fic: i could really use a wish right now.
title: i could really use a wish right now
author: kaylah, aka me. :D
rating: pg-13. this is really tame, tbh.
pairing: johnny/evan.
warnings: cursing, confusion and not much else. really short. xD
When Johnny skated his way onto the rink during his short program during the Grand Prix final, all he could think about was him.
Lysacek.
He had fallen down the stairs like the clumsy giant that he was, and he had been knocked into a coma. Johnny tried to take a cue from GaGa and put on a strong pokerface, but the last thing he wanted to do was go out and try to skate a clean program. No one would tell him anything else about Evan's condition--only that he was stable and that there was nothing to worry about.
As if.
A couple of broken bones and some bruises weren't anything to worry about. A coma was much more serious. Of course he'd never tell anyone from his camp. They wouldn't understand why he would give a shit about the rival who he'd hated since he started skating. And even if one of them could (his mother for instance), filming for season two of Be Good Johnny Weir was wrapping up, and the last thing he needed was them to edit it to make it look like he had genuine concern for the mongoose.
Because, come on. Evan? Really?The crowd roared as he glided, gracefully like the swan he was, towards the center of the ice. His program began simple enough. A little bit of footwork. Nothing fancy. He was missing some of the choreography David had taught him, but he didn't give a shit. At that point he could care less about medaling. He segued into what was supposed to be a triple lutz, but ended up being an obviously flutz. Normally he would try to look up at the audience and show how confident he was that he'd make up for it.
Not this time.
He tried to go for his axel, but without thinking he adding another half of a rotation, moving into a quad. Once he realized what he was doing, he tried to finish it, but no dice. Normally he would tense up and brace for a fall, especially one on a hard angle like this one.
Not this time.
A crack ran through the rink when he hit the ice, head first. All that was heard was the prophetic cry of a baby. No one said a word until the first drop of crimson blood formed underneath him, and than the paramedics immediately rushed onto the ice.
"Stay with us, kid. You're gonna be okay, just don't close your eyes," they said. Like it was his choice. He stared up at the ceiling as they positioned his body onto a stretcher, and suddenly...
Darkness.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
When Johnny woke up, he wasn't in a white hospital room. He was in what looked like his bedroom. Or at least, the outline of what his bedroom used to be. It was covered in posters and looked like it belonged to a pre-pubescent boy. Smelled like it too. But it felt like home, in some creepy, out of this world way.
He crawled out of bed to find that he was fully dressed in the clothes he had worn prior to the short program at the Grand Prix Final. Looking down at the floor, he found his iPhone lying on the ground, the screen flashing. He had eighteen new messages.
As if this day couldn't get any weirder. He checked his voicemail to find the same message repeated eleven times, along with the same text sent to him seven times. And they were all from a certain Olympic gold medalist who was supposedly in a coma.
"Johnny. Johnny, call me back. Like now. Something is very, very wrong here. I just woke up and my room looks like Lisa Frank exploded on the walls and Liberace's reincarnate moved in and put his stuff inside it. And there's this guy here and he...he looks like me, but not...I don't know, just call me--"
The message was cut off. Probably due to Evan's signature monotone taking longer than the maximum voicemail time limit.
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Mongoose: PLEASE CALL
Paging his seven times. Nice one, Lysacek.
He carefully navigated his way through the filthiness that was apparently his room. He tried to decipher Evan's message. He was having the same kind of opposite day experience that Johnny was. He tried to ponder on this until he heard someone messing with the lock. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed the closest knife and hid underneath the cabinet.
"Yeah, yeah. Molls, seriously? I'm not cheating on you. She's just a friend. She's just a friend. I said she's just a friend, calm your ass down!" the voice opening the door said, getting gradually louder. Great, the murderer was making it into the house. "Okay, you know what? I'm hanging up on your ass right now. I can get it a lot easier with Natasha anyway. Bye, bitch."
Normally, Johnny would listen in and try to analyze who was right here. Was the murderer a cheating asshole, or was the girl a prententious bitch. He was leaning towards the former. But today was anything but ordinary. Johnny jumped up once the door opened all the way.
"Move, and I'll cut you," he said, positioning the knife in a weird, semi-gangster way sideways, as if it were a gun and this was a stickup. Kill shot.
"What the fuck, man?! I don't mean any trouble, okay, this is my house. Take what you want, I don't make shit anyway. I'm only a rookie."
The voice sounded oddly familiar. Rookie? What did he mean by that? The man had his back turned and his hands on his head. He couldn't see a face, but the voice was definitely familiar.
"Your house? This is my house!" Johnny said, still holding the gun high above his head.
"No, dude, this is my house. Check the football trophy over there, I'm Johnny Weir," other Johnny said, turning around and revealing his face.
Wait. What?
Other Johnny looked a lot like him, but he was heavier (which looked surprisingly good on him), and was growing a horrible Apolo Ohno rivaling goatee that made him look awfully suspicious.
"What are you even talking about? I'm Johnny Weir. See?" Johnny said, pulling out his ID from the rink where he skated.
"Johnny Weir, figure skater. Yeah, right."
"What do you mean, right? I'm a three time US National Champ, one time World Bronze medalist and two time Olympian. That's more than just right."
"Oh, I'm sorry, did I ask for your life story?" Other Johnny said, moving closer to Johnny, but he didn't seem to care. He was trying to push the knife out of stabbing distance.
