Fic!
Title: Dragging Along
Pairing: Phelps/Hoogie
Rating: PG-13
Written for offspeed, who wanted Michael/Pieter.
Prompts were: Michael at the university of
michigan/cramming for tests with the help of pep pills/red bull etc
Angst
Long-distance phone sex
Didn't want to see: um, ian? fluff? minouche. and, um
NC-17?
I think I nailed the phone sex-without-NC-17 pretty well, though I think I failed on avoided fluff at the very end. The astute will notice I ripped the "Dragging Along" thing right from Advent Children, and it may not even be the same line when the official dub is released...but ah, well.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael was tired. There really wasn't any other way to say it. He didn't complain; it wasn't like he took a full course load like a normal college student, his roommates and fellow swimmers probably would've sold their souls to Lucifer in exchange for only having two classes.
Of course, while the members of the swim teams that he spent some precious time coaching were hitting their more numerous books, Michael was back in the pool. And while they were busy having a social life, Michael was back in the pool. And while they went out and partied, Michael was busy taking the bus home and thinking about his mantra if anyone ever invited him to one of those keggers. Never again.
He was, in the back of his mind, secretly thankful that his back had improved enough for him to be in the pool. But he didn’t want to admit it; it was more fun to gripe.
Funny how public transportation was more draining and time wasting then it seemed from the outside, though...it took too long to sleep late unless he wanted to call a cab, but it didn't take so long that he could break out some homework on the way back in the evening and accomplish anything meaningful. Really, all he could do was spend the time sulking about how the significant other in his life with was far away in the Netherlands with no chance in the foreseeable future of seeing him. Always, Michael thought about calling him during the ride, but he'd only had the nerve to do it once, and then he'd been even more depressed when it was time to get off the bus and he just had to hang up.
Maybe he should've given himself more credit and tried talking while doing that whole walking thing; it couldn't have been that hard.
Dragging along, dragging along...
But, again, Michael couldn't complain. Most of his homework was reading material anyway. Sports History was still history, after all, and the public speaking course (which Michael lovingly referred to as "Hell on Earth") was as simple as it was hard; find a topic and talk about it. In front of the entire class.
He couldn't figure out what was so damn hard about it, really. He'd talked to people before. He'd given interviews, been on Leno, had a parade in Baltimore. He'd stood up in front of high school kids, the most apathetic demographic in the world (he knew, because it wasn't too long ago that he belonged to it,) and given a lecture on why drinking and driving equaled very bad things. Because he had to. Didn't the judge have any idea how quickly high schoolers stop paying attention when forced to sit somewhere they don't want to be, listening to someone they know doesn't want to be there either?
And yet, he pulled it off. He managed to walk into those places and talk and mean it enough to get kids to actually listen. It didn't hurt that a lot of 'em wanted autographs, too. Maybe they would've listened anyway.
An actual class about getting up in front of people and talking was ludicrously hard. Reflecting on this as he pulled himself out of the pool and bid farewell to Bob for the afternoon, Michael felt the familiar lump in his stomach form as he thought about the source of his anxiety. Maybe it was the fact that he had nothing to hold over the students that made him stumble and shuffle his feet through that first speech he gave. They were there to learn and grow and proceed, he was there to kill time and justify his existence when he wasn't with Bob until he could figure out what he wanted to major in.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael went home. He spent the bus ride reading through his history book again, the pages familiar from when they'd covered the material in class and now being reinforced for the final exam. One of his classmates had told him she couldn't study for a final like that, she would remember reading the book through more than the actual information. Then again, she seemed to pick up a lot of weird ideas about memory from her psychology course.
The particular chapter he was reading mentioned Mark Spitz. Maybe the next edition would have Michael's name on it for his close shot at breaking the record. He had come pretty close, after all. Once he was inside his house, Michael plodded to his room and closed the door; he really didn't want to have anything to do with his roommates right now. His Sports History final was tomorrow, and he had to give his last speech for Public Speaking the day after that.
He had no idea what he was going to talk about, really. It seemed natural that he should promote swimming with it, but he couldn't imagine doing that without coming off sounding twenty times more pretentious than he already imagined he came off as in the first place.
He could talk about his current relationship, such as it was, and about true love really did conquer all because he hadn't seen his boyfriend for the better part of the year and yet, they were still going at it despite distance and time and schedules and whatnot.
Then again, Michael wondered how much Pieter would kill him if he actually did that. For that matter, he wondered, not for the first time, what coming out of the closet would do to himself in the first place.
Dragging along, dragging along...
But there would be time enough for that later. Reading back through his history textbook had ended up taking longer than Michael thought it would, even though he'd started days ago. There was a half-full can of Red Bull on the kitchen counter when Michael went downstairs for the caffeine pills he knew were in the drawer closest to the fridge, his roommates' communal pool of Final Exam Survival Tools. He wondered if they would miss a few.
Realizing he didn't really care (what was the worst that could happen, they ask he buy them more?) he popped a few. And he chased the pills with the Red Bull. The stuff was pretty nasty, really.
Funny, how Michael had never taken any illicit substances, unless the alcohol while being nineteen years old counting, and he suddenly felt so strangely guilty that he might as well have been shooting up cocaine.
Plus, he was thinking about how badly Bob would rail on him if he knew. Really, caffeine was a four-letter word in Michael's odd version of 'life.' Maybe that was why it seemed so irresistible. And just what the hell else was in a hardcore energy drink, anyway? Did he even want to know?
~~~
Michael had heard hoopla about how the human body needed to accept change gradually. Exercise had to be done in moderation or you'd hurt yourself instead of improving your health and fitness. Hardcore mind-altering drugs had to be taken in small doses and built up, and then slowly reduced over weeks when it was time to stop. Taking small doses of some poisons followed by the antidote repeated over time could make one immune to it's effects, as opposed to getting full-out bitten by a Black Mamba and dying within minutes.
Caffeine was closer to the snake, really. All that hoopla seemed a lot less far-fetched now that Michael had gone exactly one sleepless night no matter how hard he'd shoved his face into his pillow and tried to will himself into unconsciousness.
Thus, sitting on the bus now as it dragged along, Michael wondered what the hell he'd been smoking when he decided that pulling an all-night cramming session with the requisite drugs was a smart idea. There was a reason good students didn't do that.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael didn't even try to look over anything in his textbook again; he either knew the material or he didn't. Trying anymore would just result in his eyes dragging across the pages and not seeing the words.
Of course, the first time he fell asleep was on the bus itself. How stupid was it that he'd been too jittery and strung to sleep when he was supposed to, and now the bus driver had to tap him on the shoulder so he'd get off before going right by campus?
