Fic: "Worth It"
Title: "Worth It"
Pairing: Thorpe/Peirsol
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, not making any money, etc.
Author's notes: Written for captain_molly, who wanted Ian Thorpe/Aaron Peirsol and angst or PWP, and didn't want to see drug use (other than alcohol) or Pieter. My prompts were decks and fishing.
Many thanks to shadow_shimmer for the beta, and for planting the seed of an idea that would eventually - several months later, as it turns out - become this fic.
Worth It
Ian likes to close his eyes while we fuck.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. It was just something he did, one of his many little quirks.
Now I know that it’s not that simple, and it’s not that innocent.
He’s doing it now - scrunching his eyes up until I’m sure there’s not even a shred of me visible - as I fuck him in his bed, our bodies twisted amongst 1000-thread count linen sheets and the luxurious down comforter that he had imported from Scotland. And I wouldn’t normally know shit like that, except for the fact that Ian explained it all to me in great detail once when I made the mistake of commenting on the softness of his bedding.
Ian cries out as he comes, wetness spreading across my hand and stomach. Then he relaxes beneath me, letting his head roll to the side, until I finish a minute or so later.
I get up and go into the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean up a little. When I come back out, Ian has untangled the bedding and rearranged it and is now curled up beneath the sheets, ready for sleep. I flip off the lights and climb in beside him, but neither of us makes a move to touch the other.
That was one of the first things I learned about Ian. He doesn’t like to cuddle after sex. He likes to lay on his side with his back to me and enough space between us so that we never touch during the night. I didn’t get it at first, but now I know that that space, that distance, is one of the ways Ian tries to cope with who he is.
Same thing with the eye-closing during sex.
He hides from me during the act; if he can’t see me, then somehow it’s easier for him to relax and get lost in it. And by physically separating himself from me afterwards, he avoids any semblance of emotional attachment.
Because I know that Ian doesn’t want to be with me. And he especially doesn’t want to be gay.
-----
When I wake up late the next morning, Ian isn’t in bed. I lay there for a while, trying to decide if I feel jet-lagged enough to justify going back to sleep, but I finally decide that I don’t and get up. I wander downstairs and find Ian sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the paper.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” Ian echoes, coffee cup at his lips. “There’s cereal on the counter, if you want it.”
I take a bowl out of the cupboard and fill it with cereal, then grab a spoon and a glass before opening the fridge and taking out the milk and orange juice. I move around the kitchen with ease; I’ve been here enough that I know my way around pretty well. That sort of self-sufficiency has become something of a necessity lately because Ian hasn’t really bothered with being a proper host for some time now.
I join him at the table and begin eating.
“Anything in particular you wanted to do today?” I ask after a while.
Ian shrugs noncommittally, engrossed in the business section.
I figured as much. That means we’ll hang around the house, watching TV, playing video games, reading. Ian will make some business calls. I’ll run for an hour or so on his treadmill. The usual. If we’re feeling particularly vigorous, we might even talk for a little while about swimming, or endorsements, or surfing. We’ve actually had some decent conversations about that last one - though they happen all too rarely and we usually can’t find a way to segue to another topic after we’ve exhausted that one.
We don’t ever go out together, though. He suffers from an almost suffocating paranoia where that’s concerned: “What would we do if someone recognized us, Aaron? Huh? How would we explain that?” Basically, he’s terrified of someone seeing us together, putting two-and-two together, and outing him. Ian thinks it’s far too risky and I don’t care to argue about it. The first time I came to visit, just a few weeks after we’d started everything in Athens, he’d laid down the ground rules: no restaurants, no movie theaters, no clubs, no stores. Not that he placed me under house arrest or anything; that first trip, I’d gone out alone, doing the touristy thing. I took a cab to the Harbour and wandered around for a while, seeing the sights - even though I’d seen them all before. It was still fun, and far preferable to sitting at home with Ian in the uncomfortable silence, because back then I still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with him. Now, though, I know what to expect, and besides, it’s not as though I’m coming to Sydney to see the fucking Opera House anyway.
On a certain level, I’ve always found Ian’s paranoia amusing. He’s so fucking concerned about someone seeing us and realizing he’s a fag, but honestly Ian’s never done a very good job of hiding the fact that he’s gay. Pretty much the whole of Australia - not to mention a significant portion of the rest of the world - knows he’s gay. Anyone who possesses a gaydar with even the barest hint of functionality can figure it out.
