Look, I just really needed to write something, and this is what I wrote
There were a lot of differences between Kyle and Collin Thorbiornsen, but Kyle preferred to focus on their similarities.
For starters, because without it there would be no reason to compare them at all, both were young, athletic men in an unfamiliar city. True, Collin was a few years younger and a few years shy of his nineteenth birthday, while Kyle was recently twenty-one, but a couple years seemed like nothing, and Collin -- usually -- deported himself with the self-confident swagger of an older man (or at least someone who was unquestionably of an age to call himself a man).
They were both university students, although their chosen schools were provinces apart. Kyle went to UVic where he wasn't quite near completing a degree in Physical Therapy. Collin was at U of T, where Kyle got the impression Collin was studying nothing but professional hockey and girls, although Collin claimed he was majoring in Native Studies.
Both were Western boys, with Kyle growing up in a Victoria suburb and Collin from "Somewhere in Saskatchewan; you wouldn't have heard of it", which might not have been a huge similarity, but Kyle believed a BC boy and a kid from small town Saskatchewan had more in common with each other than with some asshole from the East.
They were even both slim and blond; although Kyle knew by this point he was just getting silly with the comparisons, besides grasping at straws. Kyle was, naturally, gymnast slim, the result of careful dieting and rigorous exercising. Collin was taller than Kyle and his slimness seemed to be partially the remains of a sudden, gawky adolescent growth spurt and partially the result of the fact that Collin had the look of someone who could eat nothing but deep fried butter for a month and not gain an ounce of fat, the muscles he did have, stretched taut over legs and chest and arms the result of some divine gift instead of working out. Kyle's blond was really more of a light brown with his short, curly hair having been bleached fairer by years in the sun, while calling Collin blond seemed like an understatement. Collin made normal blonds look dingy and dark, even now, with his hair clipped short to his scalp for swimming. It was so white it almost glowed (although chlorine had given it a green tint that was only just starting to fade) and looked finer than any nearly grown man's hair had a right to be. Right now, it was almost completely hidden by Collin's nearly omnipresent baseball cap, but Kyle had seen him without it enough to know both the colour and that it would probably look a lot nicer if Collin's coach hadn't insisted on a borderline military cut.
The hair fit with the rest of Collin, though, because the rest of Collin looked like he'd been crafted out of the palest pallet possible. Collin's eyes, with their barely there white lashes and thin traces of eyebrows, were blue like ice; that is, barely blue at all, just the barest hint of colour, almost washed out by the darkness of his pupils. All over, Collin was so pale that Kyle could have traced the blue of his veins up those long, slim fingers and along the inside of his arms, down his throat and --
Okay, maybe the fact of it was that Kyle was looking for any common ground between them and had been since they met on the plane, in the desperate hope that similarities would make straight-boy swaggering Collin more likely to bend a little in Kyle's direction, because God he would like to tap that before they left Beijing.
That faint, stupid hope was why he had let Collin grin and talk him into venturing away from the rest of their team (and their keepers) even though they really weren't supposed to. But Collin grinned and insisted that one of the other swimmers would cover for him, no one would ever know they had left, and besides, who could fault them for wanting to go exploring, how often would they get a chance like this? Which Kyle knew was just a bit of bullshit on Collin's part, because Collin had been with the Canadian team in Athens and, famously, in Turin, but he let it pass, which is probably what Collin hoped the keepers would do as well, if they were found out.
While the keepers tended to bark at most of the Canadian athletes and call them by their surnames, Collin was always "Collin" and when people shouted at him, it always seemed a touch less barky. Kyle couldn't tell if this was because Collin was a bit of a pet because of his youth, given special treatment as a former gold medallist, just a result of people responding to the same things in Collin Kyle couldn't help responding to, or because no one in there right mind would try to bark a mouthful like "Thorbiornsen".
Now, somehow without realizing it, Kyle was scrambling to keep up with the taller Collin through the packed streets of Beijing, not quite sure where, if anywhere, Collin thought they were going. There was barely room to breathe, let alone move, the streets crowded with all the people it was usually crowded with, busy men and women going in whatever direction Kyle wasn't, loud children in danger of being stepped on, and tiny, aggressive little old ladies looking frail as sticks and wielding bags, baskets, and purses as aggressive and heavy as a rampaging elephant. Add to that all the tourists and the fucking endless media and their entourages, and it was a wonder anyone could move at all. It was obvious why the people in charge didn't want the athletes wandering off. Kyle was going to die, crushed to an ignoble death by some hundred-year-old Chinese grandmother's groceries, all because he desperately wanted to get laid by some idiot straight boy with no sense of self-preservation.