Michael plodded to his classroom, imagining himself as the zombie train wreck he probably looked like. For the first time in many, many years, for the first time since ever, really, he actually dreaded getting into the pool later on in the day. It was a sobering thought, to have wrecked himself that badly. Funny, drinking hadn't felt nearly as horrible...there was some dramatic irony in the fact that legal, over the counter stimulants had totally destroyed his ability to function for a much longer time.
On that thought, Michael wondered if he should major in English. Who the hell else would notice something like that?
The university campus wasn't exactly bustling during finals, mostly just various students going to and from their exams or grabbing a snack in-between. At the very least, it was a relaxing break from the usual background noise of people chatting and flirting and being generally loud that Michael was sure would've driven him up the wall right now.
It was, when the bright and cheery morning sun peeked out from behind the clouds, when Michael decided that it was worth the effort of digging into his pocket for the sunglasses tucked away there; hats only went so far in blocking out the blindingly painful apocalyptic light and, again, he wondered if he should've gotten drunk instead. A real hangover couldn't possibly be this bad.
No, that would be a bad thought. Bad thinking, Mikey...don't start down on that one.
Fortunately, while Michael still couldn’t see straight by the time he sat down in the classroom and waited to be given the test, he could nevertheless read and mark off a little box well enough. Thank god the test was multiple choice.
It was almost better than a usual test. So exhausted, Michael just automatically tuned out everything, unwittingly ignoring some people saying "hi" to him as he walked in, marginally nodding to others before he thunked down into his usual chair in the lecture room.
Dragging along, dragging along...
It was also a good reminder of how back-and-forth the class had been all semester on positives. "You don't skip the wars and just cover peacetime in a World History class," the professor had said. "So we don't skip over the scandals, either."
1. In what Olympics did the East Germany women's swim team dominate events through highly controversial government-ordered steroid use?
So far, so good. Michael checked off 'C,' next to 'Montreal 1976.' He didn't need school to learn that one, Bob had told him that story years ago, when he was too young to really comprehend some of the less desirable realities of the world over what he thought the world ought to be. Maybe Rick Demont would be on the test later on somewhere to cover the subject of sports officials getting their red tape tangled into a knot.
Somewhere in the back of his sleep-deprived mind, Michael wondered if a question about drugs in the pool starting off the entire test was a hint thrown at him by the universe at large.
And he definitely knew the answers to the entire first two pages, so he allowed himself a little pat on the back. Not that he actually patted himself on the back, his classmates would find that a little weird.
It was a comfortably long time until he ran into one he didn't know the answer to, not even a wild guess or something he could figure out through process of elimination.
29. In what year did Michael Jordan make a possibly foolhardy attempt at playing professional baseball?
Though Michael could feel the professor's sarcasm on the word 'possibly,' the fact that the possible answers were four consecutive years totally threw him off. It was one of those evil multiple choice questions, specifically engineered to make life hell for arduous studiers and burnt-out crammers alike.
Back when Michael had first decided to attend class, he remembered the sage advice Lenny had given him. That Lenny, always so full of wisdom as he horded his age as an advantage in experience over the team, while managing to avoid a mid-life crisis. "I always found in school, especially while in college, that if you don't know the answer on a multiple choice question, you should pick 'C.' It's always going to be 'C."
Of course, the very first time Michael had called Pieter after a test to tell him of his scholarly achievement, he mentioned not following Lenny's advice and paying for it. He'd felt more than a little zinged when Pieter had answered, "Of course you pick 'C.' Michael, you know I love you."
And Michael had interrupted him with "Of course I know!" like a sixteen-year-old girl unsure of how to communicate the full extent of her deep-seated feelings.
"But you American boys can be so silly sometimes."
Michael stuck with 'C' on his multiple choice tests from then on, if he didn't absolutely know it was wrong. Of course, that time they'd been given an essay test instead threw him for a loop.
At the three-quarters mark, Michael reached the question that couldn't have been anything but a very tongue-in-cheek freebie from the professor. No wonder some of his classmates who'd had enough sleep to move through the thing faster had laughed quietly...it was even the first question in the last thirty to deal with the Olympics at all.
75. How many medals did USA's Michael Phelps win at the Athens 2004 Olympics?
The choices were Four, Six, Eight and Ten.
And so, Michael had his laugh, ticked off the letter B, and moved on. He was done before he knew it, even if half the class had finished before he did. Tests weren't races, after all. At least, that's what his teachers had always told him.
The professor's silence as he took Michael's answer sheet was best described as aloof. So Michael gave in and, albeit tiredly, said, "Number seventy-five was cute."
"Mmm, yes, I thought so," the old man answered him. "You realize I'm going to flunk you if it's wrong."
Grabbing his bag, Michael chuckled on his way out. He was still absolutely exhausted, but he felt better. Where his body protested, his spirit was wired over his success. He was pretty sure he'd aced the thing, anyway. And the Prof had long since promised that he would have them corrected and left in front of his office for pickup by the afternoon.
It suddenly occurred to Michael that he really wasn't going to be up to his usual standards in the pool...he wondered if Bob would notice. And the little part of his mind that always worried about drowning seemed a little louder right now...after all, it couldn't have been totally impossible to fall asleep mid-butterfly. Would anyone notice soon enough to dive in and save him?
Maybe, maybe not...but probably. One had to have a little faith in their fellow man, right? With that thought, Michael shambled like a good little zombie across campus, inching to the pool.
He really didn't want to get into the pool today. Bob was going to kill him for dragging himself down like that to begin with, if he noticed. Maybe he wouldn't notice. But finishing his final made Michael feel too accomplished, and he wanted to be rewarded for his work by going home and sleeping.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Still, he pushed into the locker room and sat down on one of the benches to gather his thoughts and get into a good mindset, such as it was. "This shouldn't be this hard."
It really shouldn't have been. He knew plenty of guys who pulled all nighters through the entire semester and survived. Granted, they looked and probably felt like shit too, but they didn't have to put nearly as much effort into staying alert as Michael was.
That thought on his mind, he took a deep breath and dropped his face into his hands, giving his temples a good massage. "Stupid body...stupid common drug I should take more of like normal people..."
He wanted to curl up in bed right now and just sleep. Or he wanted to curl up in bed with Pieter holding him. Possibly holding him while doing very adult things to him as well, but right now, Michael wanted sleep more than sex.
Yeah, that was the ticket. Curled up with Pieter, in a really soft bed. Spooning with him so he'd be a convenient back-brace. Perfect; he could feel Pieter's arms around him, Pieter's breath on the back of his neck like the first time they'd gone at it in Athens, only with the enticing threat of sleep replacing the hormonally driven bunny humping.