Maybe that’s part of his problem, though. People have this idea in their minds of what he is, and they scrutinize his every move, looking for proof to corroborate their own suspicions. He’s hounded by the press whenever he goes out, and his life hasn’t really been his own for a number of years.
In that respect, I can’t really relate. I can walk down the street without being recognized, without being bothered. And in the rare event that someone does know who I am, I’m fairly sure that they’d never suspect that I fucked Ian Thorpe on a daily basis for the better part of the 2004 Olympics. Or that I’m still fucking him. Or that I fuck men at all.
I don’t live with those sorts of pressures. Ian does. So on a certain level, his caution is justified. And I understand it - no one wants their sports hero to be gay; no one wants to buy water or cereal or underwear from a fag. Well, most people anyway. There are those few enlightened souls…
So yeah, the paranoia - fine. That’s tolerable. And I don’t feel jilted in the slightest by the public denials, either. That’s all part of the game when you’re a celebrity with millions in endorsements that hinge on you being the face of a nation.
What does get me, though, is the way that Ian seems to be constantly trying to deny it to himself.
-----
Ian cooks dinner for us later that night - salmon and vegetables - and serves it with an expensive Australian pinot noir from 1996 - apparently a very good year. And those are more details that I normally wouldn’t have known, but it’s Ian’s favorite and - like the fancy bedding - he told me all about it once.
Tonight, though, we’re busy talking about Worlds.
I swirl my wine around my glass and look at it wistfully. “I think this is probably going to be some of the last alcohol I have until the competition’s over,” I muse, thinking of all the dietary restrictions that are going to be imposed over the coming months. “It’s nearly that time for us, you know.”
Ian stares down at his plate, poking at a roasted pepper with his fork. “I actually don’t think I’m going to be swimming, Aaron.” He sets his fork down and reaches for the wine bottle, refilling his glass.
I stare at him incredulously. “What? Why the fuck not?”
Ian takes a sip of his wine and meets my eyes. “Well, I’ve only been back in training for a short while,” he explains, and I give him a look that probably says - rather eloquently - that that’s a lot of bullshit. Because yes, Ian took a break - and a rather lengthy one, by Olympic standards - but I know what he’s capable of, training-wise, and there’s no reason he couldn’t be in racing shape by July if he wanted to be.
He sighs quietly. “I know that physically, I can get to where I need to be, but mentally…I’m just not there.”
“What about defending your title in the 400? You okay with just giving that up?”
Ian waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not concerned about that sort of thing anymore. I think I’ve proved myself rather soundly in that event. Might as well let Grant have it for a change.”
We eat in silence for a few moments.
“I’m going to make an official announcement in the next week or two,” Ian finally says. “And then sit back and let the national mourning commence.” There’s a wry little smile on his face, but I can sense a darker emotion behind it.
I nod, remembering the frenzy that occurred when Ian was disqualified during Olympic trials, knowing that it’s not really an exaggeration.
“People will be sobbing in the streets, I’m sure.”
Ian laughs, but his face quickly grows serious.
“That’s just it, though. It’s a fucking disaster if I don’t qualify. A national emergency if I don’t swim. Everyone loses their bloody minds.” He swipes his bangs out of his face and leans forward a little. “And seriously. It’s just a bunch of men in Speedos flailing about in a huge fucking pool. I wish everyone would just calm down about it.”
After that, the conversation drifts to a discussion of Michael’s chances in the 200m, and we both begin to relax.
By the time we’ve finished dinner and finished the wine, Ian has loosened up to the point that he agrees when I suggest we grab a couple of beers and go sit outside. The last remnants of the sunset are visible on the horizon as we settle into a couple of metal chairs. And it’s weird that it feels so momentous - just hanging out on Ian’s back deck - but his house is right on the water and there are boats that pass by, and since Ian doesn’t even have a fence, anyone can look in and see whatever they want. It’s something that Ian hasn’t been willing to do before, but I realize that he must feel as though we look innocent enough: two guys hanging out, having a beer, with a healthy arm's-length of space between us. It’s the stereotypical guy thing to do - the straight thing to do.
The sound of laughter nearby reaches my ears and I turn to see three children clustered together in the neighbor’s yard, on a dock they’ve built that juts out several yards into the water. One holds a fishing pole, which he casts haphazardly as a group of adults watches indulgently from where they’re seated at a patio table farther up the lawn.