It was noisy and it smelled, of people and sweat and food and sweat and animals and sweat and humid recent rain and sweat. Such was the confusion, the onslaught of unpleasant and overwhelming sensations on Kyle's senses, that it took him a minute to realize that Collin had stopped, ducked out of the flow of the crowd, and into a little street stall. Kyle pushed, ducked, and shoved, each with a good Canadian apology, even when some angry grandma put her walking stick right down on his foot, until he had caught up to Collin.
Collin, who was emptying every meager bit of spending money he must have had into his palm and holding it out to a sweating old man with a brilliant Collin-grin that transcended language barriers.
"What are you doing?" Kyle asked, when the old man had taken Collin's money and gone to poke something that was steaming and not helping the humidity one iota.
"Getting something to eat. Don't worry, I'll share," said Collin, which was the least of Kyle's worries.
"Didn't you have breakfast this morning?" Kyle hissed.
"That stuff's shit," said Collin succinctly, watching the old man keenly and pushing the brim of his cap up to get a better view. Sweat trickled down his temple, his eyes gleamed, and his face was flushed in the heat, and Kyle still wanted him, even sweaty and stupid.
Kyle couldn't exactly argue with Collin's description of the meals the Canadian team was fed, either. They were all 100% healthy, 50% tasteless and 50% so vile you could gag. If it came out after the fact that someone had decided to cut expenses by slashing the food budget in half, Kyle would not have been surprised. "What are you getting, then?"
Collin shrugged. "Dunno," he said, just as the old man came back with -- oh thank God -- two bottles of water, the condensation on the bottles sweating worse than Collin and Kyle, some sticky looking buns, and clumps of what Kyle could swear were leaves, all dumped unceremoniously into a paper bag.
The old man offered Collin the bag; he didn't offer Collin any change, and Collin didn't ask. He just flashed the old man one of those smiles, said a cheerful "Thanks!" and grabbed Kyle's arm, dragging him back into the press of people for more walking.
A lot more walking. It felt like an eternity, although when Kyle looked at his watch at one point, it had only been an hour and a half, which was too damn long anyway. As they kept walking, the crowds eventually began to thin, going from packed like sardines to just crowded enough that you could be expected to wiggle, maybe. And Collin never said where they were going, never spoke, never opened the bag to offer Kyle one of the now desperately needed bottles of water. Maybe he was tired from all the walking, too, or suffering from a mellowing heat stroke. Maybe he was lost and didn't want to admit it. Maybe he'd never had an idea where they were going and was just winging it, giving Kyle a hard time because he knew he could, because he'd noticed Kyle noticing him, and was more of an asshole than he seemed.
Maybe Kyle shouldn't let his dick do the thinking in the future and this was going to be a valuable lesson for all involved.
"Here we are," said Collin, slowing down and letting go of Kyle's arm as they emerged from the crowds of people into --
A park. A lovely, if crowded, park, a little ocean of greenness and flowers and slim trees in all the noise and sweat and people.
"Looks like a good place to eat, eh?" said Collin, nudging Kyle in the ribs with one sharp elbow.
Kyle nodded mute agreement. It did look like a good place to -- well, maybe not eat, but definitely frantically chug back one of those bottles of water, even if it was more crowded than the parks back home and even if Kyle was pretty sure he could see, faintly on the other far end of the park, the now-familiar cluster of media around something. Probably protesters. Collin ignored them and walked in the other direction until he found a suitably shady tree and sat down, grinning and, finally, opening that damn bag and tossing Kyle a bottle of water. Kyle caught it and sat down next to Collin, carefully giving him some space.
Collin pulled out the other bottle of water and set it by his hip before ignoring it in favour of the food. He pulled out one of the clumps of faded green leaves tied with string and tugged the knots open so he could pull the leaves apart and reveal: rice. Each grain of rice clinging fiercely to its fellows and some other, darker things mixed in with the rice. It steamed, despite being in the bag for nearly two hours, and Collin bit into it like a man starved. Collin chewed, swallowed, and Kyle watched him, watched his tongue dart out to catch a grain of rice stuck to his lip, watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched his lips part in satisfaction after he'd processed the first bite and let out a startlingly intense sigh.
