takes Stéphane’s cock in his mouth.
A flash of a memory: another hotel room. Johnny on his knees. LA? Tokyo? This year or the last?
Johnny has perfect fingernails. They’re digging into Stéphane’s thighs, the crescents on the thumbs just under Stéphane’s hip bone. From Johnny’s hands to his mouth. Pink and perfectly round. He was wearing lipstick earlier. A trace of liner remains around the edges of his lips, making the skin seem whiter.
It’s too much. Stéphane’s knees shake. He puts his hand on Johnny’s head, steadies himself.
“Don’t come,” Johnny says, pulling away. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Then we had better do it now,” Stéphane says.
Johnny gets on the bed, hands on the head board, back toward Stéphane. “No,” Stéphane says. He takes Johnny’s arm and turns him around. “On your back.”
Johnny is compliant, but he puts his hands above his head, rests his palms against the headboard, like he needs the support.
Stéphane has condoms in his luggage. KY too. All tucked into his bathroom bag next to his razor and aftershave. He carries make-up too. Some foundation and eyeliner Johnny bought him in New Jersey. He wears it sometimes. Not always.
Back on the bed, he positions himself between Johnny’s knees.
“You’re taking too long,” Johnny says. He wriggles down the bed a little, wraps his legs around Stéphane, showing off the tone in his thighs. Stéphane could trail a finger from Johnny’s knees to his chest and the skin would be smooth.
“You like to wait,” Stéphane says. “You like it when I watch you.”
“You must think I’m very vain,” Johnny says.
“Yes,” Stéphane says. He puts the condom on and lines himself up against Johnny’s ass. His fingers are slicked with KY and the slide easily over Johnny’s buttocks and inside him. Johnny arches up a little and pushes back. “I also think you are beautiful,” Stéphane says.
Fingers, then cock. One substituted for the other. Johnny breathes in and his feet stretch into the air, ballet-like. He’s got amazing extension, even for a skater.
They fuck like dancers, all angles and limbs. They would make good partners. They already anticipate each other’s movements and rhythms. Johnny knows when to bend, when to push back and when to let go. He knows when Stéphane is close, and he reaches down to take himself in his fist, so they come in unison.
Stéphane covers Johnny’s hand with his. “Tell me,” he says.
“Now,” Johnny says.
One more thrust and Stéphane comes with his eyes closed, his hand too tight around Johnny’s.
“Fuck,” Johnny says, and he comes over both their hands.
For a moment, Stéphane can’t move. He lets his breath come back to him slowly, lets his body cool. And then he pulls out, rolls the condom off his dick and takes it into the bathroom.
“You can use the shower, if you like,” Stéphane says. He hands Johnny a towel to dry himself off, and drops forward onto the bed next to Johnny, leans his chin onto his hands.
Johnny stays on his back, his knees still raised. “I can wait,” he says. His bathroom regimen is particular. Stéphane always offers anyway.
In the afterglow, Stéphane remembers he asked Johnny a question and didn’t get an answer. Not really. He wonders whether he should ask again. There are things about Johnny he doesn’t need to know.
“Truth or dare,” Johnny says.
"I thought we were done playing," Stéphane says.
"There’s something I want to know," Johnny says. "Are you coming back?"
"To Seoul?" Stéphane says.
"To competition."
There is time, still, to forget, to pretend Stéphane isn’t making decisions yet. He has a month, maybe two, to live in this limbo and just be for a while.
“I want to,” Stéphane says. That’s the truth.
“I can’t imagine you not being there,” Johnny says. “I can’t imagine next season at all. It hurts my brain.” He puts his hand across his eyes and sighs dramatically.
Stéphane doesn’t like thinking about the future either. Not when it’s so complicated. There are too many choices to make, too many problems to solve. Too many things that are out of his hands.
“I wonder where we will be this time next year,” Stéphane says. Everything could be different. Everything could be just the same.
“Mongolia,” Johnny says.
“Mongolia?”
“I’m going to Mongolia if I don’t make the Olympics,” he says. “Somewhere there’s no television.” He turns to the side a little and touches Stéphane’s neck, two fingers, just below the jawline. “You could come with me.”
“What will we do in Mongolia?”
“I don’t know,” Johnny says. “Fuck?”
Stéphane nods. “We’re good at fucking.”
“Yes,” Johnny says. And he edges himself up on his elbows. “I should go.”
Stéphane wants him to stay but it’s useless to say so. Johnny won’t be caught coming out of Stéphane’s bedroom in the morning. He can’t stand being the subject of rumours. Especially if they’re true.
Johnny gets out of bed and Stéphane rolls onto his back to watch him dress. They’ll never go to Mongolia. At least, not together. But if they’re lucky, there will be other hotel rooms in their future. Maybe that’s enough.
