under the skin, part two

[psalmanazar]

Part One

vii.

There is a bowl of French fries sitting on Johnny's bed, next to Evan, who is also sitting on Johnny's bed. Johnny is almost completely torn between which fact terrifies him more. He doesn't want Evan there, but Evan seems determined to stay. It's like he's punishing Johnny as passive-aggressively as he can for answering that phone call, and Johnny's vaguely guilty enough about it not to call hotel security and get Evan thrown out. Every other tactic, he's already tried, but insults and flat orders to leave bounce off Evan like rhinoceros hide. He might even resent the fries' presence even more than Evan's.

He seriously can't believe Evan actually ordered them, or that Evan's going to actually eat them. He can smell the salt and grease from here. He can practically taste it.

Evan shoves several into his mouth and chews obviously, and Johnny shudders and looks away.

He has salad. Salad will never betray him.

"I thought you just wanted salad," Evan says, the fourth time Johnny tries to steal a fry. "If you want to share these, I can move the bowl-"

"This is a plot to undermine me," Johnny says. "Move them away." Evan raises his eyebrows and licks salt off his fingertips, which is gross and taunting and completely unfair. “Stop that, I don’t want to see your revolting tongue.”

Evan, right on schedule, sticks his tongue out and waggles it, and okay, Johnny no longer feels like stealing his fries, so that’s an upside. He feels faintly ill.

“Ouch!”

“Don’t whine,” Johnny says. “I could have stabbed with you with the fork instead of just going for the spoon.”

“Psychopath," Evan mutters. He eats another fry, twitches, and then gets up and starts wandering around the hotel room. Johnny watches him narrowly, prepared for any sudden movements or attacks. "You have a minibar, did you know that? There are peanuts!" He taps his fingers on the edge of it, staccato, sounding far more enthusiastic than anyone should ever get about little packets of hotel peanuts.

"Seriously," Johnny says, staring at his back. "You've snapped. You've finally snapped." And it's even worse than that; when he thinks about the fact that he's stealing fries from his arch-nemesis, who is wearing ugly, ugly sweatpants, and not much else, and who he's reluctantly helping hide from Scott Hamilton, who might possibly think he's doing so due to carnal interest in his scrawny orange carcass, he suspects that maybe it's not just Evan who's completely snapped.

"And booze," Evan says, squatting down onto his haunches in order to properly investigate. "These little bottles of whisky and tequila and little cans of beer and stuff."

"Don't touch them," Johnny says. "You might try to lick me again, and I'll have to break your nose." Actually, a perfect excuse to break Evan's nose could be worth a little drool.

"I didn't lick you," Evan says, like if he says it forcefully enough it'll become true. "Anyway, I'm celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"My night off," Evan says. "I'm having a break." He sweeps the contents of the little fridge and cupboard into his weird orangutan arms and wanders ponderously back over. By some small miracle, none of the little bottles escape his bearhug. Poor little bottles, Johnny thinks. He sympathises. He knows what it's like to suffer Evan's foul embraces against your will.

"You know," Evan continues, sitting down, and it's completely obnoxious how completely for granted he's taken the bed Johnny's paying for as his very own - and the shower, and the towels, and the denuded minibar, and the whole room itself - "I hate taking breaks. I hate taking time off. I never know what to do if I'm not working. I don't like wasting time."

"You're demented," Johnny says sincerely. "Why are you even celebrating, then, if you don't like it? Also, you're demented."

"I didn't choose to take tonight off," Evan says, like that makes sense. "So I don't have to feel guilty. I feel really good, actually. I could go for a run or something." He twists his neck, working his head from side to side. Something pops loudly.

This is not reality as Johnny knows it. Something has gone badly wrong in the fabric of the universe. He has completely snapped, right alongside Evan. "Maybe because you actually got some sleep," he says in his best talking-to-kindergartners voice; "I hear that's pretty rejuvenating, but that could be just a rumour."

Evan frowns.

"I can't deal with this completely sober anymore," Johnny says, grabbing a few of the little bottles from Evan's clutches. It's a rescue mission now. "Are you happy? You've driven me to drink."

viii

Evan is, barely, more tolerable when he's drunk. Not so drunk that Johnny has to help him walk while trying to fend off his horrible creeper hands, but drunk enough that he turns all relaxed and lazy, not fidgeting and popping his neck and randomly getting up to pace around the room. It doesn't stop him saying stupid shit, but Johnny can tune that out.