"Food," Collin said, "is the only reason to travel."
Kyle's eyebrows rose. "You're kidding."
"Not a bit," said Collin. He reached into the bag and passed Kyle the other lump of leaf-wrapped rice. "It's got nuts in with the rice. Fills you right up. Full of protein and carbs; good energy food."
Collin kept watching him, so Kyle pulled the leaves apart and took a bite. It tasted like rice. Nothing to practically orgasm over, although, God, he wasn't going to say that. He mumbled something non-committal around his mouthful, which Collin must have taken for agreement, because he returned to his own, taking a giant bite and finally opening up his own water to wash it down.
"You compete in the Olympics just for a chance to eat some different food."
"Naw," said Collin, taking one of the buns out of the bag and breaking it in half, inhaling the smell of spices and unknown-meat filling. He offered half to Kyle; Kyle declined. "Go to the Olympics to show the world how fucking awesome I am." Collin said it so simply, without bravado or even looking up from his bun, like he was stating an inarguable fact of life. "Just happens that they're held in a lot of places I'd never go to, otherwise, and the only reason to wander away from all the organization and competitions and training and photo ops is to eat something different. Good food. Real food. Not pretentious. Maybe not as refined or blow your taste buds great as it could be, but it's the real stuff, if you can wander away from all the approved of touristy areas with fucking American fast food joints on the corner just so no one feels scared by the foreignness. You gotta grab your chance for something like that, even if you could get in shit for it."
Collin ate first one half of the bun, then the other, before sucking the lingering taste off his fingers. Kyle tried not to stare and tried to focus on the conversation. "Food, huh?"
"The food in Turin was amazing," Collin said. He sounded sincere, almost reverent, and the smile on his pale lips, in the shade of his cap, was wistful. He shook himself. "This is good too, though."
Kyle shook his head, not quite able to believe cheerfully swaggering Collin Thorbiornsen was saying these things. Instead, he asked, "Did you seriously give that old guy all your spending money?"
"Yeah," said Collin, going back to the rice. "It wasn't much, really."
"Shouldn't you have saved it for souvenirs or something?" Oh God, Kyle was nagging him. His non-existent chances were going straight down the drain.
From the blank look on Collin's face, the idea had never even crossed his mind. After a minute, he said, "Eh," and took another bite of rice.
"What if you need cash?" Kyle asked, unable to stop now that he'd started.
Collin chewed, swallowed, and favoured Kyle with a grin so bright Kyle wasn't sure he'd be able to stand up for an hour, at least. "Something will work out. I'm Collin Thorbiornsen, eh?"
And somehow, Kyle believed him. Collin had the attitude of someone who just had good things happen to him, without effort, and he didn't question it. Good fortune fell on Collin like manna from heaven, and it fell so thoroughly that Kyle couldn't even resent him. The cheerful, unquestioning confidence, bordering on arrogance, just made Kyle want him more, more than when they'd met on the plane and Kyle'd had to excuse himself to the bathroom after ten minutes of talking to him because he was so oddly attractive, cute and boyish and boisterous, despite his otherworldliness, and the combination had driven Kyle to sudden, painful arousal in the tight airplane seat, just making small talk.
Kyle filled his mouth with rice, so he wouldn't say anything stupid, and they ate in silence for a while, Kyle trying not to look at Collin whenever Collin made that particularly pleased face beneath his hat, with his eyes half-shut and his lips parted.
As Collin was finishing his food, Kyle toyed with his water bottle, watching the remains slosh inside and wondering if he should save them for the walk back. "So, now that you've bought random food off an old Chinese man, you've done everything you wanted to do in Beijing?"
Collin tilted his head to the side, seriously considering the question as he chewed. "Well," he said at last, "not quite."
"Oh?"
"I was hoping to sneak into the practice pool some night and find out what it's like to fuck someone under water," Collin said.
The grin Collin fixed on Kyle was wicked, impish, inviting, and scorching hot on ice-pale lips. There was only one way to respond. But first, Kyle had to empty his water bottle to save a throat aching from sudden, coughing shock.