There’s more commotion and I watch as the line is reeled in and then, after a brief examination by one of the children, is cast back out into the water. And I smile a little, remembering what it was like to go fishing when I was a child - the impatience, the constant urge to reel in to make sure that your bait was alright, the long stretches of time where nothing happened at all, and then the wondrous moment when you finally got a bite.
I take a minute to wonder if Ian ever went fishing. Somehow he doesn’t seem the type.
Darkness is creeping in all around us, and before long the neighbors go inside, leaving us in relative privacy. I suddenly feel bold enough to bring up something that’s been on my mind for quite some time.
“Why don’t you just come out?” I ask quietly, staring out into the water as I say it.
And there it is, simple as that. I wait a moment before I turn to look at Ian.
It’s hard to read his expression in the fading light, but for a minute I’m fairly sure he wants to hit me. Then the look changes; becomes condescending, patronizing.
“Why don’t you give it a go first, Peirsol?” he challenges. “You go and tell everyone you’re a fag - your coaches, your teammates, your sponsors - and then come back and tell me if it went alright.”
I’m not taken aback by how Ian has reversed the question on me; it’s something I’ve considered before.
I shrug a little, taking a sip of my beer. “I wouldn’t have a problem doing it, for the right reasons.”
“Oh? And what are the right reasons, then?”
“I’d do it if I felt that remaining closeted was stifling me; if it was hurting the person I was with; if I had someone worth coming out for in the first place.”
Ian shoots me a withering look, and I realize that he’s taken offense to the last item on that list. Which I didn’t intend, to be honest. I didn’t even have him in mind when I said it.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean…” I’m not sure how to finish my sentence. I didn’t mean that you’re not worth it? Because it’s not as though he isn’t worth it, technically, but when you get right down to it, he just…isn’t. Whatever I have with Ian, it doesn’t include commitment and fidelity and love and there's certainly nothing there that justifies holding a joint press conference to announce our relationship to the world.
The silence that develops between us is distinctly uncomfortable because it’s so much easier to deal with whatever it is that we have together when we pretend like there’s nothing there at all, and bringing up the fact that there is something there - even if it’s just an uneasy companionship and a mutual desire for sex - is always awkward.
It’s Ian who finally breaks the silence.
“I can’t come out,” he says quietly, and there’s no anger left in his voice - just weariness. He’s holding onto his beer with one hand and picking at the label with the other. “I don’t even know how to make you understand, really…the pressure I’m under. It’s different for you.” His fingers manage to loosen the corner of the label and he tugs on it, slowly peeling it off.
“Aaron, you can come out and cause a bit of a stir, and then go back and compete and finish your swimming career, for better or worse, and then you can retire and fade into anonymity and no one will ever even bring up your name again, except maybe a sportscaster here and there when they need to fill up air time by discussing old records.” Ian’s words might sound harsh, but I know that they aren’t meant to be malicious. Besides, I’m well aware that they’re true. I’m hardly bothered by what he’s said, though. Swimming has never been my life.
“But if I come out,” Ian continues, sounding resigned. “The whole of Australia will be talking about it for weeks, and even after it dies down, and even after I’m done swimming, people will still remember and people will still know who I am and I’ll never escape it.”
He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath.
“I’d never be where I am today if I came out when I first realized I was gay, and I’m terrified of what will happen if I come out now.” Another pause. “Do you get it, finally?”
I finish the last of my beer before answering. “I get that part of it, Ian. That’s your public life, your image.” And I mean it; I do get it, although I’m not so sure it’s making him any happier to stay closeted. But I still don’t understand why he insists on fighting his sexuality in private. He obviously does a shitty job of it, because here I am - here we are - but he fights it enough that I notice, and the residual jet lag and the alcohol have combined to make me overly emotional and all of a sudden I’m feeling incredibly resentful. Because yeah, Ian and I don’t really have much of anything together, but I have to wonder if that’s because we really don’t want anything more than what we have, or because Ian is struggling with his sexuality to the point that his tangible paranoia has turned me off to the idea as well.
“You can publicly deny that you’re gay all you want, Ian. That shit doesn’t bother me. What I don’t get, though, is why you’re so fucking insistent on denying it in private as well. Denying it with me.”
Ian doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his tension even without being able to see him, and again there’s that moment of wondering if Ian is really going to hit me.