Being slightly buzzed himself helps with that. Evan is more tolerable when he's drunk. Johnny doesn't even break his nose when Evan stops talking about how much he hates Michael Weiss and puts a hand the size of a dinner plate on Johnny's knee.

"What are you doing?" he says, pushing it away like a poisonous spider. "I warned you, I'll hurt you."

"You won't."

"Try it and see," Johnny says sweetly. "Please."

"You haven't moved away," Evan points out doggedly, and it's true, somehow he's shifted himself incrementally into Johnny's personal bubble. He smells like a brewery, because he's the kind of idiot who actually drinks the minibeer first when there are teeny little bottles of vodka looking for a good home. Johnny was feeling too mellow and too amused by the attacks on Weiss's character to do anything violent about it, but if Evan's going to be a moron, he totally will.

Evan's hand keeps hovering aimlessly in the air by his knee. Obviously he's not a hundred percent certain Johnny won't break his nose. Johnny's not a hundred percent certain he won't, either, although slapping might work just as well to repulse him, and he already knows that slapping Evan around is fun.

Breaking his nose might be unnecessarily cruel, since Evan's face is basically all nose, especially close up like this. On the other hand, it might prompt him into getting a nose job or something, and it's not like his face can get any worse, so Johnny might be doing him a favour by accident. It's such a gross face. The drowsy black eyes are basically the only thing left of the gangly kid he'd been forever ago, when he'd been kind of cute in a really awkward way and he'd seemed nicer and about a thousand percent less douchey. It had been some sort of long con, concealing his true, weaselly nature until he was in position to start backstabbing.

"Are you like this every time you drink? Is that why you don't drink at banquets or anything? You're afraid you'll get handsy with the judges or the underage ice dancers?"

"I don't drink during the season because alcohol has too many empty calories," Evan says like the boring canned-answer-delivering robot he is, but his ears go slightly oranger. "Tonight I'm having a night off, though, so..."

"It's barely seven."

"What?"

"Never mind," Johnny says. "Just keep your hands to yourself."

Evan looks stubborn. "It's my night off."

Johnny has a sudden, hideous inkling of what a night off from being Evan Lysacek actually means to Evan. License to drink, and to eat shitty food, and to sleep, and to indulge in basically everything he customarily denies himself all the rest of the time; because it's his night off, and it's not his fault. "No," he says. "I don't care if you want to stuff yourself with calories, but I'm not part of your - whatever."

Evan's brow creases slowly like he's thinking hard. Johnny hopes it hurts. "I'm already getting in trouble for it," he says. "I don't see why I shouldn't just go for it, if he already thinks I'm doing it."

Lysacek Logic is as twisted and bizarro as Johnny suspected. "I can't even tell you how little I care about what Scott Hamilton thinks you're doing with your dick."

"I don't - whatever," Evan says. His palm stops hovering and lands with great care in the same place, light as a butterfly. Johnny's about to swat it when Evan tightens his grip, his fingertips sinking into the muscle of Johnny's thigh through the tight denim. "Please. Weir. I'll make it worth your time."

It's officially completely tragic that Paris isn't here to hear this, or that Johnny didn't take the precaution of setting up some kind of recording system in advance, just in case. He doesn't actually have any idea how to secretly wiretap a room, but it's obviously a neglected skill he could really use in everyday life. "Seriously, it's like you have some sort of disorder. Just add alcohol and you're all over me like a rash. You wouldn't do it sober."

"I wouldn't do it if it counted," Evan corrects him. "Things don't count on a night off. And I meant get laid last night, but that didn't work out-"

"Are you seriously implying that I have a responsibility to get you off because I stopped someone gross taking advantage of you last night?"

"No, I didn't mean-" Evan breaks off, looking frustrated. "I don't - just let me suck your dick, okay?"

"I bet you say that to all the boys," Johnny says automatically. Evan flinches a little, like he actually does. It's kind of pathetic, but it's not like Johnny's going to pity him. He can't think of anyone who deserves less pity for being a self-denying asshole bigot. "Do you really think I'm such a rampant manwhore I'll sleep with anyone who offers? How completely unflattering."