Not a day went by when Michael didn't think about him for at least a few minutes, usually more. Or about the words they'd exchanged afterward, about being an item together despite the distance they'd usually have to deal with. Michael even remembered what he'd said to him. "Ever have a boyfriend, Hoogie?"
So far, so good. Hoogie...how cool was it to have a boyfriend you could call "Hoogie" and not get smacked?
Michael...
He really needed to give Pieter a call in the very near future. He'd flat out said he wanted Michael to tell him how he did on his finals anyway...so what was there to be nervous about?
"Michael!"
Apparently, Michael should've been nervous about falling asleep on the bench. Because he had. And now he'd woken up to find Bob glowering at him in confusion. "Michael, christ almighty, I thought you looked a little funny when I saw you shuffling in here, but you look like Hell froze over."
"I, uh...didn't get much sleep?" Michael offered. It was the truth, but knowing that only made him smile when he didn't really want to.
"No, I guess not," Bob deadpanned. "You stayed up late cramming for that final, didn't you?"
"Uh huh," Michael rubbed at his eyes again. The light in the room was, once again, oddly blinding. "Had a little caffeine help."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Michael." That sent Bob up the wall. "You shouldn't take shit like that, you don't do it enough to handle it."
"Uh huh." Michael was worried he sounded like he was being a wise ass, but he really did agree. How could he not?
"Well," Bob sighed. "Much as I'd like to just throw your ass in the pool and watch you fall asleep and sink, I think you should just go home."
That was when Michael knew how badly he'd messed himself up for the day, when Bob decided he was physically incapable of work. And when Bob added, "Maybe I'll drive you home," Michael wondered if he'd entered the Twilight Zone. Pity from Bob was like Tender Loving Care from a drill sergeant.
So, Michael didn't say anything. He didn't want to jinx his reprieve. Though he was pretty sure he dosed off again before Bob had let anyone who mattered know he'd be gone for a few minutes.
It was only a few minutes, really, and the drive felt like it went by faster than it should have. Mostly because he fell asleep again and Bob had to nudge him awake. The morning had officially blurred into one long moment of time; had last night really been less than twelve hours ago?
"Are you ever going to do this again, Michael?" Bob sighed.
"No, hell no," Michael let out a yawn. He almost added a somewhat ill conceived comparison to last year where screwing himself over with booze had taught him the same lesson with something else. Still, he really didn't want to seem like he was such a dumb jock that he had to do something stupid in order to learn it was stupid.
"Good, as long as you learned something," was the answer. "I know I run you into the ground, Michael, but I'm not so stupid I can't understand you're a college student. Don't pull this shit without seeing if we can work around your usual schedule when you need to. Besides, I'd rather have you miss time in the pool a week ago instead of this. This'll take awhile to come back up from the downswing. You don't have any other finals today, do you?"
Looking out the window at his house, Michael wondered about the logic in being brought here before being asked that. "No, no more stress...not until," it hit him; he'd forgotten the Public Speaking final. Once again, he found himself wishing Pieter was around for comfort, it was downright depressing not to have someone to hug and whine to. "Fuck. Not until tomorrow."
"Good. Get some sleep, find yourself something to let the stress out. I mean, really, Michael, do something with the little free time you've got. I don't know, give your mother a call, go for a swim without me, watch some TV, go call your boyfriend and have phone sex with him for all I care, just try to wind down a little."
And then the red flags waved. "Wait, wait, what?"
There was something in Bob's voice that just said he wasn't making a faggot joke. He was quite serious. Serious and really apathetic, too. "Hoogenband, right?"
'Aghast' described Michael pretty well. He didn't even consider denying it; that would just lead to Bob going nuts over his lying. "How the fuck do you know that?"
"You talk in your sleep."
Well, that explained it. Apparently, Michael thought, he really had started dreaming warm and fuzzy images of Pieter when he'd konked out in the locker room. At least, he hoped so. He didn't want to think about things like Bob being close enough to hear him talk in his sleep while he'd been living with the guy; that was just icky. At his silence, Bob kept talking. "Christ, I should've just said that in the first place, woke you up real quick. Whatever, go get some sleep, Michael."
"Wait a minute," Michael almost spat, "You...you...wait. You're not..."
"No, I won't tell anyone," Bob said. "If you can't tell by now, no, I don't care, and no, I'm not going to get into your personal business until it hurts you in the pool. Which is what I'm doing now. So get the fuck out of my car or I'll strap you to your pillows."
One awkward pause later, and Michael couldn't help but laugh. "Yes Sir!"
He didn't even hear Bob drive away, but he must've. Michael could only think that he'd just had the strangest conversation of his life while he was shuffling inside.
Dragging along, dragging along...
In the end, Michael didn't make it to his bed, let alone his bedroom. He just shrugged his backpack off and flopped down onto the couch, where, after about thirty seconds of staring at the ceiling, he fell asleep.
It wasn't sleeping so much as a nap, because he woke up only three hours later. And it wasn't a nap so much as lost time, because he didn't even realize he'd been unconscious until he looked over at the clock on the VCR and relayed he'd first gotten home much earlier then the time it gave him.
Still, Michael felt like he'd gotten three hours of sleep, and while that wasn't an instant cure, it felt pretty damn good. It was probably a good thing anyway, if he'd slept a full eight or nine hours now wouldn't do anything remotely like sleeping later on in the night, and he really wanted to sleep during the night so there wouldn't be any passing out during the speech thing.
The speech thing. He needed to figure out what he was going to give a speech on really fast.
On that note, Michael had a thought; why not ask for advice? Bob's words about Pieter notwithstanding, this was a pretty good excuse to call him with an excuse to alleviate his usual anxiety in doing so. Not that phone sex wasn't a good excuse, given the distance between them interfering in the opportunities they had to do the real thing, but still, Michael didn't want to be a total pervert. At least, he didn't want Pieter to think he was. Yet.
Dialing Pieter's number didn't take long. For that matter, it didn't take long for Pieter to pick up. He sounded a little exasperated. "Hello?"
Imagining himself turning into a little puddle of goo as soon as he heard his special someone's voice, Michael said, "Hey."
A few seconds of silence, and then, "Michael! How are you?"
"Tired," Michael answered. He didn't care anymore, the loneliness usually going along with this part of the semester didn't seem to be there right now. "Finals aren't over yet. But I aced the history final. I think."
"I'm glad," Pieter said. "But did you really need to tell me this now? At one in the morning?"
One in the morning? Looking at the clock again, Michael added the hours. "Pieter, it's nine there. I think."
"Yes, you're right," Pieter gave him a chuckle. "Clearly I need to think of something better if I wish to mess with you."