“Tomorrow night,” Stéphane says. “We’ll play a different game.”
“Such as?” Johnny says. He’s fully dressed now. Just putting on his shoes.
“I will think of something,” Stéphane says. Something easy.
End.
Figure Skating RPS (Johnny Weir/ Stéphane Lambiel, NC-17)
Author's Notes: 2458 words. Truth or Dare and vodka. Circa Festa. With undying thanks to leksa who betaed and listened to me whine about not being able to come up with a title.
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.
Stéphane remembers being drunk in Lausanne. He remembers drinking, dancing, singing in the taxi on the way home. The night a blur. The town a kaleidoscope around him.
He wishes he was dancing now. Alcohol fuels his need to move. He pulls his knees against his chest and leans forward, stretching his thigh muscles. He’s been sitting on the floor too long.
Across the room Johnny and Alissa are sharing a bottle of Absolut. Jeremy has a beer. It's Seoul and it’s raining outside so Stéphane offered up his hotel room for the opening night party. No dancing though. No dance floor.
Johnny hands Stéphane the bottle and he pours himself a shot. No ice. No mixer. Alissa took all the juice because she refuses to drink vodka neat. The Canadians had wine earlier. They left after Shizuka. It was a nice party, but it’s getting later and their numbers are steadily dwindling.
There’s a strange mood hanging about the group tonight. This is Seoul. This is 2009. Everything changes this year. Stéphane's struck by an urge to speed up time, to be here one year later with the Olympics behind them. Will they still drink together then?
He sips his vodka. Not too fast. No one wants to watch a hungover skater. Water next. He'll pace himself.
"Midnight," Johnny says, looking at the clock by the bed. It says 12.01. Johnny’s dressed in black from head to toe but he’s taken his shoes off, his bare feet tucked up against his thigh. He looks like a dancer. “Must be time to play truth or dare."
"Oh," Alissa says. "I'm not playing truth or dare with gay boys."
"Stéphane doesn't like to be labelled,” Johnny says. He gives Stéphane a look and Stéphane rolls his eyes. They've had this conversation before. “And what’s wrong with playing truth or dare with gay boys?”
"There's always kissing involved," Alissa says. "And I feel left out. Besides, I'm tired." She gets to her feet. "I'm going back to my room."
"Me too," Jeremy says, putting his beer on the floor. "I mean, my room. Not Alissa's."
"No one thought you meant my room, Jeremy," Alissa says.
They leave together. Alissa knocks Jeremy's empty bottle over as she passes it. Doesn't seem to notice. When they're gone, Stéphane rights it again. Just to focus on something.
Johnny pours vodka into his glass. "Truth or dare, Stéphane."
"Shouldn't there be more people?" Stéphane says. He doesn’t miss the others. Johnny is familiar. A pattern Stéphane falls into.
"Two is enough," Johnny says. "Truth or dare."
Johnny is sitting against the wall, underneath the window, the bottle of Absolut next to his arm. He’s holding his drink in both hands.
Stéphane is sitting against the bed. If they stretched their legs, their toes would touch. Maybe.
"Truth."
"Did you really sleep with Carolina Kostner?"
"Dare," Stéphane says. He's not having that conversation again.
Johnny looks at the ceiling like he’s thinking. "You have to speak in an American accent for the rest of the night," he says.
"Only if you speak in a Swiss accent."
"Too obscure," Johnny says. "And besides, it's my dare."
"Truth or dahr, Jahnny," Stéphane says. It's a terrible accent. He’s not really trying.
Johnny laughs. "Truth," Johnny says. "And that's awful."
"How many languages do you speak?" Stéphane says. He'd have a valid point if he hadn't said it in a woeful American accent. But it makes Johnny laugh. Stéphane likes to see Johnny laugh.
"Okay," Johnny says, holding up his hands in surrender. "You can stop now."
"Truth," Stéphane says. His own accent this time. "Did you sleep with Brian?"
"What?" Johnny says. "No. Did you?"
"It's not my turn," Stéphane says.
"Okay. Truth or dare. Truth. Did you sleep with Brian?"
"No," Stéphane says.
"Well, maybe he's straight after all," Johnny says. "What made you think I did?"
"I don't know," Stéphane says. He looks at the bottle Jeremy left on the floor. Stéphane reads into looks and conversations sometimes and Johnny always has a way about him. It makes Stéphane's head spin.
Johnny holds up the bottle of Absolut. “Another drink?” he says. “And it’s your turn.”
Stéphane shakes his head. He still has a mouthful of vodka in his glass. He puts it on the floor. “Truth or dare.”
Johnny is pouring himself another. How many is that? Stéphane isn’t counting. Johnny gets giggly after a glass of champagne. Stéphane should remind him of that. He doesn’t.