Evan's encroaching hand is honestly less objectionable than his offensive proposal. It's warm against his knee, human, and when Johnny says that, the long fingers tighten even more.

"You wouldn't do it when you were sober," Johnny repeats, although Evan's nowhere near as shitfaced as last night.

He's probably barely tipsy, like Johnny, because he's no longer sleep-deprived and it won't be hitting him like a ton of bricks. It's strangely satisfying to have proof that Evan does seem to want to bone him when he's not all strange and roofied. It's still disturbing, obviously, but no matter what shit he pulls in the future, Johnny will be able to smirk at him and know that, and Evan will know that and know that he knows. Johnny hopes it'll make him writhe, although when he thinks about it, it's not likely they'll have to meet again that often, not if one or both of them actually retire. That's a relief, and kind of strange to fully realise, after having to compete against him over and over and over again for so long.

"You only want to suck my dick?" Johnny asks, his mouth moving just a step ahead of his brain like it does way too often, and okay, maybe he's more than a little buzzed. Evan straightens a little, the pettish look sliding off his face. His fingers flex and relax.

"Yeah," he says.

"And it doesn't count," Johnny says, more a statement than a question.

"It doesn't count," Evan confirms. He tilts his head, and Johnny feels his breath against his ear, damp and hot.

He leans in very slowly, Evan's face looming larger and larger, then stops. He can't actually do this. No matter how drunk he is or how long it's been since he got a gift blowjob, no matter how much he want to sit across a room from Evan and smirk and make him die with shame at the memory, he just can't kiss Evan Lysacek. Full stop. Even if Evan's nose wasn't in the way, he just couldn't.

Evan blinks at him, waiting. His lips are a little parted. "What?"

"I can't do it," Johnny says, sitting back. "Scott Hamilton will just have to think the worst of you."

Evan's eyes go narrow and angry like he thinks Johnny was fucking with him on purpose, the whole time. Johnny wishes he was. He opens his mouth - to taunt him more, possibly, or to unruffle his feathers, he's not sure - and Evan lunges. His mouth smashes against Johnny's, and Johnny's pretty sure it's more to shut him up than because passion has overwhelmed him. It doesn't feel amazing. It's just Evan's teeth banging into his lip and Evan's mouth at entirely the wrong angle and Evan's jaw all scratchy with a day of growth. He doesn't have a lot of facial hair; it's just that when he has even a little, he looks mangy.

Then Evan pushes his hands through his hair, and it doesn't hurt, but Johnny's horribly aware that Evan Lysacek is mauling his hair with his enormous horrible hands. He's about to pull free and fight his way to the balcony and fresh, sobering air when Evan tilts his head and suddenly the angle doesn't entirely suck so much anymore.

Johnny’s never devoted much thought to how Evan kisses, but if he had, he would have guessed sloppy and enthusiastic and kind of gross, like Evan himself when he’s not in competitive mode or trying to sound like a elder statesman at press panels. He’s not a complete loss, though. If Johnny closes his eyes and pretends it’s not Evan, it’s not completely awful. Part of him is automatically into it, suddenly hungry.

It's been a while since he pulled out his little black book and let off a little steam. It's not something he likes to do a lot, because it might be fun while it lasts, but he usually feels shitty afterwards. Johnny has absolutely nothing against casual sex. It's a beautiful enlightened concept. It just doesn't work so well for him sometimes, no matter how he tries. He still finds it hard to separate sex from feeling, even now, a million gay scene years after his first love and his first heartbreak.

There's no such problem with Evan. Johnny doesn't feel anything except general annoyance and a hardwired reaction he can't really help when it comes to making out, to having a guy's chest sliding against his, to having someone clean and male and muscled close up like this.

He pulls away anyway. "I don't want to kiss you," he says. "You get to suck my dick. That's all."

ix.

Evan gives surprisingly decent head. It's actually better than decent, but Johnny doesn't want to be too complimentary even in his own internal narrative. He wouldn't have supposed that Evan would have much in the way of technique, since it's not like he must be able to practice all that often, between his crazy schedule and his terrible lifestyle choices, but Evan sucks cock like he really enjoys it, like it’s something he does a lot, like it’s something he’s put a lot of work into.

