We Are Nowhere and It's Now
Title: We Are Nowhere and It's Now
Author: heroes_and_cons
Pairing: Michael Phelps / Chad le Clos
Rating: NC17
Warnings/AN: ~~POSSIBLE OLYMPIC SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T BEEN WATCHING~~ also I don't know too much about Chad le Clos so please excuse any factual inaccuracies
For the life of him, Chad can not even remember his time in the 100 fly from several hours ago.
The event that he'd gotten silver in (okay, tied for silver in) - and what was his time? 51 what? He remembers trailing in the wake of Michael's wave, seeing Michael's arms and legs soar in his peripheral vision, when he probably should have been watching the wall. And when he finished, he glanced briefly at the blurred numbers next to his last name before turning to Michael to see a massive grin split his gargantuan face in two, so contagious that Chad started smiling himself.
Everything immediately after was a wonderful blur, but a myriad of sensations that still linger - the sting of Michael's palm against his back as they exited the pool; the ringing in his ears as he watched the American flag rise high over the podiums; the fireworks of flashes from photographers as he stood, Michael's arm around his shoulders, holding up their medals for the world to see.
Chad lifts his face up to the spray of the shower - 51.44, that's what his time was. A personal best. He turns the water off and presses his forehead against the slick ceramic shower wall, closes his eyes and breathes heavily.
This is not who he is supposed to be. Not the Olympian part - of course, gold and silver medals (alongside Michael fucking Phelps, no less), that was something he'd never expected, but a claim he can embrace with pride. But this, the way Chad feels when he sees him: the pervasive warmth that starts in the depths of his stomach and crawls all the way up his throat; the near-fatal arrhythmia that makes his legs tremble - none of this is right, because he is supposed to return home after all of this, medals hanging around his neck, and be the hero, and marry the beautiful local girl and have children and throw them in the pool as soon as they can walk. He knows his father wouldn't so much as bat an eye if Chad told him all of this, which is a relatively enormous consolation, but everything else - all the eyes on him, all the time, and he's falling out of the script already.
He wraps a towel around his waist and wipes the condensation off of the mirror, staring at his reflection. The door to his room knocks, and he curses under his breath before stalking out of the bathroom.
"Goddamn it, Riann, if you lose your key one more --"
That perpetual smile, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes - Chad loses his breath and feels the cardiac arrest beginning.
"You expecting someone else?" Michael smiles, his mouth going crooked as he speaks. His hair is damp - was he just showering, too? Chad thinks, but he shakes his head before his mind can wander any further.
"Um." He clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant. "Nah, just my roommate. You probably don't have one."
Michael cocks an eyebrow. "What, a roommate? What makes you say that?"
Chad's cheeks burn as he realizes how weirdly pretentious he'd sounded. "No, I mean - I didn't think they'd make Michael Phelps have a roommate. You know. You probably get the penthouse suite."
Michael laughs again and Chad swears he can feel his knees buckle. "Ryan's my roommate." He leans to the side, glancing over Chad's shoulder. "And I'm pretty sure my room is exactly the same as yours."
Chad nods, unable to find any words. HIs left hand is gripping the door frame so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
"So…" Michael shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Can I come in?"
"Oh! Oh, God, come in, I'm so sorry --" Chad leaps to the side, letting Michael in and closing the door, frantically shoving his mesh bag and warm-up gear into the corner.
Michael isn't fazed, and he settles on the sofa and props his feet up on. Chad is suddenly all too aware that he's practically naked - and that Michael Phelps is in his room.
Before Chad can duck into the bathroom and throw some shorts on, Michael is waving him over. "Come on, sit down."
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, a million words wedged in his throat, unable to reach his lips. He settles on an "okay" and crosses the room, sitting on an ottoman across from Michael, resting his elbows on his knees just in case the towel comes loose.
"So, how's it feel?"
Oh my God, he knows.
"I mean, it's your first Olympic games, right? It's pretty crazy."