Instead, he stands abruptly and walks back inside the house. I hear the screen door crack angrily against the frame as Ian slams it behind him.
I remain outside for a couple of minutes, waiting for my resentment to subside. It doesn’t, though.
So I go inside to look for Ian.
I find him in his bedroom, angrily rifling through a stack of papers on his dresser. He doesn’t even look up as I enter the room, but I don’t give a fuck if he wants to play the cold-shoulder game with me; I walk up to him and grab his face, pulling him into a kiss.
Surprisingly, Ian doesn’t struggle, even for the sake of appearance. He just kisses me back with equal force, and it’s harsh and inelegant but it’s also exactly what I want.
I’m hard already, just from kissing him, and I grasp his hips and pull our bodies together so that he can feel it. He sighs a little, into my mouth, and lets me unzip his jeans.
We’re both breathing heavily as we peel off our clothes. Once we’re naked, I push Ian down to his knees.
“Suck me,” I mutter, sliding my fingers into his hair, not pulling, but ready to if he doesn’t move quickly enough.
I don’t have to. Ian is positively glaring at me, because he knows what this is and he knows what I’m doing, but he takes me into his mouth anyway.
Once he starts sucking, Ian averts his eyes, like he usually does. I’m tempted to tighten my grip in his hair and force him look at me, but quickly decide it might be best to save that for later.
Instead I let my head tip backwards slightly, moaning as Ian begins to work me in earnest.
After a while I pull Ian off of me and tug him to his feet. We climb onto the bed and I roll him over onto his hands and knees before opening the nighstand drawer and rummaging around.
Ian is perfectly still as I roll on a condom and slick my fingers, and I wonder if he’s even breathing. There’s an obvious tension in his shoulders, and I know that he’s unsure of how this is all going to go tonight because things are more strained, emotionally, than they’ve ever been before.
He makes a low noise in the back of his throat as I push two fingers into him. He’s quiet after that, not making any noise at all as I prepare him, but he can’t stay completely silent when I push inside and begin to fuck him with smooth, measured strokes.
His harsh breathing cuts through the silence of the room, but it’s not enough. I know that Ian is still holding back - maybe just to spite me this time - because he’s usually fairly loud in bed, especially by this stage. And I’m already bitter and frustrated and a little angry and this just makes it worse.
I stop and lean down, reaching for Ian’s hair and twisting his head around so he’s forced to look at me.
Neither of us moves. We just stare at each other, and even though Ian has to look at me, his expression is defiant, challenging. He knows what I’m doing and he wants me to be the one to give in.
But there’s no way I’m going to. I know that Ian wants this - wants me - and he’s going to have to prove it this time. I hold myself perfectly still for what feels like ages and watch as Ian’s expression changes, slowly growing more and more desperate. He rocks his hips slightly, but I tighten my grip on his hair and put more of my weight on him, stopping his movements. And finally, it’s Ian who gives in.
He closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again, meeting my gaze. “Aaron...” he murmurs, unwilling to say anything else, but I get the message.
Then I feel him tighten around me, squeezing my cock with slow, rhythmic pulses. And I can’t really hold back anymore with him doing that, so I grunt and shove his head down until his face nearly touches the sheets, and resume thrusting into him.
The sex is rougher than before, harder, but Ian takes it without complaint. He arches his back and moves beneath me, moaning as I push us both closer.
I let go of his hair and reach for his cock instead, working him with quick, firm strokes. It doesn’t take long for Ian to cry out, his body tightening around me. When he’s done, I grab his hips with both hands, pulling him back to meet my thrusts.
I come with a low groan, pushing into him a few more times until I’m truly spent. Ian is shaking beneath me, his ribcage expanding and contracting as he pants. I pull out and watch as he carefully lowers himself onto the mattress.
After I’ve thrown away the condom and climbed back into bed, Ian moves closer, and - to my surprise - actually touches me. Tentatively, at first, but it actually doesn’t feel all that unnatural and after a couple of minutes we’re pressed comfortably together. It’s the first time he’s ever initiated this type of contact after sex and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s any true love in the touch, it does feel like an acknowledgement of sorts. An acknowledgment that what we have together - whatever that is - means something to him.
I know that Ian has issues, and I also know that I probably can’t do much to help him. He'll have to work through them on his own. But I’d like to think, lying here with Ian pressed against me, at ease for the first time ever with my presence in his bed, that maybe I’ve helped him take a step in the right direction.