Johnny didn't plan to give Evan any positive feedback, but it turns out it's not something he can help doing, so he runs his hands through Evan’s hair and then twists them tight. He tries not to make any noise, not to pull at Evan’s hair, but he doesn't always quite manage, and Evan seems to take each accidental slip as a spur to further enthusiasm.

If he watches Evan doing it, it’s going to be over too soon, so Johnny closes his eyes. It makes it easier to think that it's someone else, some stranger picked up in that bar after all. It’s good manners to warn when you’re close, but Johnny’s never bothered with manners when it comes to Evan Lysacek, and if Evan knows anything, he won’t be surprised.

He’s still annoyed when Evan doesn’t flinch or choke or anything. He swallows neatly, as competently as he sucks cock, and pulls back. There’s something self-satisfied about the way he throws himself down on the mattress next to Johnny, and then heaves himself up to lean on his elbow and stare curiously down at him.

Johnny ignores him as long as he can. "What?"

"Well?" Evan nudges at his shoulder with his beaky nose, clearly waiting for a response.

"What, do you want me to score you? Of course you do, what am I even saying." Johnny closes his eyes. "It was passable, I guess."

"Liar," Evan says, and he's lucky that Johnny feels so beautifully relaxed right this minute, because otherwise the smugness in his voice would get him pushed off the bed. "You liked it."

"Getting head?" Johnny opens his eyes, and Evan's face is peering at him, way too close, and he's smiling. Ugh. "I'm predictable like that."

The smile doesn't waver. "You really liked it."

Johnny tries to scowl at him, but post-orgasm his facial muscles aren’t really capable of that kind of vehemence, even when Evan nuzzles his shoulder again and rubs suggestively against his hip.

"What?"

"You owe me.”

"I don't owe you anything," Johnny says, but he's suggestible right after he's gotten off, and overly susceptible to being guilted. Evan can tell, because his complacent smile broadens. "Fuck you."

Fair is fair. He doesn't bother sitting up, but he rolls over and grazes his hand down Evan's side, from his ribs to his hip, then finds Evan's dick. He really needs lube to make a decent job of this, but his bottle is in his toiletries bag in the bathroom, and he's not getting up to get it for Evan's sake.

Evan has his head tipped back sideways, almost touching against Johnny's, and their shoulders actually are touching. They both watch Johnny's hand move like it's the most fascinating spectacle, and after a minute or two Johnny stops and spits in his palm.

"If you think that's gross, tell me now and I'll go find something better," he offers, because he's feeling nicer and he enjoys the sounds Evan’s making. He likes feeling in control.

"No, it's hot," Evan says thickly, which is totally the right answer, and when Johnny wraps his hand back around him he groans at the extra slickness and jerks his hips. "It's like, it's like it's your mouth."

"It's not like it's my mouth, you idiot. If it was my mouth, you'd know it. I'm very good with my mouth."

Evan nods like he agrees, totally, just on Johnny’s say-so, and Johnny pauses, his hand going still. Evan makes a protesting noise and bucks his hips a little, so Johnny gives him one long, slow stroke, then stops again.

“Better than you can imagine, and I bet you have," he says, watching, and Evan’s face gives it away.

Johnny normally likes his partners chatty, but this is interesting in its own way. It's not like Evan's unappreciative. He rubs his thumb slowly, teasing, and listens to Evan pant, watches his eyes screw up.

"Good?"

"Mm," Evan manages. "Uh. Yeah." He seems to be a thousand times more inarticulate in bed than he is out of it, which is really saying something.

“Shit,” Johnny says, annoyed, and takes his hand away. He really didn’t want to get up, and now he’s going to have to.

Evan whines, and when Johnny doesn’t go back to what he was doing, he opens his eyes and looks at him.

“What?”

“Stay there,” Johnny orders. “Don’t jerk off or anything, just wait.”

He gets up and makes his way into the bathroom, washes his hands, and starts rummaging through his toiletries. He officially owns too much crap. Correction; he officially packs too much crap when he travels. You can never actually own too much crap. Mascara, toner, eyelash curler, moisturizer for dry conditions, moisturizer for humidity -

Condoms and lube, zipped hopefully into one of the many compartments of his giant bag. He takes them out and sets them on the counter, and looks at himself in the mirror.