"Ha ha," Michael rolled his eyes, willing Pieter to see it. "So...are you busy?"
"Busy? Not really, why?"
Now it was Michael's turn. Besides, he figured he should let Pieter know that they weren't entirely in the closet anymore. "Bob told me I should have phone sex with you, so here I am."
"Michael," Pieter answered. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. But it is kind of funny."
"I'm not joking, Pieter." Michael declared. "Well, I am about calling you for it, but he really said it."
"Oh."
That couldn't have been a good response. It made Michael a little worried. "Apparently, I talk in my sleep."
"You do."
Michael blinked, "Oh."
"Michael," Pieter started, rather serious, "How in the world does your coach know what you do in your sleep?"
"Oh, that," Michael laughed. He just laughed, he'd been so worried Pieter had gotten angry with him, he needed to wind down from it. "I fell asleep in the locker room. I guess I was mumbling sweet things about getting drilled on my back by the great Hoogie when he woke me up."
"Wow. That is tired," Pieter chuckled. "Why are you calling me instead of, you know...getting some sleep?"
"Because I wanted phone sex, duh" Michael kept laughing. "No, really, I actually need help...I have to give a speech tomorrow for my other final and I have no idea what to talk about."
Too Pieter's credit, he sounded like he thought his suggestion was a good, if obvious, idea. "Talk about swimming?"
"Yeah, I don't think I could do that with a straight face," Michael said. "I'll just sound like Peter Carlisle."
"So just talk about nothing. Talk about an ordinary day," Pieter went on.
Michael didn't really get it. "That's not the most exciting thing in the world."
"Not for you, but your idea of an ordinary day is pretty crazy for most people, Mikey." Michael loved the way Pieter sounded when he said 'Mikey,' he wanted to record it and play it when he went to sleep at night. "Your life can teach people lessons. About the crazy things they can pull off if they really want to try, not just the drinking and driving part. How many people can preach that and actually know what they're talking about?"
"That's a good point," Michael fell back against the couch, thinking it over. In fact, that was so simple it just might work. "I might just give that a try."
"Glad I could help," Pieter chuckled. He didn't really expect it to be that simple, it seemed. "So...phone sex, huh?"
As happened more often then not, Michael was, actually, a little oblivious to Pieter's tone of voice. "God, what about it?"
"Want to?" Pieter's words made Michael really, really wish he could see his face. Or that Pieter could see his, at the very least. "I don't have pants on anyway."
"Pieter, you're sick," Michael tried to sound mad, but he didn't come off so well, mostly from the shock of Pieter being so...shameless. Nice little Dutch pretty boys should've been a lot more innocent then that. Then again, they really didn't see each other often enough. He worked on getting his belt buckle undone. "You wearing anything?"
With that, Pieter had won. He knew it, too. "A pair of Ian's underwear, actually."
"I wish you could see the glare I'm giving you," Michael said. But he didn't stop his efforts to get his pants off. Besides, Pieter had been wearing Thorpe's...products since before they'd hooked up. Apparently, the guy made good underwear. "That's it?"
"And I'm wet," Pieter added. "You called me getting out of the shower."
The image of a wet Pieter in almost no clothes was more than enough for Michael to pretend there was no obnoxious brand name on the underwear he pictured. He gave up on getting his pants off and settled for getting the fly unzipped. "Mmmhmmm..."
~~~
A good night's sleep added to Michael's 'conversation' with Pieter before that made him feel really, really good about himself the next morning. He'd ever sent Pieter an e-mail thanking him for the idea on his speech, among other things.
And so, awake, alert and above all, happy, Michael got off the bus on campus and walked towards his intended building, only one thing weighing his backpack down besides his swimsuit for later. Bob would no doubt kill him with reps today, but it was all right.
Michael didn't go to his final first, the bus always dropped everyone off fifteen minutes before the hour, anyway. No, he went to his history professor's office to pick up his grade from yesterday before anything.
There were a few to sift through, all of them in a tray nailed to the door. It was closed, he was off giving another final somewhere, probably. Still, it didn't take Michael long to find his name and pull the little packet of paper away from the others.
Only to see the giant red "F" emblazoned on the front. It might as well have been burned on Michael's forehead. Enraged, not seeing how he could've possibly gotten that many wrong, he let his backpack fall to the ground from his shoulder and flipped through.
With each page, he grew angrier; he couldn't have had more than one or two wrong, if any, for every set of questions. The farther he got, the more he expected to see the entire rest of the test marked wrong, because it was the only way he could've possibly failed after a certain point.
Dragging along, dragging along...
And then he knew why. It was clear, plain as day.
Number seventy-five.
75. How many medals did USA's Michael Phelps win at the Athens 2004 Olympics?
A. Four
B. Six
C. Eight
D. Ten
Michael had checked off 'B.' He'd been so tired he's somehow assumed his golds were all he had. No wonder people thought he was self-centered.
You realize I'm flunking you if it's wrong.
Totally dejected, his day already ruined, Michael tossed his test onto one of the nearby tables lining the opposite end of the narrow hall, and he sat down. He actually wanted to cry, he couldn't believe his professor had been serious.
And then he looked at the back page of the last sheet, as it had landed face-up. There was something more scrawled in the same red ink.
Just kidding. You looked tired anyway. Hasn't anyone told you all-night cramming sessions just make you forget the ones you already know? A-
Michael didn't laugh, but it really was hilarious. He let himself smile, tucked the test into his bag, and just left. He had another one to do, after all, and suddenly he was a lot more confidant.
He even volunteered to go first. Standing up in front of everyone was, for the first time, not intimidating. He actually felt like he had the floor like he did at those high schools, instead of just being some moron trying to get everyone's attention. Once he was told to start, he made a note of rummaging through his backpack so everyone could see, before he even started talking
There wasn't much to rummage through anyway. "So, I brought this because it has something to do with what I'm going to talk about...but it's also all shiny and sparkly."
The class gave him a chuckle, not a bad start. They grew quiet when he unwrapped the plain washcloth he'd wrapped his Olympic gold medal from the freestyle relay in. "So, this is a gold metal from Athens, from the relay I swam with three others on the team...because I might be filthy rich at twenty, and it's one thing to say this on TV, but I really wouldn't have gotten here without help from others. And I think we, as people, tend to deny that a lot."
More chuckling, but not at him; with him was more like it. That was good, Michael couldn't have asked for anything better than the class to enjoy his attempts at humor. So it wasn't the exact topic Pieter had suggested, but it was a good one.
Since Pieter had given him the idea, Michael figured he deserved a little credit.
"Sometimes, you need a good friend to show you that you've been dragging your burdens long enough to wear them down..."