Luckily, Collin was willing to share the rest of his water on the walk back.
For starters, because without it there would be no reason to compare them at all, both were young, athletic men in an unfamiliar city. True, Collin was a few years younger and a few years shy of his nineteenth birthday, while Kyle was recently twenty-one, but a couple years seemed like nothing, and Collin -- usually -- deported himself with the self-confident swagger of an older man (or at least someone who was unquestionably of an age to call himself a man).
They were both university students, although their chosen schools were provinces apart. Kyle went to UVic where he wasn't quite near completing a degree in Physical Therapy. Collin was at U of T, where Kyle got the impression Collin was studying nothing but professional hockey and girls, although Collin claimed he was majoring in Native Studies.
Both were Western boys, with Kyle growing up in a Victoria suburb and Collin from "Somewhere in Saskatchewan; you wouldn't have heard of it", which might not have been a huge similarity, but Kyle believed a BC boy and a kid from small town Saskatchewan had more in common with each other than with some asshole from the East.
They were even both slim and blond; although Kyle knew by this point he was just getting silly with the comparisons, besides grasping at straws. Kyle was, naturally, gymnast slim, the result of careful dieting and rigorous exercising. Collin was taller than Kyle and his slimness seemed to be partially the remains of a sudden, gawky adolescent growth spurt and partially the result of the fact that Collin had the look of someone who could eat nothing but deep fried butter for a month and not gain an ounce of fat, the muscles he did have, stretched taut over legs and chest and arms the result of some divine gift instead of working out. Kyle's blond was really more of a light brown with his short, curly hair having been bleached fairer by years in the sun, while calling Collin blond seemed like an understatement. Collin made normal blonds look dingy and dark, even now, with his hair clipped short to his scalp for swimming. It was so white it almost glowed (although chlorine had given it a green tint that was only just starting to fade) and looked finer than any nearly grown man's hair had a right to be. Right now, it was almost completely hidden by Collin's nearly omnipresent baseball cap, but Kyle had seen him without it enough to know both the colour and that it would probably look a lot nicer if Collin's coach hadn't insisted on a borderline military cut.
The hair fit with the rest of Collin, though, because the rest of Collin looked like he'd been crafted out of the palest pallet possible. Collin's eyes, with their barely there white lashes and thin traces of eyebrows, were blue like ice; that is, barely blue at all, just the barest hint of colour, almost washed out by the darkness of his pupils. All over, Collin was so pale that Kyle could have traced the blue of his veins up those long, slim fingers and along the inside of his arms, down his throat and --
Okay, maybe the fact of it was that Kyle was looking for any common ground between them and had been since they met on the plane, in the desperate hope that similarities would make straight-boy swaggering Collin more likely to bend a little in Kyle's direction, because God he would like to tap that before they left Beijing.
That faint, stupid hope was why he had let Collin grin and talk him into venturing away from the rest of their team (and their keepers) even though they really weren't supposed to. But Collin grinned and insisted that one of the other swimmers would cover for him, no one would ever know they had left, and besides, who could fault them for wanting to go exploring, how often would they get a chance like this? Which Kyle knew was just a bit of bullshit on Collin's part, because Collin had been with the Canadian team in Athens and, famously, in Turin, but he let it pass, which is probably what Collin hoped the keepers would do as well, if they were found out.
While the keepers tended to bark at most of the Canadian athletes and call them by their surnames, Collin was always "Collin" and when people shouted at him, it always seemed a touch less barky. Kyle couldn't tell if this was because Collin was a bit of a pet because of his youth, given special treatment as a former gold medallist, just a result of people responding to the same things in Collin Kyle couldn't help responding to, or because no one in there right mind would try to bark a mouthful like "Thorbiornsen".
Now, somehow without realizing it, Kyle was scrambling to keep up with the taller Collin through the packed streets of Beijing, not quite sure where, if anywhere, Collin thought they were going. There was barely room to breathe, let alone move, the streets crowded with all the people it was usually crowded with, busy men and women going in whatever direction Kyle wasn't, loud children in danger of being stepped on, and tiny, aggressive little old ladies looking frail as sticks and wielding bags, baskets, and purses as aggressive and heavy as a rampaging elephant. Add to that all the tourists and the fucking endless media and their entourages, and it was a wonder anyone could move at all. It was obvious why the people in charge didn't want the athletes wandering off. Kyle was going to die, crushed to an ignoble death by some hundred-year-old Chinese grandmother's groceries, all because he desperately wanted to get laid by some idiot straight boy with no sense of self-preservation.