Johnny-in-the-mirror has terrible hair. His mouth is redder than usual, the skin around it pink from Evan’s stubble. There are a few faint marks on his neck. They probably wouldn’t show up at all if he wasn’t so pale, but there they are, under the white bright overhead light. Evan Lysacek has had his mouth on him. Has had his mouth all over him. It’s a totally revolting thought.

He could come out of the bathroom and just order Evan to leave. He could throw Evan’s pants at him just as he’s closing the door. He could keep the pants and leave Evan naked and hard and angry in the hallway, and put his iPod on to drown out the yelling and door-thumping. Maybe that would feel better than doing this.

He grabs what he needs and walks back out. Evan’s sitting up against the headboard, watching him, and while Johnny didn’t actually explicitly order him not to move, it still feels like he’s ignored what he told him.

“Did you touch yourself?”

Evan shakes his head. His eyes move from Johnny’s face to the things in his hands, and Johnny has to give him this one, his face doesn’t change at all.

"Good." He walks over to stand beside the bed, and just looks down at Evan for a moment. He doesn't get to be taller than him very often, even when he's on the top of a podium and Evan's in second or third.

Evan looks away, down at the bland hotel bedspread, but the line of his throat moves when he swallows; once, twice, too fast.

Johnny puts everything but the lube onto the nightstand, and squirts some into the center of his palm. Evan's eyes startle up at the sound, dark and - what? Johnny doesn't know. He doesn't get Evan. He doesn't want to. He reaches for Evan's dick instead, and Evan closes his eyes and shudders when Johnny finally touches him again.

The lube makes everything slick and easy, and Evan relaxes into it and back against the pillows, the tension melting out of his shoulders. He makes lazy, contented noises in the bottom of his throat as Johnny jerks him off, but they're less satisfying than before, not as gratifying as every rough little sound Johnny forced out of him. It's more like the kind of reaction he'd expect if Evan was getting a straightforward massage.

It's almost like Evan liked it better, rougher, when Johnny was working him up almost dry. Which is crazy, but Evan's kind of crazy, so Johnny stops jerking him and wipes his palm off on Evan's thigh. "You're not into it," he says flatly.

Evan blinks at him. Then, when Johnny doesn't start up again, he sits up. "What? I am!"

"Not enough," Johnny says. "I could do this for half an hour, and I don't think you'd get off."

"But I still like it," Evan protests, like Johnny doesn't have better things to do with his time than engage in unnecessarily drawn-out foreplay with him.

Johnny rolls his eyes. "Well, I don't have enough patience for that. Lie back."

"What are you going to do?" Evan asks mistrustfully, but he leans back and watches Johnny, barely blinking, his face as impassive as before. Johnny has the sudden weird suspicion that he could do anything, and Evan would let him.

That's a dangerous thought, and Johnny doesn't want to do too many things to Evan Lysacek anyway. He doesn't answer, but he grabs one of the condoms and tears it open. Evan runs the tip of his tongue between his lips.

"Don't get excited," Johnny says dryly. He didn't pack gloves, so he rolls it over his first and second fingers. It's oily and weird-feeling and a loose fit, but it'll do, he's pretty sure. Evan blinks at him like he can't imagine what Johnny is possibly planning, which only confirms Johnny's opinion of his intelligence. He holds perfectly still, though, until Johnny gets back onto the bed and settles, kneeling in the empty space between his legs. His eyes flicker again.

Johnny hadn't actually meant to use his mouth, but on impulse he bends his head forward and swipes at Evan's dick with the flat of his tongue. The lube tastes fake and a little nasty, but the reaction is worth it; Evan makes a breathless, almost pained sound, like he's been punched in the stomach.

"That's right," Johnny says, meaningless encouragement, and when he goes down properly, Evan's hips jerk up, convulsive. Which is not okay. Johnny's not going to let him set the pace, control this in any way, so he gets hold of Evan's thighs and keeps them spread wide, pelvis tilted. He keeps Evan pinned like that and plays with him until he's sure he's driving him completely demented; light, shallow licking and mouthing that never gives Evan the depth he wants, until Evan gets louder and louder and more frustrated. Then he stops.