“Dare,” Johnny says. “My truth is boring.” His sips his vodka delicately. So precise.
“Kiss me,” Stéphane says.
Johnny raises his eyebrows. “Cliche much?”
“You didn’t say I had to be original,” Stéphane says.
“Fine,” Johnny says. He puts his drink on the floor next to the Absolut and leans forward onto his hands, crawls toward Stéphane cat-like. He kisses Stéphane lightly, a press of lips against lips. It doesn’t last long, but it’s enough for Stéphane to close his eyes and open his mouth a little. Enough to want more.
Johnny crawls slowly back to his spot under the window, a look of satisfaction on his face. He enjoys being a tease. “Truth or dare?” he says.
Stéphane would like to think about the kiss a little longer. It feels warm, the taste of Johnny lingering on his lips. Stéphane drinks the remaining vodka in his glass, washes Johnny away. “Dare,” he says eventually. “My truth is boring too.”
"Show me your underwear."
Stéphane shrugs and drags the waist band of his jeans down on one side, just low enough to see the Frankie Morello logo on his underpants.
"Not good enough," Johnny says.
"I showed you my underwear," Stéphane says.
"You showed me a piece of your underwear," Johnny says. "Drop your pants and show me the whole thing."
Stéphane doesn’t pretend to be modest. He stands up, undoes his belt and drops his pants around his thighs.
Johnny looks at Stéphane’s crotch and takes a sip of his vodka. “Nice,” he says.
The whole process in reverse: Frankie Morellos, pants, belt, the floor again. Stéphane’s groin stirs a little, vaguely aroused. This is what Johnny wanted. He knows how to tease.
“Truth or dare,” Stéphane says.
“Truth,” Johnny says, and he smirks a little. Still teasing.
Stéphane looks at the floor and searches his memory for a question. There was a boy at the rink in New Jersey. Just once. There was something there maybe, but it must have been brief. Stéphane doesn’t care about the fly-by-nights.
He can’t think of a question. It’s a silly game. What is truth anyway?
"What do you call this?" Stéphane says.
“A hotel?” Johnny says.
“No,” Stéphane says. “I mean - us.” There has to be a word for it.
“Seriously?” Johnny says. “That’s your question?”
“The truth,” Stéphane says. He counts the number of times they’ve been here. In hotels, playing games. It’s useless. The memories blur.
"I don't know," Johnny says. "Don't you have fuck buddies in Switzerland?"
Fuck buddies. Friends who fuck. It sounds easy.
“Is that your answer?”
“Yes,” Johnny says. He frowns. “No. Does it matter?”
Does anything matter? Stéphane’s head feels light, stuffed with cotton. In Lausanne, in a taxi, he kissed a boy with green eyes and thought of Johnny. The resemblance ended there. Maybe all boys make him think of Johnny?
What was the question?
“I’m drunk,” Stéphane says. It isn’t a bad feeling.
“Me too,” Johnny says.
They laugh. They’re both so easy. “I wish I had stayed in New Jersey,” Stéphane says. “I wanted you to show me New York.”
“I’m glad you left,” Johnny says. “I’m not nice when I’m losing. It isn’t pretty.”
“If I had been there, maybe it would have been different?” He doesn’t even know why he’s saying that. It’s weird. He feels like he failed in America. Try something different and it blows up in your face.
“You can’t perform miracles,” Johnny says. “You’re not that amazing.”
“I would have married you,” Stéphane says. “Then you could skate for Switzerland.” He laughs. The idea. The media would fall all over themselves.
“Now I wish you had stayed,” Johnny says, laughing too. “I would have designed our wedding outfits.”
“You would love Lausanne,” Stéphane says.
"I’m sure I would,” Johnny says. He looks at the vodka bottle on the floor. “One more?”
“Okay,” Stéphane says.
Johnny pours them both a mouthful and they drink it fast. Stéphane leans his head back on the bed. The vodka is warm and the night is long. He wants to hold on to that feeling.
“Is it my turn?” Johnny says.
"I think so."
"Dare only,” Johnny says. “Take off your clothes."
“That’s against the rules.”
“Fuck the rules,” Johnny says. “I want you naked.”
Johnny’s serious and Stéphane is too aroused to protest. He stands up, takes his T-shirt off first, pants and underwear next. Too fast. Not much of a striptease.
When he’s done, he holds out his hands out in a “is this what you want” pose. His dick stirs again. It’s obvious now. No hiding under his pants.
Johnny crawls across the floor, less cat-like this time, and comes to a kneeling position in front of Stéphane. He looks up briefly, their eyes meet, and Johnny takes Stéphane’s cock in his mouth.
A flash of a memory: another hotel room. Johnny on his knees. LA? Tokyo? This year or the last?
