Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 3, figureskating RPS)
Title: Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 3)
Author: thefrogg
Beta: None yet
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people. Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
Moving Johnny to the bed is a lot more awkward than it sounded, Evgeni thinks as he watches Stéphane get down on aching knees next to Johnny’s tail. They’ve already slid him across the floor so he’s head and shoulders over carpet. Tanith’s standing barefoot on his flukes -
“Doesn’t this hurt?” She sounds worried, half-panicked.
Johnny flushes deep red all the way down his back as Stéphane laughs. “No, no, shift your weight and you will put him to sleep again.”
Tanith reflexively scrunches her toes a few times, and Johnny shudders all over, head dropping down between his arms with a deep sigh of what can only be pleasure.
Stéphane smiles gleefully; Tanith gives Evgeni a surprised look and they all know they’ll be taking turns giving Johnny tailrubs after that reaction.
--to keep him from smacking Stéphane in case he hits a ticklish spot.
“Ready?” Stéphane asks.
“Yes, yes, just do it,” Johnny snaps, and then yelps and latches onto Evgeni’s ankles with both hands hard enough that his knuckles are white.
Evgeni grits his teeth and holds onto the doorjamb, ignoring the undignified squeaks and soft French; if Johnny leaves marks this time, he’ll bear them with the same pride as those on his forearms.
Then the hands clutching his ankles are gone. “Okay, okay, that’s-that’s good.”
“I can-“ Tanith starts, but doesn’t finish and doesn’t wait for permission before she steps carefully over Stéphane, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and scoots out the door and under Evgeni’s arm.
“I will take left, yes?” And Evgeni’s suiting actions to words, bending to pull Johnny’s offered arm over his own shoulder.
Tanith nods and does the same on the other side, and with a quick count of three, they have him suspended midair, half in and half out of the bathroom. Evgeni doesn’t miss the way Johnny curls himself around the corner, keeping Tanith and Stéphane from running into a wall or doorframe in their maneuverings.
Once out of the crush of the hallway, it’s all open space, and they ease him to the bed and Stéphane’s oddly constructed pile of trash bags, towels and bag- and towel-wrapped pillows. Evgeni lets himself slide to his knees beside the bed, eye-level with Johnny as he buries his hands under the pillow. “It has been too long.”
Johnny chokes on a sob, something shattering in his eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry, I-“
Evgeni can feel the heat of twin glares, but doesn’t look away as Johnny buries his face in the pillow. “No, I know, you need say nothing. Do not apologize.” He raises one hand, rests it on Johnny’s shoulder. “It is good to see you. It is good to see my friend, Johnny Weir,” and they both know - they all know - he’s not talking about the physical.
Johnny slips a hand from under the pillow and reaches out, tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome, and Evgeni moves closer, slides his arm along Johnny’s and leans in, Johnny’s breath warm on his neck as he folds himself down into an uncomfortable but oh-so-necessary hug.
The glares are gone, Tanith and Stéphane both moving quietly around the room while Evgeni whispers Russian in Johnny’s ear, his hold as tight as Johnny’s. Evgeni’s knees are starting to throb with pain, but he doesn’t let go until Johnny gives a yelp of surprise and flinches, twisting around to watch as Stéphane shakes the last few drops of water out of an ice bucket over his tail.
Stéphane looks unbearably innocent. “You said you had to keep it wet.”
“Yes, but-I-a little warning first?” Johnny manages, blushing again, and Evgeni has to chuckle at his disgruntlement, knowing the interruption had been deliberate.
Tanith doesn’t bother stifling her laughter.
“It is getting close to lunch time,” Evgeni says once Tanith’s calmed and sitting on the edge of the other bed. “Are you hungry? There is room service, or we could bring you something…”
The conflict on Johnny’s face is naked and painful to watch, exhaustion and hunger forcing him into silence until Stéphane, out of Johnny’s view, gives a small sigh and a sad smile and starts rubbing his flukes again. “Okay, okay,” Johnny whispers shakily, half muffled by the pillow suddenly against his cheek. “I give. Nap first? Then room service. Tara doesn’t book me where the food isn’t awesome.”
Evgeni isn’t sure Johnny’s awake to hear his reply in the affirmative.
“Please tell me he’s asleep,” Tanith whispers a few tense moments later.
“Yes.” Stéphane speaks softly, but does not bother to whisper. “It does not take long, like this. I think-between his leg, and jetlag, and, well.”
Evgeni nods, and gives Tanith a considering look, raising an eyebrow as she locates Johnny’s Balenciaga - dark purple, this time - and fishes his phone out of it. “Why?”
“Tara doesn’t book him where the food isn’t awesome. Except Johnny looks-he looks-“ And she only stands there and shakes, looking down at Johnny’s unconscious form, the bones in his upper torso not quite skeletal, not yet, but far too prominent for competition weight to be a believable explanation. After a minute, after forcibly calming her breathing to something resembling normal, she turns back to the phone in her hand. “I’m taking this and calling Tara and finding out why the fuck he looks like that.”