Pairing: Thorpe/Peirsol
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, not making any money, etc.
Author's notes: Written for captain_molly, who wanted Ian Thorpe/Aaron Peirsol and angst or PWP, and didn't want to see drug use (other than alcohol) or Pieter. My prompts were decks and fishing.
Many thanks to shadow_shimmer for the beta, and for planting the seed of an idea that would eventually - several months later, as it turns out - become this fic.
Worth It
Ian likes to close his eyes while we fuck.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. It was just something he did, one of his many little quirks.
Now I know that it’s not that simple, and it’s not that innocent.
He’s doing it now - scrunching his eyes up until I’m sure there’s not even a shred of me visible - as I fuck him in his bed, our bodies twisted amongst 1000-thread count linen sheets and the luxurious down comforter that he had imported from Scotland. And I wouldn’t normally know shit like that, except for the fact that Ian explained it all to me in great detail once when I made the mistake of commenting on the softness of his bedding.
Ian cries out as he comes, wetness spreading across my hand and stomach. Then he relaxes beneath me, letting his head roll to the side, until I finish a minute or so later.
I get up and go into the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean up a little. When I come back out, Ian has untangled the bedding and rearranged it and is now curled up beneath the sheets, ready for sleep. I flip off the lights and climb in beside him, but neither of us makes a move to touch the other.
That was one of the first things I learned about Ian. He doesn’t like to cuddle after sex. He likes to lay on his side with his back to me and enough space between us so that we never touch during the night. I didn’t get it at first, but now I know that that space, that distance, is one of the ways Ian tries to cope with who he is.
Same thing with the eye-closing during sex.
He hides from me during the act; if he can’t see me, then somehow it’s easier for him to relax and get lost in it. And by physically separating himself from me afterwards, he avoids any semblance of emotional attachment.
Because I know that Ian doesn’t want to be with me. And he especially doesn’t want to be gay.
-----
When I wake up late the next morning, Ian isn’t in bed. I lay there for a while, trying to decide if I feel jet-lagged enough to justify going back to sleep, but I finally decide that I don’t and get up. I wander downstairs and find Ian sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the paper.
“Good morning.”
“Morning,” Ian echoes, coffee cup at his lips. “There’s cereal on the counter, if you want it.”
I take a bowl out of the cupboard and fill it with cereal, then grab a spoon and a glass before opening the fridge and taking out the milk and orange juice. I move around the kitchen with ease; I’ve been here enough that I know my way around pretty well. That sort of self-sufficiency has become something of a necessity lately because Ian hasn’t really bothered with being a proper host for some time now.
I join him at the table and begin eating.
“Anything in particular you wanted to do today?” I ask after a while.
Ian shrugs noncommittally, engrossed in the business section.
I figured as much. That means we’ll hang around the house, watching TV, playing video games, reading. Ian will make some business calls. I’ll run for an hour or so on his treadmill. The usual. If we’re feeling particularly vigorous, we might even talk for a little while about swimming, or endorsements, or surfing. We’ve actually had some decent conversations about that last one - though they happen all too rarely and we usually can’t find a way to segue to another topic after we’ve exhausted that one.
We don’t ever go out together, though. He suffers from an almost suffocating paranoia where that’s concerned: “What would we do if someone recognized us, Aaron? Huh? How would we explain that?” Basically, he’s terrified of someone seeing us together, putting two-and-two together, and outing him. Ian thinks it’s far too risky and I don’t care to argue about it. The first time I came to visit, just a few weeks after we’d started everything in Athens, he’d laid down the ground rules: no restaurants, no movie theaters, no clubs, no stores. Not that he placed me under house arrest or anything; that first trip, I’d gone out alone, doing the touristy thing. I took a cab to the Harbour and wandered around for a while, seeing the sights - even though I’d seen them all before. It was still fun, and far preferable to sitting at home with Ian in the uncomfortable silence, because back then I still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with him. Now, though, I know what to expect, and besides, it’s not as though I’m coming to Sydney to see the fucking Opera House anyway.
On a certain level, I’ve always found Ian’s paranoia amusing. He’s so fucking concerned about someone seeing us and realizing he’s a fag, but honestly Ian’s never done a very good job of hiding the fact that he’s gay. Pretty much the whole of Australia - not to mention a significant portion of the rest of the world - knows he’s gay. Anyone who possesses a gaydar with even the barest hint of functionality can figure it out.