~ * ~ * ~
Pairing: Phelps/Hoogie
Rating: PG-13
Written for offspeed, who wanted Michael/Pieter.
Prompts were: Michael at the university of
michigan/cramming for tests with the help of pep pills/red bull etc
Angst
Long-distance phone sex
Didn't want to see: um, ian? fluff? minouche. and, um
NC-17?
I think I nailed the phone sex-without-NC-17 pretty well, though I think I failed on avoided fluff at the very end. The astute will notice I ripped the "Dragging Along" thing right from Advent Children, and it may not even be the same line when the official dub is released...but ah, well.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael was tired. There really wasn't any other way to say it. He didn't complain; it wasn't like he took a full course load like a normal college student, his roommates and fellow swimmers probably would've sold their souls to Lucifer in exchange for only having two classes.
Of course, while the members of the swim teams that he spent some precious time coaching were hitting their more numerous books, Michael was back in the pool. And while they were busy having a social life, Michael was back in the pool. And while they went out and partied, Michael was busy taking the bus home and thinking about his mantra if anyone ever invited him to one of those keggers. Never again.
He was, in the back of his mind, secretly thankful that his back had improved enough for him to be in the pool. But he didn’t want to admit it; it was more fun to gripe.
Funny how public transportation was more draining and time wasting then it seemed from the outside, though...it took too long to sleep late unless he wanted to call a cab, but it didn't take so long that he could break out some homework on the way back in the evening and accomplish anything meaningful. Really, all he could do was spend the time sulking about how the significant other in his life with was far away in the Netherlands with no chance in the foreseeable future of seeing him. Always, Michael thought about calling him during the ride, but he'd only had the nerve to do it once, and then he'd been even more depressed when it was time to get off the bus and he just had to hang up.
Maybe he should've given himself more credit and tried talking while doing that whole walking thing; it couldn't have been that hard.
Dragging along, dragging along...
But, again, Michael couldn't complain. Most of his homework was reading material anyway. Sports History was still history, after all, and the public speaking course (which Michael lovingly referred to as "Hell on Earth") was as simple as it was hard; find a topic and talk about it. In front of the entire class.
He couldn't figure out what was so damn hard about it, really. He'd talked to people before. He'd given interviews, been on Leno, had a parade in Baltimore. He'd stood up in front of high school kids, the most apathetic demographic in the world (he knew, because it wasn't too long ago that he belonged to it,) and given a lecture on why drinking and driving equaled very bad things. Because he had to. Didn't the judge have any idea how quickly high schoolers stop paying attention when forced to sit somewhere they don't want to be, listening to someone they know doesn't want to be there either?
And yet, he pulled it off. He managed to walk into those places and talk and mean it enough to get kids to actually listen. It didn't hurt that a lot of 'em wanted autographs, too. Maybe they would've listened anyway.
An actual class about getting up in front of people and talking was ludicrously hard. Reflecting on this as he pulled himself out of the pool and bid farewell to Bob for the afternoon, Michael felt the familiar lump in his stomach form as he thought about the source of his anxiety. Maybe it was the fact that he had nothing to hold over the students that made him stumble and shuffle his feet through that first speech he gave. They were there to learn and grow and proceed, he was there to kill time and justify his existence when he wasn't with Bob until he could figure out what he wanted to major in.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael went home. He spent the bus ride reading through his history book again, the pages familiar from when they'd covered the material in class and now being reinforced for the final exam. One of his classmates had told him she couldn't study for a final like that, she would remember reading the book through more than the actual information. Then again, she seemed to pick up a lot of weird ideas about memory from her psychology course.
The particular chapter he was reading mentioned Mark Spitz. Maybe the next edition would have Michael's name on it for his close shot at breaking the record. He had come pretty close, after all. Once he was inside his house, Michael plodded to his room and closed the door; he really didn't want to have anything to do with his roommates right now. His Sports History final was tomorrow, and he had to give his last speech for Public Speaking the day after that.
He had no idea what he was going to talk about, really. It seemed natural that he should promote swimming with it, but he couldn't imagine doing that without coming off sounding twenty times more pretentious than he already imagined he came off as in the first place.
He could talk about his current relationship, such as it was, and about true love really did conquer all because he hadn't seen his boyfriend for the better part of the year and yet, they were still going at it despite distance and time and schedules and whatnot.
Then again, Michael wondered how much Pieter would kill him if he actually did that. For that matter, he wondered, not for the first time, what coming out of the closet would do to himself in the first place.
Dragging along, dragging along...
But there would be time enough for that later. Reading back through his history textbook had ended up taking longer than Michael thought it would, even though he'd started days ago. There was a half-full can of Red Bull on the kitchen counter when Michael went downstairs for the caffeine pills he knew were in the drawer closest to the fridge, his roommates' communal pool of Final Exam Survival Tools. He wondered if they would miss a few.
Realizing he didn't really care (what was the worst that could happen, they ask he buy them more?) he popped a few. And he chased the pills with the Red Bull. The stuff was pretty nasty, really.
Funny, how Michael had never taken any illicit substances, unless the alcohol while being nineteen years old counting, and he suddenly felt so strangely guilty that he might as well have been shooting up cocaine.
Plus, he was thinking about how badly Bob would rail on him if he knew. Really, caffeine was a four-letter word in Michael's odd version of 'life.' Maybe that was why it seemed so irresistible. And just what the hell else was in a hardcore energy drink, anyway? Did he even want to know?
~~~
Michael had heard hoopla about how the human body needed to accept change gradually. Exercise had to be done in moderation or you'd hurt yourself instead of improving your health and fitness. Hardcore mind-altering drugs had to be taken in small doses and built up, and then slowly reduced over weeks when it was time to stop. Taking small doses of some poisons followed by the antidote repeated over time could make one immune to it's effects, as opposed to getting full-out bitten by a Black Mamba and dying within minutes.
Caffeine was closer to the snake, really. All that hoopla seemed a lot less far-fetched now that Michael had gone exactly one sleepless night no matter how hard he'd shoved his face into his pillow and tried to will himself into unconsciousness.
Thus, sitting on the bus now as it dragged along, Michael wondered what the hell he'd been smoking when he decided that pulling an all-night cramming session with the requisite drugs was a smart idea. There was a reason good students didn't do that.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Michael didn't even try to look over anything in his textbook again; he either knew the material or he didn't. Trying anymore would just result in his eyes dragging across the pages and not seeing the words.
Of course, the first time he fell asleep was on the bus itself. How stupid was it that he'd been too jittery and strung to sleep when he was supposed to, and now the bus driver had to tap him on the shoulder so he'd get off before going right by campus?