"Oh." Chad manages a smile. "Yeah, I still can't believe it. It's insane." Not as crazy as this.
Michael reaches over - he can cross the entire distance between them with one arm - and gently slaps Chad on the shoulder. "Relax, man. I'm human. You had a great swim today."
Chad ducks his chin and smiles, relishing the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."
Michael laughs - at him, Chad is sure - and shakes his head. "Please tell me you have alcohol."
"We're not supposed to drink during the games…" Chad glances up. "…but Riann has some beer."
Michael grins. "The roommate you were cursing out before? Alright, let's go." He's already neck-deep in the fridge by the time Chad stands, precariously gripping his towel.
Michael pops open the tops of two Carlsbergs, handing the neck of one to Chad. "Got any more events?"
He shakes his head. "I'm done." He takes a sip of the beer, then another. "I'm kind of glad."
"Yeah? It's a lot, isn't it?"
"I don't know how you do it," Chad smiles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "…I mean, seriously. How do you do it?"
Michael smirks. "You need a swim lesson?"
"I mean - everything. All of it. Knowing that everyone is watching you - everyone across the world, everyone you've ever met in your life, they know you and they're watching you, and they're just waiting to see you either stumble or succeed. And it never really ends, does it? You're done swimming but you're carrying all these titles now, the medals and everything, and everyone is still watching you. And there's the endorsements, the commercials, the charity events, and knowing that 20 years from now, they'll still be interviewing you at the Olympic games because you're the expert, you're the guy who has the most medals of all time."
Michael's eyes have widened, and Chad immediately backtracks. "I mean, don't get me wrong," he adds quickly. "I love it, and I know you do, and it's all so…really a dream come true. But sometimes it's just - it seems like a lot."
Michael just laughs again, hard, and takes another drink. "Goddamn, you've thought about this more than I have." He sets the beer down on the counter and crosses his arms across his chest. "I learned how to deal with it really quickly. You just have to give yourself the flexibility to adapt - don't try to predict how everything's going to turn out, because you can't know. And if everyone else ends up hating you - fuck it."
Chad nods like he understands and bites his lip to keep from rambling anymore.
Michael ducks his head in the fridge again. "You know, you're roommate's got Bacardi in here, too." He resurfaces and grins wildly. "You up for a shot or two?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chad's towel is dangerously low.
How he would love to free himself right then and there, right on the sofa, just rip off the goddamn towel and be done with it. He takes another shot and chases it with some orange juice before leaning back, stretching his neck so that it feels as though his airways couldn't possibly be more open.
"Hey. Hey."
Chad rolls his head to he side, Michael's face hovering so close that Chad can smell the alcohol on his breath. Or maybe that was his own breath. "Hey."
"Listen - I think, I'm pretty sure I could kick your ass at FIFA."
A tumble of giggles becomes full-on laughter, and Chad shakes his head. "No fucking way, man. I mean, definitely not if we use PlayStation."
"Let's do it, let's play. You can be some South African team, but I wanna be Barcelona, okay?"
Chad is very aware that Michael's arm is around his shoulders. "We can't." He sighs. "You think I bought a video game to the Olympics?"
"We could go back to my room," Michael smiles sheepishly. "Ryan won't mind if we steal his sexbox."
"Sexbox?" Chad laughs. "…we probably shouldn't leave the room like this."
Michael smiles and rests his head on Chad's shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. You're…20? You're a fucking kid. Making better decisions than I am." He sits up suddenly, so quickly that Chad is sure he'll topple over. "Listen," Michael says, his face sobering as much as physically possible. "You're the reason I did this, you know? All this. Because I wanted to - to change people's lives. You can be even better than I was, you know? You already did it in these games. You can."
Chad feels his throat tighten. "You're the reason I did this, too," he says softly. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, your performance in Athens."
Michael leans back, holding Chad's gaze. "I'm going to be watching you swim for a looooong time," he grins. "A long time."