Maybe that’s part of his problem, though. People have this idea in their minds of what he is, and they scrutinize his every move, looking for proof to corroborate their own suspicions. He’s hounded by the press whenever he goes out, and his life hasn’t really been his own for a number of years.
In that respect, I can’t really relate. I can walk down the street without being recognized, without being bothered. And in the rare event that someone does know who I am, I’m fairly sure that they’d never suspect that I fucked Ian Thorpe on a daily basis for the better part of the 2004 Olympics. Or that I’m still fucking him. Or that I fuck men at all.
I don’t live with those sorts of pressures. Ian does. So on a certain level, his caution is justified. And I understand it - no one wants their sports hero to be gay; no one wants to buy water or cereal or underwear from a fag. Well, most people anyway. There are those few enlightened souls…
So yeah, the paranoia - fine. That’s tolerable. And I don’t feel jilted in the slightest by the public denials, either. That’s all part of the game when you’re a celebrity with millions in endorsements that hinge on you being the face of a nation.
What does get me, though, is the way that Ian seems to be constantly trying to deny it to himself.
-----
Ian cooks dinner for us later that night - salmon and vegetables - and serves it with an expensive Australian pinot noir from 1996 - apparently a very good year. And those are more details that I normally wouldn’t have known, but it’s Ian’s favorite and - like the fancy bedding - he told me all about it once.
Tonight, though, we’re busy talking about Worlds.
I swirl my wine around my glass and look at it wistfully. “I think this is probably going to be some of the last alcohol I have until the competition’s over,” I muse, thinking of all the dietary restrictions that are going to be imposed over the coming months. “It’s nearly that time for us, you know.”
Ian stares down at his plate, poking at a roasted pepper with his fork. “I actually don’t think I’m going to be swimming, Aaron.” He sets his fork down and reaches for the wine bottle, refilling his glass.
I stare at him incredulously. “What? Why the fuck not?”
Ian takes a sip of his wine and meets my eyes. “Well, I’ve only been back in training for a short while,” he explains, and I give him a look that probably says - rather eloquently - that that’s a lot of bullshit. Because yes, Ian took a break - and a rather lengthy one, by Olympic standards - but I know what he’s capable of, training-wise, and there’s no reason he couldn’t be in racing shape by July if he wanted to be.
He sighs quietly. “I know that physically, I can get to where I need to be, but mentally…I’m just not there.”
“What about defending your title in the 400? You okay with just giving that up?”
Ian waves his hand dismissively. “I’m not concerned about that sort of thing anymore. I think I’ve proved myself rather soundly in that event. Might as well let Grant have it for a change.”
We eat in silence for a few moments.
“I’m going to make an official announcement in the next week or two,” Ian finally says. “And then sit back and let the national mourning commence.” There’s a wry little smile on his face, but I can sense a darker emotion behind it.
I nod, remembering the frenzy that occurred when Ian was disqualified during Olympic trials, knowing that it’s not really an exaggeration.
“People will be sobbing in the streets, I’m sure.”
Ian laughs, but his face quickly grows serious.
“That’s just it, though. It’s a fucking disaster if I don’t qualify. A national emergency if I don’t swim. Everyone loses their bloody minds.” He swipes his bangs out of his face and leans forward a little. “And seriously. It’s just a bunch of men in Speedos flailing about in a huge fucking pool. I wish everyone would just calm down about it.”
After that, the conversation drifts to a discussion of Michael’s chances in the 200m, and we both begin to relax.
By the time we’ve finished dinner and finished the wine, Ian has loosened up to the point that he agrees when I suggest we grab a couple of beers and go sit outside. The last remnants of the sunset are visible on the horizon as we settle into a couple of metal chairs. And it’s weird that it feels so momentous - just hanging out on Ian’s back deck - but his house is right on the water and there are boats that pass by, and since Ian doesn’t even have a fence, anyone can look in and see whatever they want. It’s something that Ian hasn’t been willing to do before, but I realize that he must feel as though we look innocent enough: two guys hanging out, having a beer, with a healthy arm's-length of space between us. It’s the stereotypical guy thing to do - the straight thing to do.
The sound of laughter nearby reaches my ears and I turn to see three children clustered together in the neighbor’s yard, on a dock they’ve built that juts out several yards into the water. One holds a fishing pole, which he casts haphazardly as a group of adults watches indulgently from where they’re seated at a patio table farther up the lawn.