"Don't be an asshole," Johnny said, dropping the knife on the counter. "Maybe we're twins or something."
"No, I don't have a twin. If I do, Patti fucked me over not telling me," Other Johnny said, carefully reaching across the bar to grab an apple.
"That's my mom's name," Johnny said, moving closer towards Other Johnny.
"No, it's my mom's name. And my dad, John, and my brother Boz."
"That's what I call him," Johnny said, scratching his head, which didn't hurt, considering that in his normal universe he was bleeding from the head. "What year is it?"
"2010, what do you think?" Other Johnny said.
"Well obviously I've fallen into some kind of other universe, because this...this is weird as it gets. We're both Johnny Weir," Johnny said, sitting down onto the couch after removing a ham sandwich of questionable age. "We're both twenty six. We both have the same parents, we just have taken different paths in life."
Johnny panned around the room, almost tearing up. A combo of joy that he got to clean up so much, and sadness that Other Johnny couldn't manage to keep a home.
"This is some sci-fi shit," Other Johnny said, grabbing the old ham sandwich and taking a bite. "Ew."
"My thoughts exactly," Johnny said, disgusted. "Tell me...something about yourself."
"Well, I was the golden boy at my high school, star quarterback, just like my old man. I left it all on the field, played all four corners and kept my head in the game--"
"Please. Speak like a normal human being. Please," Johnny said, holding his head as a headache began to form.
"Oh. Well, long story short, I got enlisted in the Jets, and I'm the rookie of the team."
"So, we are in New York?" Johnny asked.
"More like New Jersey. What can I say, I'm a poor man," Other Johnny said, taking a seat next to Johnny.
Johnny's phone started to ring, blasting Backstabber by Ke$ha.
Lysacek.
"What?" Other Johnny said.
"Shit, I said that out loud. I gotta take this," Johnny said, holding up a finger.
"No problem," Other Johnny said, oblivious, as he picked up a January issue of Sports Illustrated.
"What do you want, Lysacek? I'm kind of busy, here."
"Johnny! Finally! Where have you been?!" Evan said, some emotion finally coming into his voice. There's a first time for everything.
"At home. Sleeping," Johnny said, nonchalantly.
"Did you get my messages?" Evan asked, his voice rushed and in a whisper, as if he was hiding from someone.
"Yes," Johnny said, looking over at Other Johnny staring at the pictures in the Sports Illustrated like a dimwit. "All eighteen of them."
"Yeah, my bad," Evan said. "Something is seriously wrong. Like seriously, seriously."
"What do you mean? Just the fact that I seem to have a clone who is the exact opposite of me?" Johnny screamed into the phone, catching Other Johnny's attention who said, happily, "HELLO, STRANGER."
"Stop it."
"Sorry."
"So you're feeling it too?" Evan said.
"Feeling what?" Johnny asked.
"This sci-fi shit. Come on, Johnny get with it and put it on speaker," Other Johnny said.
"Who is that?" Evan asked, quietly.
"Other Johnny, as I've come to know him. A filthy quarterback for the New York Jets," Johnny said, putting it on speaker.
"I'm not filthy, Johnny's just being a pussy," Other Johnny screamed.
"You don't have to scream, it's on speaker," Johnny said.
"Oh."
"I feel ya, bro," Evan said, laughingly.
"So, what's your clone like, mongoose?" Johnny said, beginning to file his nails with the edge of the glass coffee table to ease his nerves.
"Oh, he's...different," Evan said, in a hushed tone.
"THERE YOU ARE!" A voice on the other line said.
"Who the hell are you?" Other Johnny said, apparently trying to talk to the voice.
"WELL, PUT ME ON SPEAKER WHY DON'T YOU?!" the voice said, it's voice louder than Johnny's had ever been.
"Fine. Guys, meet Other Evan," Evan said, slipping back into monotone.
"THE AERIALIST EXTRAORDINAIRE."
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Other Johnny said.
"I'll second that," Johnny said, confused.
"I MIGHT NEED SOME ADDERALL. MAYBE. BUT I'M JUST SO HAPPY!"
"You scare me," Other Johnny said, scared.
"He scares all of us," Evan said, concerned.
"What is this? This is really starting to freak me out," Johnny said.
"You're not the only one..." someone said, but their voices began to blend.
"Hello?" Johnny said, as Other Johnny's face, and their surroundings began to blend together into a medley of color as well.
Darkness.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
When Johnny woke up, he was lying in a hospital bed.
"Ouch..." Johnny said, his head throbbing. He reached up to feel bandages. He also found a surprising face at the end of the bed.
Lysacek.
He began to stir. Well, after Johnny gave him a swift kick to the face.
"You're not in a coma..." Johnny said, happily, but trying to hide it.
"Yeah, it only lasted a few hours. I came out of it to find that my beloved swan broke his wing."
"I didn't break my wing. I hurt my head," Johnny said, his mouth forming an "O" as he touched his head again.
"Three inch gash in the back of your head. You've been out for a good two days."
"I should probably call the nurse..." Johnny said, hesitantly. He didn't want to bring up the dream, especially if he ran the risk of showing that he dreamed about Evan.
"Was that dream just me?" Evan said, his voice sleepy and drifting off.
"No. Definitely not," Johnny said.
"I think I took too much Adderall."