It was noisy and it smelled, of people and sweat and food and sweat and animals and sweat and humid recent rain and sweat. Such was the confusion, the onslaught of unpleasant and overwhelming sensations on Kyle's senses, that it took him a minute to realize that Collin had stopped, ducked out of the flow of the crowd, and into a little street stall. Kyle pushed, ducked, and shoved, each with a good Canadian apology, even when some angry grandma put her walking stick right down on his foot, until he had caught up to Collin.
Collin, who was emptying every meager bit of spending money he must have had into his palm and holding it out to a sweating old man with a brilliant Collin-grin that transcended language barriers.
"What are you doing?" Kyle asked, when the old man had taken Collin's money and gone to poke something that was steaming and not helping the humidity one iota.
"Getting something to eat. Don't worry, I'll share," said Collin, which was the least of Kyle's worries.
"Didn't you have breakfast this morning?" Kyle hissed.
"That stuff's shit," said Collin succinctly, watching the old man keenly and pushing the brim of his cap up to get a better view. Sweat trickled down his temple, his eyes gleamed, and his face was flushed in the heat, and Kyle still wanted him, even sweaty and stupid.
Kyle couldn't exactly argue with Collin's description of the meals the Canadian team was fed, either. They were all 100% healthy, 50% tasteless and 50% so vile you could gag. If it came out after the fact that someone had decided to cut expenses by slashing the food budget in half, Kyle would not have been surprised. "What are you getting, then?"
Collin shrugged. "Dunno," he said, just as the old man came back with -- oh thank God -- two bottles of water, the condensation on the bottles sweating worse than Collin and Kyle, some sticky looking buns, and clumps of what Kyle could swear were leaves, all dumped unceremoniously into a paper bag.
The old man offered Collin the bag; he didn't offer Collin any change, and Collin didn't ask. He just flashed the old man one of those smiles, said a cheerful "Thanks!" and grabbed Kyle's arm, dragging him back into the press of people for more walking.
A lot more walking. It felt like an eternity, although when Kyle looked at his watch at one point, it had only been an hour and a half, which was too damn long anyway. As they kept walking, the crowds eventually began to thin, going from packed like sardines to just crowded enough that you could be expected to wiggle, maybe. And Collin never said where they were going, never spoke, never opened the bag to offer Kyle one of the now desperately needed bottles of water. Maybe he was tired from all the walking, too, or suffering from a mellowing heat stroke. Maybe he was lost and didn't want to admit it. Maybe he'd never had an idea where they were going and was just winging it, giving Kyle a hard time because he knew he could, because he'd noticed Kyle noticing him, and was more of an asshole than he seemed.
Maybe Kyle shouldn't let his dick do the thinking in the future and this was going to be a valuable lesson for all involved.
"Here we are," said Collin, slowing down and letting go of Kyle's arm as they emerged from the crowds of people into --
A park. A lovely, if crowded, park, a little ocean of greenness and flowers and slim trees in all the noise and sweat and people.
"Looks like a good place to eat, eh?" said Collin, nudging Kyle in the ribs with one sharp elbow.
Kyle nodded mute agreement. It did look like a good place to -- well, maybe not eat, but definitely frantically chug back one of those bottles of water, even if it was more crowded than the parks back home and even if Kyle was pretty sure he could see, faintly on the other far end of the park, the now-familiar cluster of media around something. Probably protesters. Collin ignored them and walked in the other direction until he found a suitably shady tree and sat down, grinning and, finally, opening that damn bag and tossing Kyle a bottle of water. Kyle caught it and sat down next to Collin, carefully giving him some space.
Collin pulled out the other bottle of water and set it by his hip before ignoring it in favour of the food. He pulled out one of the clumps of faded green leaves tied with string and tugged the knots open so he could pull the leaves apart and reveal: rice. Each grain of rice clinging fiercely to its fellows and some other, darker things mixed in with the rice. It steamed, despite being in the bag for nearly two hours, and Collin bit into it like a man starved. Collin chewed, swallowed, and Kyle watched him, watched his tongue dart out to catch a grain of rice stuck to his lip, watched his throat move as he swallowed, watched his lips part in satisfaction after he'd processed the first bite and let out a startlingly intense sigh.