There’s more commotion and I watch as the line is reeled in and then, after a brief examination by one of the children, is cast back out into the water. And I smile a little, remembering what it was like to go fishing when I was a child - the impatience, the constant urge to reel in to make sure that your bait was alright, the long stretches of time where nothing happened at all, and then the wondrous moment when you finally got a bite.
I take a minute to wonder if Ian ever went fishing. Somehow he doesn’t seem the type.
Darkness is creeping in all around us, and before long the neighbors go inside, leaving us in relative privacy. I suddenly feel bold enough to bring up something that’s been on my mind for quite some time.
“Why don’t you just come out?” I ask quietly, staring out into the water as I say it.
And there it is, simple as that. I wait a moment before I turn to look at Ian.
It’s hard to read his expression in the fading light, but for a minute I’m fairly sure he wants to hit me. Then the look changes; becomes condescending, patronizing.
“Why don’t you give it a go first, Peirsol?” he challenges. “You go and tell everyone you’re a fag - your coaches, your teammates, your sponsors - and then come back and tell me if it went alright.”
I’m not taken aback by how Ian has reversed the question on me; it’s something I’ve considered before.
I shrug a little, taking a sip of my beer. “I wouldn’t have a problem doing it, for the right reasons.”
“Oh? And what are the right reasons, then?”
“I’d do it if I felt that remaining closeted was stifling me; if it was hurting the person I was with; if I had someone worth coming out for in the first place.”
Ian shoots me a withering look, and I realize that he’s taken offense to the last item on that list. Which I didn’t intend, to be honest. I didn’t even have him in mind when I said it.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean…” I’m not sure how to finish my sentence. I didn’t mean that you’re not worth it? Because it’s not as though he isn’t worth it, technically, but when you get right down to it, he just…isn’t. Whatever I have with Ian, it doesn’t include commitment and fidelity and love and there's certainly nothing there that justifies holding a joint press conference to announce our relationship to the world.
The silence that develops between us is distinctly uncomfortable because it’s so much easier to deal with whatever it is that we have together when we pretend like there’s nothing there at all, and bringing up the fact that there is something there - even if it’s just an uneasy companionship and a mutual desire for sex - is always awkward.
It’s Ian who finally breaks the silence.
“I can’t come out,” he says quietly, and there’s no anger left in his voice - just weariness. He’s holding onto his beer with one hand and picking at the label with the other. “I don’t even know how to make you understand, really…the pressure I’m under. It’s different for you.” His fingers manage to loosen the corner of the label and he tugs on it, slowly peeling it off.
“Aaron, you can come out and cause a bit of a stir, and then go back and compete and finish your swimming career, for better or worse, and then you can retire and fade into anonymity and no one will ever even bring up your name again, except maybe a sportscaster here and there when they need to fill up air time by discussing old records.” Ian’s words might sound harsh, but I know that they aren’t meant to be malicious. Besides, I’m well aware that they’re true. I’m hardly bothered by what he’s said, though. Swimming has never been my life.
“But if I come out,” Ian continues, sounding resigned. “The whole of Australia will be talking about it for weeks, and even after it dies down, and even after I’m done swimming, people will still remember and people will still know who I am and I’ll never escape it.”
He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath.
“I’d never be where I am today if I came out when I first realized I was gay, and I’m terrified of what will happen if I come out now.” Another pause. “Do you get it, finally?”
I finish the last of my beer before answering. “I get that part of it, Ian. That’s your public life, your image.” And I mean it; I do get it, although I’m not so sure it’s making him any happier to stay closeted. But I still don’t understand why he insists on fighting his sexuality in private. He obviously does a shitty job of it, because here I am - here we are - but he fights it enough that I notice, and the residual jet lag and the alcohol have combined to make me overly emotional and all of a sudden I’m feeling incredibly resentful. Because yeah, Ian and I don’t really have much of anything together, but I have to wonder if that’s because we really don’t want anything more than what we have, or because Ian is struggling with his sexuality to the point that his tangible paranoia has turned me off to the idea as well.
“You can publicly deny that you’re gay all you want, Ian. That shit doesn’t bother me. What I don’t get, though, is why you’re so fucking insistent on denying it in private as well. Denying it with me.”
Ian doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his tension even without being able to see him, and again there’s that moment of wondering if Ian is really going to hit me.
Instead, he stands abruptly and walks back inside the house. I hear the screen door crack angrily against the frame as Ian slams it behind him.