“Da. We will stay and, and keep his tail wet? Yes?” Evgeni shares a glance with Stéphane, and then Tanith is gone, door closing with a quiet click behind her. “Pardon for asking, but…what happens if his tail, if it dries out?” he asks, unable to keep eye contact and looking down at Johnny’s profile, the dark circles under his eyes so much more obvious now.
“That, I do not know, but he says he must keep it wet, so I help him to keep it wet.” Stéphane shrugs, then turns and disappears around the corner, refilling the ice bucket.
Evgeni ruffles Johnny’s curls gently, toeing off his shoes and socks before sliding onto the bed, up near the wall above Johnny’s mountain of pillows and towels. (Stéphane must have raided several maids’ carts for all of this - there’s enough pillows stacked to support the natural arch of Johnny’s tail.) “Ah, Johnnik, what are we going to do with you, my friend.” The words earn him a look of understanding and commiseration as Stéphane pours more water over Johnny’s tail.
“Here,” Stéphane says, pushing the bucket over across the bare sheet before climbing onto the bed near the foot, down by Johnny’s flukes. “He likes his dorsal fin rubbed too, but your fingers, they have to be wet. Otherwise…” He shrugs, dipping his own hands in the half-full bucket and focuses on rubbing Johnny’s flukes again.
Johnny, for his part, sighs in his sleep and sinks deeper into the pillows.
Evgeni is quiet, then, as much from a lack of words as out of respect for Johnny’s rest. His hands carefully fold back the topmost towel, uncovering the charcoal-and-smoke fin, glossy with moisture, and he has to wonder if it hurts Johnny when it slides out of his flesh. Then his fingers are wet, and brushing over the graceful curve, skin rubbery and sleek. He aches to see him swim, and has to wonder if Johnny ever has, like this. “This is…” Tears close his throat, and he scrubs at his eye with his free hand.
“Yes, it is.”
There is a hand on his arm in wordless support, water soaking through to his skin; he does not acknowledge it, and it vanishes, but the camaraderie between them has not been broken. Evgeni swallows hard past the memories. “I have-“ he starts, then again, “I have seen him shaking in anger, I have seen him crying with frustration. I have carried him off the ice in too much pain to even scream. I have not heard his laughter, or seen him truly smile in…in.”
Stéphane is silent; then, quietly, he offers, “I do not believe this form pains him.”
“For that alone I could accept this.” And he presses hard enough on an upward stroke to make Johnny’s skin squeal with the friction. “We may have-we may have gotten him back on the ice, he got himself back on the podium, but we lost him, just the same.”
Stéphane grips Evgeni’s arm again, harder this time. “And perhaps…perhaps this is how we get him back, yes?”
Author: thefrogg
Beta: None yet
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people. Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
Moving Johnny to the bed is a lot more awkward than it sounded, Evgeni thinks as he watches Stéphane get down on aching knees next to Johnny’s tail. They’ve already slid him across the floor so he’s head and shoulders over carpet. Tanith’s standing barefoot on his flukes -
“Doesn’t this hurt?” She sounds worried, half-panicked.
Johnny flushes deep red all the way down his back as Stéphane laughs. “No, no, shift your weight and you will put him to sleep again.”
Tanith reflexively scrunches her toes a few times, and Johnny shudders all over, head dropping down between his arms with a deep sigh of what can only be pleasure.
Stéphane smiles gleefully; Tanith gives Evgeni a surprised look and they all know they’ll be taking turns giving Johnny tailrubs after that reaction.
--to keep him from smacking Stéphane in case he hits a ticklish spot.
“Ready?” Stéphane asks.
“Yes, yes, just do it,” Johnny snaps, and then yelps and latches onto Evgeni’s ankles with both hands hard enough that his knuckles are white.
Evgeni grits his teeth and holds onto the doorjamb, ignoring the undignified squeaks and soft French; if Johnny leaves marks this time, he’ll bear them with the same pride as those on his forearms.
Then the hands clutching his ankles are gone. “Okay, okay, that’s-that’s good.”
“I can-“ Tanith starts, but doesn’t finish and doesn’t wait for permission before she steps carefully over Stéphane, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and scoots out the door and under Evgeni’s arm.
“I will take left, yes?” And Evgeni’s suiting actions to words, bending to pull Johnny’s offered arm over his own shoulder.
Tanith nods and does the same on the other side, and with a quick count of three, they have him suspended midair, half in and half out of the bathroom. Evgeni doesn’t miss the way Johnny curls himself around the corner, keeping Tanith and Stéphane from running into a wall or doorframe in their maneuverings.
Once out of the crush of the hallway, it’s all open space, and they ease him to the bed and Stéphane’s oddly constructed pile of trash bags, towels and bag- and towel-wrapped pillows. Evgeni lets himself slide to his knees beside the bed, eye-level with Johnny as he buries his hands under the pillow. “It has been too long.”
Johnny chokes on a sob, something shattering in his eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry, I-“
Evgeni can feel the heat of twin glares, but doesn’t look away as Johnny buries his face in the pillow. “No, I know, you need say nothing. Do not apologize.” He raises one hand, rests it on Johnny’s shoulder. “It is good to see you. It is good to see my friend, Johnny Weir,” and they both know - they all know - he’s not talking about the physical.