Michael plodded to his classroom, imagining himself as the zombie train wreck he probably looked like. For the first time in many, many years, for the first time since ever, really, he actually dreaded getting into the pool later on in the day. It was a sobering thought, to have wrecked himself that badly. Funny, drinking hadn't felt nearly as horrible...there was some dramatic irony in the fact that legal, over the counter stimulants had totally destroyed his ability to function for a much longer time.
On that thought, Michael wondered if he should major in English. Who the hell else would notice something like that?
The university campus wasn't exactly bustling during finals, mostly just various students going to and from their exams or grabbing a snack in-between. At the very least, it was a relaxing break from the usual background noise of people chatting and flirting and being generally loud that Michael was sure would've driven him up the wall right now.
It was, when the bright and cheery morning sun peeked out from behind the clouds, when Michael decided that it was worth the effort of digging into his pocket for the sunglasses tucked away there; hats only went so far in blocking out the blindingly painful apocalyptic light and, again, he wondered if he should've gotten drunk instead. A real hangover couldn't possibly be this bad.
No, that would be a bad thought. Bad thinking, Mikey...don't start down on that one.
Fortunately, while Michael still couldn’t see straight by the time he sat down in the classroom and waited to be given the test, he could nevertheless read and mark off a little box well enough. Thank god the test was multiple choice.
It was almost better than a usual test. So exhausted, Michael just automatically tuned out everything, unwittingly ignoring some people saying "hi" to him as he walked in, marginally nodding to others before he thunked down into his usual chair in the lecture room.
Dragging along, dragging along...
It was also a good reminder of how back-and-forth the class had been all semester on positives. "You don't skip the wars and just cover peacetime in a World History class," the professor had said. "So we don't skip over the scandals, either."
1. In what Olympics did the East Germany women's swim team dominate events through highly controversial government-ordered steroid use?
So far, so good. Michael checked off 'C,' next to 'Montreal 1976.' He didn't need school to learn that one, Bob had told him that story years ago, when he was too young to really comprehend some of the less desirable realities of the world over what he thought the world ought to be. Maybe Rick Demont would be on the test later on somewhere to cover the subject of sports officials getting their red tape tangled into a knot.
Somewhere in the back of his sleep-deprived mind, Michael wondered if a question about drugs in the pool starting off the entire test was a hint thrown at him by the universe at large.
And he definitely knew the answers to the entire first two pages, so he allowed himself a little pat on the back. Not that he actually patted himself on the back, his classmates would find that a little weird.
It was a comfortably long time until he ran into one he didn't know the answer to, not even a wild guess or something he could figure out through process of elimination.
29. In what year did Michael Jordan make a possibly foolhardy attempt at playing professional baseball?
Though Michael could feel the professor's sarcasm on the word 'possibly,' the fact that the possible answers were four consecutive years totally threw him off. It was one of those evil multiple choice questions, specifically engineered to make life hell for arduous studiers and burnt-out crammers alike.
Back when Michael had first decided to attend class, he remembered the sage advice Lenny had given him. That Lenny, always so full of wisdom as he horded his age as an advantage in experience over the team, while managing to avoid a mid-life crisis. "I always found in school, especially while in college, that if you don't know the answer on a multiple choice question, you should pick 'C.' It's always going to be 'C."
Of course, the very first time Michael had called Pieter after a test to tell him of his scholarly achievement, he mentioned not following Lenny's advice and paying for it. He'd felt more than a little zinged when Pieter had answered, "Of course you pick 'C.' Michael, you know I love you."
And Michael had interrupted him with "Of course I know!" like a sixteen-year-old girl unsure of how to communicate the full extent of her deep-seated feelings.
"But you American boys can be so silly sometimes."
Michael stuck with 'C' on his multiple choice tests from then on, if he didn't absolutely know it was wrong. Of course, that time they'd been given an essay test instead threw him for a loop.
At the three-quarters mark, Michael reached the question that couldn't have been anything but a very tongue-in-cheek freebie from the professor. No wonder some of his classmates who'd had enough sleep to move through the thing faster had laughed quietly...it was even the first question in the last thirty to deal with the Olympics at all.
75. How many medals did USA's Michael Phelps win at the Athens 2004 Olympics?
The choices were Four, Six, Eight and Ten.
And so, Michael had his laugh, ticked off the letter B, and moved on. He was done before he knew it, even if half the class had finished before he did. Tests weren't races, after all. At least, that's what his teachers had always told him.
The professor's silence as he took Michael's answer sheet was best described as aloof. So Michael gave in and, albeit tiredly, said, "Number seventy-five was cute."
"Mmm, yes, I thought so," the old man answered him. "You realize I'm going to flunk you if it's wrong."
Grabbing his bag, Michael chuckled on his way out. He was still absolutely exhausted, but he felt better. Where his body protested, his spirit was wired over his success. He was pretty sure he'd aced the thing, anyway. And the Prof had long since promised that he would have them corrected and left in front of his office for pickup by the afternoon.
It suddenly occurred to Michael that he really wasn't going to be up to his usual standards in the pool...he wondered if Bob would notice. And the little part of his mind that always worried about drowning seemed a little louder right now...after all, it couldn't have been totally impossible to fall asleep mid-butterfly. Would anyone notice soon enough to dive in and save him?
Maybe, maybe not...but probably. One had to have a little faith in their fellow man, right? With that thought, Michael shambled like a good little zombie across campus, inching to the pool.
He really didn't want to get into the pool today. Bob was going to kill him for dragging himself down like that to begin with, if he noticed. Maybe he wouldn't notice. But finishing his final made Michael feel too accomplished, and he wanted to be rewarded for his work by going home and sleeping.
Dragging along, dragging along...
Still, he pushed into the locker room and sat down on one of the benches to gather his thoughts and get into a good mindset, such as it was. "This shouldn't be this hard."
It really shouldn't have been. He knew plenty of guys who pulled all nighters through the entire semester and survived. Granted, they looked and probably felt like shit too, but they didn't have to put nearly as much effort into staying alert as Michael was.
That thought on his mind, he took a deep breath and dropped his face into his hands, giving his temples a good massage. "Stupid body...stupid common drug I should take more of like normal people..."
He wanted to curl up in bed right now and just sleep. Or he wanted to curl up in bed with Pieter holding him. Possibly holding him while doing very adult things to him as well, but right now, Michael wanted sleep more than sex.
Yeah, that was the ticket. Curled up with Pieter, in a really soft bed. Spooning with him so he'd be a convenient back-brace. Perfect; he could feel Pieter's arms around him, Pieter's breath on the back of his neck like the first time they'd gone at it in Athens, only with the enticing threat of sleep replacing the hormonally driven bunny humping.