Chad swallows hard and closes his eyes. "Michael, can I --"
"Mike. Call me Mike, okay?"
"Okay. Mike. I wanted to --"
"Hey." Michael sits up once again. "We're gonna go cage diving, right? Swim with the sharks and everything?"
Chad smiles and nods, feeling a sudden pain of homesickness at the thought of Cape Town. "Yeah, of course. You can come any time you want."
"Cage diving. Goddamn." Michael laughs. "Cage diving, and then FIFA, okay?"
"Okay."
"What were you going to say before?"
This was it, really. If I'm going to say it, I need to say it now. "Have you ever…felt like you're becoming someone…that you're not really supposed to be?"
Michael stares at him, his face blank. "I don't know," he says, his voice suddenly clearer.
Chad sighs and shakes his head. "You know what, never mind."
Michael inches closer, closing the space between them. "You know you can tell me, man." He pokes his index finger at Chad's bare chest. "You are who you are."
"I know. But what if that's not who I'm supposed to be?"
"Who is deciding who you can or can't be?"
"No one, I guess," Chad shrugs. "But --"
"But nothing. You call the shots in your life, man. So just do it, whatever it is. Just do it and - and fuck everything else, you know?" Michael leans forward and pours two shots, handing one glass to Chad. "Cheers," he grins before throwing it back.
Chad stares at Michael, not bothering with subtlety anymore. He memorizes the contours of Michael's face - the sharp angles of his jaw, the soft curve of his crooked mouth, the light lines carved around the corners of his lips and eyes, proof that he's spent his life smiling. He's all too aware that after this is all over - after they return to their respective homelands - Chad cannot be sure of when he will see Michael again. Sure, they can fantasize about cage diving and FIFA; there's a good chance they'll meet again at an event or meet, even if Michael isn't swimming. But nothing is certain except for this, here, right now.
You are who you are.
"You okay?"
Chad glances up, Michael's wide eyes trying to read him through the glaze. "Yeah," he says, feeling himself smile inexplicably. "Yeah - I am. I really am." Chad takes a breath. "Mike - I think I'm gay."
Michael sets his shot glass down on the table and laces his lanky fingers together. He sucks in his lips so that his mouth forms an almost invisible line and sits quietly, almost as if he hadn't heard a thing.
Shit. Shit shit fuck goddamn I fucked it up. I fucked everything up. He's going to leave now.
And then - it happens quicker than a flash of lightning or the blink of an eye, quicker than touching the wall a hundredth of a second before someone else. He tries to slow time for the moment and savor every single sensation - Michael's palm settling on the nape of Chad's neck; Michael coming forward, so close his features begin to blur; Michael's lips meeting Chad's, soft at first and then hungrier, pulling him in, sucking gently on Chad's lower lip - and here comes the arrhythmia, and an explosion of light in Chad's core, so intense that he feels as though his whole body might start to convulse.
Michael pulls back, only slightly, so that his nose is just barely grazing Chad's, his hand still touching the back of Chad's neck. "You either think," he whispers, "or you know."
God, did Chad know. He probably knew all along, but now - the unbearable weight that had been heavy on his chest for years has been lifted, and all of the words that Michael had said before suddenly make sense - everything makes sense, and he can not care less about what the rest of the world might think, if they all wanted to watch or turn away, none of it matters anymore, because now, right now, Michael Phelps is sitting just centimeters from him, and more importantly, Michael Phelps wants him. And the rational part of Chad - the one who would point out that they're both just drunk, that they shouldn't even be drinking in the first place, and how would he even manage to tell the whole world about this, and what would the newspapers say when they found out, and that Michael is his hero and seven years his senior - that part of Chad had evaporated moments ago, letting his heart begin to dictate his thoughts, his feelings, his movements.
"I know," Chad nods, breathlessly. "I know, I know, I know."
