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2010 Winter Games Kink Meme
Part 2
I never really expected this to take off so well, let alone end up with 4000+ comments. Now it's time for part 2!
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1. We are all here to have a little fun. Am I right?
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i'm the man who loves you
It happens slowly, is the thing. It happens so slowly that neither of them see it at all, and then suddenly, it's all happened at once.
There's this rule of particle physics. Imagine a single atom. Imagine it buzzing along through a sea of other atoms, imagine it perhaps circling an elliptical orbit. Do you know where it is? Yes? Good. It's right there. Don't take your eyes off it. Don't forget for a second what it looks like, each shade of its body, each word it says. How fast is it moving? Oh, you can't tell, you're so transfixed trying to pin the details, and then suddenly it's so close and you have no idea how it got there - step back.
Imagine that you can track its speed. Imagine you always know whether it's sneaking up on you, trying to mess your hair up and make you laugh, or if it's bolting across a room in panic. You don't know where it is. It might be walking slowly, so slowly that your heart beats in half-time with its pace, but you don't know if it's through a dimly-lit hallway across the city, or if it's to your bedside. And you're always terrified it's close, and you're always terrified that it's far.
We're not talking particles, anymore, but then, neither of them are exactly physicists.
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It starts when JR is seventeen and back in Apolo's arms for the first time in months. Not that "in Apolo's arms" has ever meant anything but team huddles and goodbye pats on the back. Except then JR is back at the rink, and he's beaming like a kid, and there's contrast, all of a sudden, between his bright eyes and the strength in his arms when he slings an arm around Apolo's shoulders. JR's taller, too. Not as tall as Apolo, and maybe he won't ever be, but enough that now, when Apolo body-checks him playfully, their hips neatly lock together.
They're both on their way out to the locker room when, as a joke, Apolo brings up his old gag: "You look tired, kid. Want me to carry you the rest of the way?" It used to be this thing: JR would blush and scratch at the back of his neck awkwardly, or on rare occasions look like he wanted to say yes, when he was really run-down and hadn't skated well.
Today, though, JR throws his head back and laughs, eyes crinkling closed. "I'd like to see you try, old man."
It's nice, having JR joke back at him. The kid might actually be his buddy now. That's nice. But in a way, Apolo kind of wishes he still had the right to carry him around, be his hero. JR still looks at him like he's older and wiser, but maybe his halo doesn't glow so neon anymore. Maybe he's not so special anymore.
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Maybe not then. Maybe that night, when JR is lying in bed, hands hooked behind his skull. He stares at the buzzing faint colors inside his eyes, thinks of the day, thinks of how it was good to see Apolo everyone. Good to be welcomed.
He curls onto his side, tucks his knees towards his stomach, tells himself little stories to lull himself into sleep, like he has since he was a kid. Except now there's a narrative starting in the background. Now there's a goal. And maybe the word in his head is Olympics, but the pictures are just: him skating up next to Apolo, just as fast. Him breaking forward. Him crossing the line, and whipping around backward, and there's Apolo beaming at him, there's Apolo proud and ecstatic for him and maybe, maybe a little bit, in awe.
He doesn't put it to words, but still there's a picture of the way he used to feel, dazzled and breathless and trembling. And like a double-exposure photograph, that picture is laid over Apolo's eyes. Looking at him. Looking back at him.
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