"Food," Collin said, "is the only reason to travel."
Kyle's eyebrows rose. "You're kidding."
"Not a bit," said Collin. He reached into the bag and passed Kyle the other lump of leaf-wrapped rice. "It's got nuts in with the rice. Fills you right up. Full of protein and carbs; good energy food."
Collin kept watching him, so Kyle pulled the leaves apart and took a bite. It tasted like rice. Nothing to practically orgasm over, although, God, he wasn't going to say that. He mumbled something non-committal around his mouthful, which Collin must have taken for agreement, because he returned to his own, taking a giant bite and finally opening up his own water to wash it down.
"You compete in the Olympics just for a chance to eat some different food."
"Naw," said Collin, taking one of the buns out of the bag and breaking it in half, inhaling the smell of spices and unknown-meat filling. He offered half to Kyle; Kyle declined. "Go to the Olympics to show the world how fucking awesome I am." Collin said it so simply, without bravado or even looking up from his bun, like he was stating an inarguable fact of life. "Just happens that they're held in a lot of places I'd never go to, otherwise, and the only reason to wander away from all the organization and competitions and training and photo ops is to eat something different. Good food. Real food. Not pretentious. Maybe not as refined or blow your taste buds great as it could be, but it's the real stuff, if you can wander away from all the approved of touristy areas with fucking American fast food joints on the corner just so no one feels scared by the foreignness. You gotta grab your chance for something like that, even if you could get in shit for it."
Collin ate first one half of the bun, then the other, before sucking the lingering taste off his fingers. Kyle tried not to stare and tried to focus on the conversation. "Food, huh?"
"The food in Turin was amazing," Collin said. He sounded sincere, almost reverent, and the smile on his pale lips, in the shade of his cap, was wistful. He shook himself. "This is good too, though."
Kyle shook his head, not quite able to believe cheerfully swaggering Collin Thorbiornsen was saying these things. Instead, he asked, "Did you seriously give that old guy all your spending money?"
"Yeah," said Collin, going back to the rice. "It wasn't much, really."
"Shouldn't you have saved it for souvenirs or something?" Oh God, Kyle was nagging him. His non-existent chances were going straight down the drain.
From the blank look on Collin's face, the idea had never even crossed his mind. After a minute, he said, "Eh," and took another bite of rice.
"What if you need cash?" Kyle asked, unable to stop now that he'd started.
Collin chewed, swallowed, and favoured Kyle with a grin so bright Kyle wasn't sure he'd be able to stand up for an hour, at least. "Something will work out. I'm Collin Thorbiornsen, eh?"
And somehow, Kyle believed him. Collin had the attitude of someone who just had good things happen to him, without effort, and he didn't question it. Good fortune fell on Collin like manna from heaven, and it fell so thoroughly that Kyle couldn't even resent him. The cheerful, unquestioning confidence, bordering on arrogance, just made Kyle want him more, more than when they'd met on the plane and Kyle'd had to excuse himself to the bathroom after ten minutes of talking to him because he was so oddly attractive, cute and boyish and boisterous, despite his otherworldliness, and the combination had driven Kyle to sudden, painful arousal in the tight airplane seat, just making small talk.
Kyle filled his mouth with rice, so he wouldn't say anything stupid, and they ate in silence for a while, Kyle trying not to look at Collin whenever Collin made that particularly pleased face beneath his hat, with his eyes half-shut and his lips parted.
As Collin was finishing his food, Kyle toyed with his water bottle, watching the remains slosh inside and wondering if he should save them for the walk back. "So, now that you've bought random food off an old Chinese man, you've done everything you wanted to do in Beijing?"
Collin tilted his head to the side, seriously considering the question as he chewed. "Well," he said at last, "not quite."
"Oh?"
"I was hoping to sneak into the practice pool some night and find out what it's like to fuck someone under water," Collin said.
The grin Collin fixed on Kyle was wicked, impish, inviting, and scorching hot on ice-pale lips. There was only one way to respond. But first, Kyle had to empty his water bottle to save a throat aching from sudden, coughing shock.
Luckily, Collin was willing to share the rest of his water on the walk back.