Evan looks wrecked, just from that. His stupid hair has gone curly from the shower and the heat, and sweat has broken out over the bridge of his nose, the dip of his collarbone. He's panting, ragged little breaths, and when Johnny raises his eyebrows, he scowls back at him.

Johnny expects him to complain, or to say something douchey like 'Stop fucking around'; instead, Evan closes his eyes and turns his head. It's both an invitation and a strange sort of surrender. I could do anything, Johnny thinks again, and this time it's almost a feverish sort of feeling.

He doesn't. It's time to go back to the original plan. He's fucked up the condom, so he pulls it off and replaces it, and slicks up a little more with the lube. Evan watches him with slitted eyes, and when Johnny's ready, he doesn't have to do anything; Evan brings his knees up and apart, wide open. It's the hottest thing Johnny's ever seen him do, and completely disturbing. "Oh, fuck," he says, and Evan smirks a little.

It's familiar and annoying and it reorients him; what the fuck is he doing? Why is he doing this?

"Come on," Evan says, and Johnny really, really wants to strand him in the hallway without his pants. It would be amazing. It would be a beautiful memory he could cherish forever, unlike the past, what, fifteen minutes? Twenty, thirty? "Please," Evan adds, and he actually sounds like he means it.

"I told you, don't give me orders," Johnny says irritably, but he runs the sticky latex down the inside of Evan's thigh. Evan relaxes a little, the strained tendons losing definition. Johnny slides his fingers over the head of his dick - god, he's literally wearing a finger condom, and there's no one he can tell about this who'll understand why it's so funny - teasing again, but this time they know he means it, and Evan doesn't protest. "Okay," he says, mostly to himself, and then he brings them down further, past the crease of Evan's hip, further. He stops for a moment.

It's a decision he still can't quite bring himself to make, and in the end Evan makes it for him, canting his hips enough that the very tips of Johnny's fingers press into him, shifting greedily against the mattress. If Johnny was feeling petty - well, pettier - he could make Evan work for it again, indefinitely, or make him do all the work himself. But the reason he's doing this was to speed things up, not fuck around, so he swats at Evan's thigh warningly and slides his fingers further.

Evan makes the punched sound again, his face going slack. It's tight, but surprisingly easy to work them in; normally Johnny would start with one, slowly, but he doesn't want to waste time, and he still doesn't have any gloves with him, so that's not exactly an option. He's not touching Evan without a barrier.

"Oh god," Evan says, slurred together, ohgod,, and moves his head around restlessly. His legs try to spread wider, but he doesn't order Johnny to hurry up again, so Johnny rewards him by going deeper, crooking his fingers inside him. The reaction that gets is more that satisfying; his back arches, shoulders lifting up off the pillows, and Johnny can actually see his toes curl.

Good. This is is going to be fast. He fucks Evan roughly with his fingers, the way he's pretty sure Evan likes it, switching the rhythm every time he thinks Evan's getting used to it. Evan proves him right, thrashing around and making completely stupid amounts of noise. The people in the next room are probably calling reception on them.

He thinks about sucking Evan off again at the same time, but it seems like too much work, and he didn't mean to go down on him in the first place. Stupid muscle memory and reflex. Johnny jerks him off with his free hand instead, hard and mean, and Evan flails harder and actually manages to bang his head against the wall.

He's right; it happens fast. Amazingly, Evan comes quietly, like he's finally worn his voice out, and slumps back completely boneless back into the pillows.

Johnny stares at him. The adrenaline, whatever was pushing him on, suddenly evaporates, and leaves him feeling empty and a little sick. A lot sick, actually, like he was so focused on getting from point A to destination B, on skin and flesh, that he forgot the bigger picture and exactly what he was doing to whom, and now he has a spray of Evan Lysacek's disgusting bodily fluids on his wrist, a small smear of it on his chest.

He fumbles for the baby wipes, tearing the packet open with his teeth, and wipes frantically. Uncleanuncleanuncleanunclean-

"You're really kind of a neat freak," Evan says beside him, his voice slow as treacle. "I thought maybe you were playing that up."

"I'm covered in your fucking jizz," Johnny says tightly. "Of course I'm cleaning up."

Evan closes his eyes and, impossibly, relaxes more, like he's trying to meld with the mattress. "Dries gross."