Johnny slips a hand from under the pillow and reaches out, tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome, and Evgeni moves closer, slides his arm along Johnny’s and leans in, Johnny’s breath warm on his neck as he folds himself down into an uncomfortable but oh-so-necessary hug.
The glares are gone, Tanith and Stéphane both moving quietly around the room while Evgeni whispers Russian in Johnny’s ear, his hold as tight as Johnny’s. Evgeni’s knees are starting to throb with pain, but he doesn’t let go until Johnny gives a yelp of surprise and flinches, twisting around to watch as Stéphane shakes the last few drops of water out of an ice bucket over his tail.
Stéphane looks unbearably innocent. “You said you had to keep it wet.”
“Yes, but-I-a little warning first?” Johnny manages, blushing again, and Evgeni has to chuckle at his disgruntlement, knowing the interruption had been deliberate.
Tanith doesn’t bother stifling her laughter.
“It is getting close to lunch time,” Evgeni says once Tanith’s calmed and sitting on the edge of the other bed. “Are you hungry? There is room service, or we could bring you something…”
The conflict on Johnny’s face is naked and painful to watch, exhaustion and hunger forcing him into silence until Stéphane, out of Johnny’s view, gives a small sigh and a sad smile and starts rubbing his flukes again. “Okay, okay,” Johnny whispers shakily, half muffled by the pillow suddenly against his cheek. “I give. Nap first? Then room service. Tara doesn’t book me where the food isn’t awesome.”
Evgeni isn’t sure Johnny’s awake to hear his reply in the affirmative.
“Please tell me he’s asleep,” Tanith whispers a few tense moments later.
“Yes.” Stéphane speaks softly, but does not bother to whisper. “It does not take long, like this. I think-between his leg, and jetlag, and, well.”
Evgeni nods, and gives Tanith a considering look, raising an eyebrow as she locates Johnny’s Balenciaga - dark purple, this time - and fishes his phone out of it. “Why?”
“Tara doesn’t book him where the food isn’t awesome. Except Johnny looks-he looks-“ And she only stands there and shakes, looking down at Johnny’s unconscious form, the bones in his upper torso not quite skeletal, not yet, but far too prominent for competition weight to be a believable explanation. After a minute, after forcibly calming her breathing to something resembling normal, she turns back to the phone in her hand. “I’m taking this and calling Tara and finding out why the fuck he looks like that.”
“Da. We will stay and, and keep his tail wet? Yes?” Evgeni shares a glance with Stéphane, and then Tanith is gone, door closing with a quiet click behind her. “Pardon for asking, but…what happens if his tail, if it dries out?” he asks, unable to keep eye contact and looking down at Johnny’s profile, the dark circles under his eyes so much more obvious now.
“That, I do not know, but he says he must keep it wet, so I help him to keep it wet.” Stéphane shrugs, then turns and disappears around the corner, refilling the ice bucket.
Evgeni ruffles Johnny’s curls gently, toeing off his shoes and socks before sliding onto the bed, up near the wall above Johnny’s mountain of pillows and towels. (Stéphane must have raided several maids’ carts for all of this - there’s enough pillows stacked to support the natural arch of Johnny’s tail.) “Ah, Johnnik, what are we going to do with you, my friend.” The words earn him a look of understanding and commiseration as Stéphane pours more water over Johnny’s tail.
“Here,” Stéphane says, pushing the bucket over across the bare sheet before climbing onto the bed near the foot, down by Johnny’s flukes. “He likes his dorsal fin rubbed too, but your fingers, they have to be wet. Otherwise…” He shrugs, dipping his own hands in the half-full bucket and focuses on rubbing Johnny’s flukes again.
Johnny, for his part, sighs in his sleep and sinks deeper into the pillows.
Evgeni is quiet, then, as much from a lack of words as out of respect for Johnny’s rest. His hands carefully fold back the topmost towel, uncovering the charcoal-and-smoke fin, glossy with moisture, and he has to wonder if it hurts Johnny when it slides out of his flesh. Then his fingers are wet, and brushing over the graceful curve, skin rubbery and sleek. He aches to see him swim, and has to wonder if Johnny ever has, like this. “This is…” Tears close his throat, and he scrubs at his eye with his free hand.
“Yes, it is.”
There is a hand on his arm in wordless support, water soaking through to his skin; he does not acknowledge it, and it vanishes, but the camaraderie between them has not been broken. Evgeni swallows hard past the memories. “I have-“ he starts, then again, “I have seen him shaking in anger, I have seen him crying with frustration. I have carried him off the ice in too much pain to even scream. I have not heard his laughter, or seen him truly smile in…in.”
Stéphane is silent; then, quietly, he offers, “I do not believe this form pains him.”
“For that alone I could accept this.” And he presses hard enough on an upward stroke to make Johnny’s skin squeal with the friction. “We may have-we may have gotten him back on the ice, he got himself back on the podium, but we lost him, just the same.”
Stéphane grips Evgeni’s arm again, harder this time. “And perhaps…perhaps this is how we get him back, yes?”