Not a day went by when Michael didn't think about him for at least a few minutes, usually more. Or about the words they'd exchanged afterward, about being an item together despite the distance they'd usually have to deal with. Michael even remembered what he'd said to him. "Ever have a boyfriend, Hoogie?"
So far, so good. Hoogie...how cool was it to have a boyfriend you could call "Hoogie" and not get smacked?
Michael...
He really needed to give Pieter a call in the very near future. He'd flat out said he wanted Michael to tell him how he did on his finals anyway...so what was there to be nervous about?
"Michael!"
Apparently, Michael should've been nervous about falling asleep on the bench. Because he had. And now he'd woken up to find Bob glowering at him in confusion. "Michael, christ almighty, I thought you looked a little funny when I saw you shuffling in here, but you look like Hell froze over."
"I, uh...didn't get much sleep?" Michael offered. It was the truth, but knowing that only made him smile when he didn't really want to.
"No, I guess not," Bob deadpanned. "You stayed up late cramming for that final, didn't you?"
"Uh huh," Michael rubbed at his eyes again. The light in the room was, once again, oddly blinding. "Had a little caffeine help."
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Michael." That sent Bob up the wall. "You shouldn't take shit like that, you don't do it enough to handle it."
"Uh huh." Michael was worried he sounded like he was being a wise ass, but he really did agree. How could he not?
"Well," Bob sighed. "Much as I'd like to just throw your ass in the pool and watch you fall asleep and sink, I think you should just go home."
That was when Michael knew how badly he'd messed himself up for the day, when Bob decided he was physically incapable of work. And when Bob added, "Maybe I'll drive you home," Michael wondered if he'd entered the Twilight Zone. Pity from Bob was like Tender Loving Care from a drill sergeant.
So, Michael didn't say anything. He didn't want to jinx his reprieve. Though he was pretty sure he dosed off again before Bob had let anyone who mattered know he'd be gone for a few minutes.
It was only a few minutes, really, and the drive felt like it went by faster than it should have. Mostly because he fell asleep again and Bob had to nudge him awake. The morning had officially blurred into one long moment of time; had last night really been less than twelve hours ago?
"Are you ever going to do this again, Michael?" Bob sighed.
"No, hell no," Michael let out a yawn. He almost added a somewhat ill conceived comparison to last year where screwing himself over with booze had taught him the same lesson with something else. Still, he really didn't want to seem like he was such a dumb jock that he had to do something stupid in order to learn it was stupid.
"Good, as long as you learned something," was the answer. "I know I run you into the ground, Michael, but I'm not so stupid I can't understand you're a college student. Don't pull this shit without seeing if we can work around your usual schedule when you need to. Besides, I'd rather have you miss time in the pool a week ago instead of this. This'll take awhile to come back up from the downswing. You don't have any other finals today, do you?"
Looking out the window at his house, Michael wondered about the logic in being brought here before being asked that. "No, no more stress...not until," it hit him; he'd forgotten the Public Speaking final. Once again, he found himself wishing Pieter was around for comfort, it was downright depressing not to have someone to hug and whine to. "Fuck. Not until tomorrow."
"Good. Get some sleep, find yourself something to let the stress out. I mean, really, Michael, do something with the little free time you've got. I don't know, give your mother a call, go for a swim without me, watch some TV, go call your boyfriend and have phone sex with him for all I care, just try to wind down a little."
And then the red flags waved. "Wait, wait, what?"
There was something in Bob's voice that just said he wasn't making a faggot joke. He was quite serious. Serious and really apathetic, too. "Hoogenband, right?"
'Aghast' described Michael pretty well. He didn't even consider denying it; that would just lead to Bob going nuts over his lying. "How the fuck do you know that?"
"You talk in your sleep."
Well, that explained it. Apparently, Michael thought, he really had started dreaming warm and fuzzy images of Pieter when he'd konked out in the locker room. At least, he hoped so. He didn't want to think about things like Bob being close enough to hear him talk in his sleep while he'd been living with the guy; that was just icky. At his silence, Bob kept talking. "Christ, I should've just said that in the first place, woke you up real quick. Whatever, go get some sleep, Michael."
"Wait a minute," Michael almost spat, "You...you...wait. You're not..."
"No, I won't tell anyone," Bob said. "If you can't tell by now, no, I don't care, and no, I'm not going to get into your personal business until it hurts you in the pool. Which is what I'm doing now. So get the fuck out of my car or I'll strap you to your pillows."
One awkward pause later, and Michael couldn't help but laugh. "Yes Sir!"
He didn't even hear Bob drive away, but he must've. Michael could only think that he'd just had the strangest conversation of his life while he was shuffling inside.
Dragging along, dragging along...
In the end, Michael didn't make it to his bed, let alone his bedroom. He just shrugged his backpack off and flopped down onto the couch, where, after about thirty seconds of staring at the ceiling, he fell asleep.
It wasn't sleeping so much as a nap, because he woke up only three hours later. And it wasn't a nap so much as lost time, because he didn't even realize he'd been unconscious until he looked over at the clock on the VCR and relayed he'd first gotten home much earlier then the time it gave him.
Still, Michael felt like he'd gotten three hours of sleep, and while that wasn't an instant cure, it felt pretty damn good. It was probably a good thing anyway, if he'd slept a full eight or nine hours now wouldn't do anything remotely like sleeping later on in the night, and he really wanted to sleep during the night so there wouldn't be any passing out during the speech thing.
The speech thing. He needed to figure out what he was going to give a speech on really fast.
On that note, Michael had a thought; why not ask for advice? Bob's words about Pieter notwithstanding, this was a pretty good excuse to call him with an excuse to alleviate his usual anxiety in doing so. Not that phone sex wasn't a good excuse, given the distance between them interfering in the opportunities they had to do the real thing, but still, Michael didn't want to be a total pervert. At least, he didn't want Pieter to think he was. Yet.
Dialing Pieter's number didn't take long. For that matter, it didn't take long for Pieter to pick up. He sounded a little exasperated. "Hello?"
Imagining himself turning into a little puddle of goo as soon as he heard his special someone's voice, Michael said, "Hey."
A few seconds of silence, and then, "Michael! How are you?"
"Tired," Michael answered. He didn't care anymore, the loneliness usually going along with this part of the semester didn't seem to be there right now. "Finals aren't over yet. But I aced the history final. I think."
"I'm glad," Pieter said. "But did you really need to tell me this now? At one in the morning?"
One in the morning? Looking at the clock again, Michael added the hours. "Pieter, it's nine there. I think."
"Yes, you're right," Pieter gave him a chuckle. "Clearly I need to think of something better if I wish to mess with you."