I remain outside for a couple of minutes, waiting for my resentment to subside. It doesn’t, though.
So I go inside to look for Ian.
I find him in his bedroom, angrily rifling through a stack of papers on his dresser. He doesn’t even look up as I enter the room, but I don’t give a fuck if he wants to play the cold-shoulder game with me; I walk up to him and grab his face, pulling him into a kiss.
Surprisingly, Ian doesn’t struggle, even for the sake of appearance. He just kisses me back with equal force, and it’s harsh and inelegant but it’s also exactly what I want.
I’m hard already, just from kissing him, and I grasp his hips and pull our bodies together so that he can feel it. He sighs a little, into my mouth, and lets me unzip his jeans.
We’re both breathing heavily as we peel off our clothes. Once we’re naked, I push Ian down to his knees.
“Suck me,” I mutter, sliding my fingers into his hair, not pulling, but ready to if he doesn’t move quickly enough.
I don’t have to. Ian is positively glaring at me, because he knows what this is and he knows what I’m doing, but he takes me into his mouth anyway.
Once he starts sucking, Ian averts his eyes, like he usually does. I’m tempted to tighten my grip in his hair and force him look at me, but quickly decide it might be best to save that for later.
Instead I let my head tip backwards slightly, moaning as Ian begins to work me in earnest.
After a while I pull Ian off of me and tug him to his feet. We climb onto the bed and I roll him over onto his hands and knees before opening the nighstand drawer and rummaging around.
Ian is perfectly still as I roll on a condom and slick my fingers, and I wonder if he’s even breathing. There’s an obvious tension in his shoulders, and I know that he’s unsure of how this is all going to go tonight because things are more strained, emotionally, than they’ve ever been before.
He makes a low noise in the back of his throat as I push two fingers into him. He’s quiet after that, not making any noise at all as I prepare him, but he can’t stay completely silent when I push inside and begin to fuck him with smooth, measured strokes.
His harsh breathing cuts through the silence of the room, but it’s not enough. I know that Ian is still holding back - maybe just to spite me this time - because he’s usually fairly loud in bed, especially by this stage. And I’m already bitter and frustrated and a little angry and this just makes it worse.
I stop and lean down, reaching for Ian’s hair and twisting his head around so he’s forced to look at me.
Neither of us moves. We just stare at each other, and even though Ian has to look at me, his expression is defiant, challenging. He knows what I’m doing and he wants me to be the one to give in.
But there’s no way I’m going to. I know that Ian wants this - wants me - and he’s going to have to prove it this time. I hold myself perfectly still for what feels like ages and watch as Ian’s expression changes, slowly growing more and more desperate. He rocks his hips slightly, but I tighten my grip on his hair and put more of my weight on him, stopping his movements. And finally, it’s Ian who gives in.
He closes his eyes briefly and then opens them again, meeting my gaze. “Aaron...” he murmurs, unwilling to say anything else, but I get the message.
Then I feel him tighten around me, squeezing my cock with slow, rhythmic pulses. And I can’t really hold back anymore with him doing that, so I grunt and shove his head down until his face nearly touches the sheets, and resume thrusting into him.
The sex is rougher than before, harder, but Ian takes it without complaint. He arches his back and moves beneath me, moaning as I push us both closer.
I let go of his hair and reach for his cock instead, working him with quick, firm strokes. It doesn’t take long for Ian to cry out, his body tightening around me. When he’s done, I grab his hips with both hands, pulling him back to meet my thrusts.
I come with a low groan, pushing into him a few more times until I’m truly spent. Ian is shaking beneath me, his ribcage expanding and contracting as he pants. I pull out and watch as he carefully lowers himself onto the mattress.
After I’ve thrown away the condom and climbed back into bed, Ian moves closer, and - to my surprise - actually touches me. Tentatively, at first, but it actually doesn’t feel all that unnatural and after a couple of minutes we’re pressed comfortably together. It’s the first time he’s ever initiated this type of contact after sex and while I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s any true love in the touch, it does feel like an acknowledgement of sorts. An acknowledgment that what we have together - whatever that is - means something to him.
I know that Ian has issues, and I also know that I probably can’t do much to help him. He'll have to work through them on his own. But I’d like to think, lying here with Ian pressed against me, at ease for the first time ever with my presence in his bed, that maybe I’ve helped him take a step in the right direction.