Johnny really has fucked his brain offline. Unfortunately, Evan persists in talking despite that handicap. "No shit." He tosses the packet of wipes pointedly at Evan; it lands squarely in the center of his stomach, but he doesn't flinch or react. Johnny dumps the rest of the mess on his way to the bathroom. He's not going to feel halfway clean without brushing his teeth and taking a shower.

When he finishes up and comes back into the bedroom, Evan seems to be asleep on top of the covers again, just where he left him, although it looks like he made a half-hearted effort with the wipes. Johnny peels back the comforter and gets into bed gingerly, trying not to wake him. The last thing he needs is more of Evan's edifying conversation.

He thinks he's pulled it off, but then Evan rolls over. He cracks open an eye and squints through his eyelashes, obsidian. "Hey."

"Hi," Johnny says warily.

"I'm hungry again. Doesn't sex make you hungry?"

"What?"

"Hungry," Evan says. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of bed. "Starving."

Being stuck with Evan for a certain length of time is apparently like having a large orange gigapet. You meet one need, and then, immediately, there's another. It's not a cycle Johnny intends to play any further part in.

"I think -- yeah," Evan says, and he's found the half-full bowl of French fries, cold and limp and completely unappetising and he's bringing them back into bed.

"Oh my god," Johnny says, a little hysterical. "I think you might be the most revolting person I've ever met. I mean, I've thought that for a while, but now I have proof."

Evan makes some sort of grunt and starts eating. He’s still naked, and sitting cross-legged on the bed with the half-empty bowl set before him. Johnny watches him eat, half out of fascinated disgust, half out of genuine curiosity.

Evan eats with as much focus as he sleeps, when he lets go for a little while and actually lets himself. He doesn't eat like a person thinking about carbohydrates and starches and saturated fats, like he's calculating exactly how every bite is going to need to be worked off, and balancing it against the energy he needs to do that. He eats like he's enjoying every cold, greasy bite.

“You're not going back, are you?"

"To Stars on Ice?" Evan concentrates on chewing. He takes a while to answer, like he enjoys the momentary state of freedom that exists between the question and its inevitable answer, and he doesn't want to give it up too soon. Maybe Johnny’s just giving him too much credit. Maybe he can’t eat and think at the same time. "I have to. I’m contracted. I already got them to organize a flight for me in the morning."

"To competing," Johnny says. "You're done."

Evan shrugs. "Don't know."

“You do know." It feels important, making Evan admit it, and at the same time Johnny's suddenly incredibly annoyed by everything about him, more than ever, by the stupid unfinished red tattoo on Evan’s shoulder, the way he chews, the fact that he had sex with him. He can’t believe he had sex with him. There's not enough exfoliant in the world. “Don’t bullshit me. You’re done.”

Evan lifts a shoulder. He keeps eating.

“I’m done,” Johnny says, and it’s the first time he’s really said it out loud and meant it.

Anything Evan says or tries to say to that will be wrong. Johnny knows that. He can feel the hot coil of irritation and nameless emotion under his skin; he knows that any possible response will make him want to claw and lash and draw blood -- but Evan still doesn't say anything, he looks down and studies the bedspread, most of his face completely obscure. That's almost worse, because the frustration, all the feeling, has nowhere to go. It's almost worse because actually admitting that he's already made his decision, made it weeks and months ago, that matters, and Evan can't even be bothered to respond. Saying it out loud was just as pointless and empty as the rest of this whole thing is.

At the same time, Johnny's said it. He's done. In its own way, it's a relief, and what Evan thinks doesn't matter any more than he does.

After a while, Evan shifts restlessly and gets up. He sets the empty bowl down on the carpet and finds and puts on his boxers. He scrubs at his stomach with the wipes again. Then he starts to tug back the covers on his side of the bed.

"In the morning, when you leave," Johnny says. "Don't wake me up. I need my beauty sleep."

Evan pauses for a moment. He looks like he doesn't know whether to be relieved or offended. As Johnny watches he shuffles both emotions tidily away. Sometimes Johnny almost forgets that there's a calculating brain behind the bland face, and possibly more.

"Okay," Evan says indifferently. "Whatever."

Johnny rolls onto his side, and switches the lights out at the headboard. He doesn't bother saying good night.