Johnny has perfect fingernails. They’re digging into Stéphane’s thighs, the crescents on the thumbs just under Stéphane’s hip bone. From Johnny’s hands to his mouth. Pink and perfectly round. He was wearing lipstick earlier. A trace of liner remains around the edges of his lips, making the skin seem whiter.
It’s too much. Stéphane’s knees shake. He puts his hand on Johnny’s head, steadies himself.
“Don’t come,” Johnny says, pulling away. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Then we had better do it now,” Stéphane says.
Johnny gets on the bed, hands on the head board, back toward Stéphane. “No,” Stéphane says. He takes Johnny’s arm and turns him around. “On your back.”
Johnny is compliant, but he puts his hands above his head, rests his palms against the headboard, like he needs the support.
Stéphane has condoms in his luggage. KY too. All tucked into his bathroom bag next to his razor and aftershave. He carries make-up too. Some foundation and eyeliner Johnny bought him in New Jersey. He wears it sometimes. Not always.
Back on the bed, he positions himself between Johnny’s knees.
“You’re taking too long,” Johnny says. He wriggles down the bed a little, wraps his legs around Stéphane, showing off the tone in his thighs. Stéphane could trail a finger from Johnny’s knees to his chest and the skin would be smooth.
“You like to wait,” Stéphane says. “You like it when I watch you.”
“You must think I’m very vain,” Johnny says.
“Yes,” Stéphane says. He puts the condom on and lines himself up against Johnny’s ass. His fingers are slicked with KY and the slide easily over Johnny’s buttocks and inside him. Johnny arches up a little and pushes back. “I also think you are beautiful,” Stéphane says.
Fingers, then cock. One substituted for the other. Johnny breathes in and his feet stretch into the air, ballet-like. He’s got amazing extension, even for a skater.
They fuck like dancers, all angles and limbs. They would make good partners. They already anticipate each other’s movements and rhythms. Johnny knows when to bend, when to push back and when to let go. He knows when Stéphane is close, and he reaches down to take himself in his fist, so they come in unison.
Stéphane covers Johnny’s hand with his. “Tell me,” he says.
“Now,” Johnny says.
One more thrust and Stéphane comes with his eyes closed, his hand too tight around Johnny’s.
“Fuck,” Johnny says, and he comes over both their hands.
For a moment, Stéphane can’t move. He lets his breath come back to him slowly, lets his body cool. And then he pulls out, rolls the condom off his dick and takes it into the bathroom.
“You can use the shower, if you like,” Stéphane says. He hands Johnny a towel to dry himself off, and drops forward onto the bed next to Johnny, leans his chin onto his hands.
Johnny stays on his back, his knees still raised. “I can wait,” he says. His bathroom regimen is particular. Stéphane always offers anyway.
In the afterglow, Stéphane remembers he asked Johnny a question and didn’t get an answer. Not really. He wonders whether he should ask again. There are things about Johnny he doesn’t need to know.
“Truth or dare,” Johnny says.
"I thought we were done playing," Stéphane says.
"There’s something I want to know," Johnny says. "Are you coming back?"
"To Seoul?" Stéphane says.
"To competition."
There is time, still, to forget, to pretend Stéphane isn’t making decisions yet. He has a month, maybe two, to live in this limbo and just be for a while.
“I want to,” Stéphane says. That’s the truth.
“I can’t imagine you not being there,” Johnny says. “I can’t imagine next season at all. It hurts my brain.” He puts his hand across his eyes and sighs dramatically.
Stéphane doesn’t like thinking about the future either. Not when it’s so complicated. There are too many choices to make, too many problems to solve. Too many things that are out of his hands.
“I wonder where we will be this time next year,” Stéphane says. Everything could be different. Everything could be just the same.
“Mongolia,” Johnny says.
“Mongolia?”
“I’m going to Mongolia if I don’t make the Olympics,” he says. “Somewhere there’s no television.” He turns to the side a little and touches Stéphane’s neck, two fingers, just below the jawline. “You could come with me.”
“What will we do in Mongolia?”
“I don’t know,” Johnny says. “Fuck?”
Stéphane nods. “We’re good at fucking.”
“Yes,” Johnny says. And he edges himself up on his elbows. “I should go.”
Stéphane wants him to stay but it’s useless to say so. Johnny won’t be caught coming out of Stéphane’s bedroom in the morning. He can’t stand being the subject of rumours. Especially if they’re true.
Johnny gets out of bed and Stéphane rolls onto his back to watch him dress. They’ll never go to Mongolia. At least, not together. But if they’re lucky, there will be other hotel rooms in their future. Maybe that’s enough.
“Tomorrow night,” Stéphane says. “We’ll play a different game.”
“Such as?” Johnny says. He’s fully dressed now. Just putting on his shoes.
“I will think of something,” Stéphane says. Something easy.
End.