"Ha ha," Michael rolled his eyes, willing Pieter to see it. "So...are you busy?"
"Busy? Not really, why?"
Now it was Michael's turn. Besides, he figured he should let Pieter know that they weren't entirely in the closet anymore. "Bob told me I should have phone sex with you, so here I am."
"Michael," Pieter answered. "That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. But it is kind of funny."
"I'm not joking, Pieter." Michael declared. "Well, I am about calling you for it, but he really said it."
"Oh."
That couldn't have been a good response. It made Michael a little worried. "Apparently, I talk in my sleep."
"You do."
Michael blinked, "Oh."
"Michael," Pieter started, rather serious, "How in the world does your coach know what you do in your sleep?"
"Oh, that," Michael laughed. He just laughed, he'd been so worried Pieter had gotten angry with him, he needed to wind down from it. "I fell asleep in the locker room. I guess I was mumbling sweet things about getting drilled on my back by the great Hoogie when he woke me up."
"Wow. That is tired," Pieter chuckled. "Why are you calling me instead of, you know...getting some sleep?"
"Because I wanted phone sex, duh" Michael kept laughing. "No, really, I actually need help...I have to give a speech tomorrow for my other final and I have no idea what to talk about."
Too Pieter's credit, he sounded like he thought his suggestion was a good, if obvious, idea. "Talk about swimming?"
"Yeah, I don't think I could do that with a straight face," Michael said. "I'll just sound like Peter Carlisle."
"So just talk about nothing. Talk about an ordinary day," Pieter went on.
Michael didn't really get it. "That's not the most exciting thing in the world."
"Not for you, but your idea of an ordinary day is pretty crazy for most people, Mikey." Michael loved the way Pieter sounded when he said 'Mikey,' he wanted to record it and play it when he went to sleep at night. "Your life can teach people lessons. About the crazy things they can pull off if they really want to try, not just the drinking and driving part. How many people can preach that and actually know what they're talking about?"
"That's a good point," Michael fell back against the couch, thinking it over. In fact, that was so simple it just might work. "I might just give that a try."
"Glad I could help," Pieter chuckled. He didn't really expect it to be that simple, it seemed. "So...phone sex, huh?"
As happened more often then not, Michael was, actually, a little oblivious to Pieter's tone of voice. "God, what about it?"
"Want to?" Pieter's words made Michael really, really wish he could see his face. Or that Pieter could see his, at the very least. "I don't have pants on anyway."
"Pieter, you're sick," Michael tried to sound mad, but he didn't come off so well, mostly from the shock of Pieter being so...shameless. Nice little Dutch pretty boys should've been a lot more innocent then that. Then again, they really didn't see each other often enough. He worked on getting his belt buckle undone. "You wearing anything?"
With that, Pieter had won. He knew it, too. "A pair of Ian's underwear, actually."
"I wish you could see the glare I'm giving you," Michael said. But he didn't stop his efforts to get his pants off. Besides, Pieter had been wearing Thorpe's...products since before they'd hooked up. Apparently, the guy made good underwear. "That's it?"
"And I'm wet," Pieter added. "You called me getting out of the shower."
The image of a wet Pieter in almost no clothes was more than enough for Michael to pretend there was no obnoxious brand name on the underwear he pictured. He gave up on getting his pants off and settled for getting the fly unzipped. "Mmmhmmm..."
~~~
A good night's sleep added to Michael's 'conversation' with Pieter before that made him feel really, really good about himself the next morning. He'd ever sent Pieter an e-mail thanking him for the idea on his speech, among other things.
And so, awake, alert and above all, happy, Michael got off the bus on campus and walked towards his intended building, only one thing weighing his backpack down besides his swimsuit for later. Bob would no doubt kill him with reps today, but it was all right.
Michael didn't go to his final first, the bus always dropped everyone off fifteen minutes before the hour, anyway. No, he went to his history professor's office to pick up his grade from yesterday before anything.
There were a few to sift through, all of them in a tray nailed to the door. It was closed, he was off giving another final somewhere, probably. Still, it didn't take Michael long to find his name and pull the little packet of paper away from the others.
Only to see the giant red "F" emblazoned on the front. It might as well have been burned on Michael's forehead. Enraged, not seeing how he could've possibly gotten that many wrong, he let his backpack fall to the ground from his shoulder and flipped through.
With each page, he grew angrier; he couldn't have had more than one or two wrong, if any, for every set of questions. The farther he got, the more he expected to see the entire rest of the test marked wrong, because it was the only way he could've possibly failed after a certain point.
Dragging along, dragging along...
And then he knew why. It was clear, plain as day.
Number seventy-five.
75. How many medals did USA's Michael Phelps win at the Athens 2004 Olympics?
A. Four
B. Six
C. Eight
D. Ten
Michael had checked off 'B.' He'd been so tired he's somehow assumed his golds were all he had. No wonder people thought he was self-centered.
You realize I'm flunking you if it's wrong.
Totally dejected, his day already ruined, Michael tossed his test onto one of the nearby tables lining the opposite end of the narrow hall, and he sat down. He actually wanted to cry, he couldn't believe his professor had been serious.
And then he looked at the back page of the last sheet, as it had landed face-up. There was something more scrawled in the same red ink.
Just kidding. You looked tired anyway. Hasn't anyone told you all-night cramming sessions just make you forget the ones you already know? A-
Michael didn't laugh, but it really was hilarious. He let himself smile, tucked the test into his bag, and just left. He had another one to do, after all, and suddenly he was a lot more confidant.
He even volunteered to go first. Standing up in front of everyone was, for the first time, not intimidating. He actually felt like he had the floor like he did at those high schools, instead of just being some moron trying to get everyone's attention. Once he was told to start, he made a note of rummaging through his backpack so everyone could see, before he even started talking
There wasn't much to rummage through anyway. "So, I brought this because it has something to do with what I'm going to talk about...but it's also all shiny and sparkly."
The class gave him a chuckle, not a bad start. They grew quiet when he unwrapped the plain washcloth he'd wrapped his Olympic gold medal from the freestyle relay in. "So, this is a gold metal from Athens, from the relay I swam with three others on the team...because I might be filthy rich at twenty, and it's one thing to say this on TV, but I really wouldn't have gotten here without help from others. And I think we, as people, tend to deny that a lot."
More chuckling, but not at him; with him was more like it. That was good, Michael couldn't have asked for anything better than the class to enjoy his attempts at humor. So it wasn't the exact topic Pieter had suggested, but it was a good one.
Since Pieter had given him the idea, Michael figured he deserved a little credit.
"Sometimes, you need a good friend to show you that you've been dragging your burdens long enough to wear them down..."
~ * ~ * ~