Michael grabs Chad's hand - they're about the same height, but the span of Michael's hand is practically twice that of Chad's - and leads him over to the bed, gently pushing Chad so that he falls onto the mattress. He walks over to the tall windows and pulls at the blinds, then walks to the door and locks the dead bolt. By the time he climbs onto the bed, Chad's towel is about to slip off, mostly because of the sudden hard on.
Michael kisses him again, and this time it's even more intense, his tongue dancing around Chad's mouth, his hands exploring the canvas of Chad's chest.
"I've never done this before," Chad murmurs when Michael pulls away. Well, he'd had sex before, sure - twice with two different girlfriends when he was in high school, mostly because his friends kept bugging him about whether or not he'd done it and he just wanted to say that he had.
"It's okay," Michael smiles, tangling his fingers in Chad's tawny hair. "We'll go slow."
Chad pulls Michael down and kisses him, beginning to find some sense of rhythm in their little dance. He inevitably bucks his hips up as Michael plants a trail of kisses along his neck and the curves of his collarbone. Without lifting his head, Michael reaches down and pulls the towel off of Chad's waist.
He grins, and Chad feels as though he's going to explode right then and there, but Michael decides to kiss his way down Chad's body in the most agonizing, painfully slow way. His lips meet every square inch of Chad's chest, nipples, ribcage, abs, stomach, waist, hips, pelvis, and by the time he reaches Chad's inner thighs, he's met by a groan and trembling legs and uncontrollable fidgeting.
"Shhh," Michael says, grinning wildly. "You're all mine." Very carefully, Michael begins to caress each of Chad's balls and then, all at once, so suddenly Chad cannot react, Michael's entire mouth envelops Chad's dick, taking him in all the way to the hilt, and Chad throws his head back, unable to contain himself. He briefly realizes that this is a million times better than any blowjob he's ever received before, and he knows exactly why.
Michael licks the base of Chad's cock, letting his tongue trail up the length of the shaft and flick over the tip. And then, again in an instant, he takes the entirety of Chad in his mouth, and he's moving now, up and down, one hand gently squeezing Chad's balls and the other moving along the shaft in time with his mouth. He gains more and more momentum, and Chad moans and pushes his hips forward; Michael moves so fast that his mouth and hand become a blur; and an overwhelming sense of euphoria beings to overwhelm Chad, heating his body from the inside out, and he can feel himself building, quicker and quicker --
"I'm gonna come," he manages, throaty and hoarse. It isn't until Michael lifts his eyes to meet Chad's that Chad lets himself go, in a final guttural groan, deep in Michael's throat, his muscles tightening until, finally, there is nothing left. Michael swallows and reaches up, intertwining his fingers in Chad's sweaty palm.
Michael pulls himself up, lying adjacent to Chad and laying an arm across his chest. "You okay?" He murmurs, smiling softly.
Chad is still panting in the wake of what just happened. "I'm really okay," he breathes. He grips Michael's hand, hard enough so that he cannot let go. He shifts so that he can see Michael, and the words float out of his mouth before he can stop them: "So…what happens now?"
Michael pauses for a moment, and then that all-too familiar grin plasters his face and Chad feels himself melting.
"Now," Michael says, "let's go play some FIFA."
Author: heroes_and_cons
Pairing: Michael Phelps / Chad le Clos
Rating: NC17
Warnings/AN: ~~POSSIBLE OLYMPIC SPOILERS IF YOU HAVEN'T BEEN WATCHING~~ also I don't know too much about Chad le Clos so please excuse any factual inaccuracies
For the life of him, Chad can not even remember his time in the 100 fly from several hours ago.
The event that he'd gotten silver in (okay, tied for silver in) - and what was his time? 51 what? He remembers trailing in the wake of Michael's wave, seeing Michael's arms and legs soar in his peripheral vision, when he probably should have been watching the wall. And when he finished, he glanced briefly at the blurred numbers next to his last name before turning to Michael to see a massive grin split his gargantuan face in two, so contagious that Chad started smiling himself.
Everything immediately after was a wonderful blur, but a myriad of sensations that still linger - the sting of Michael's palm against his back as they exited the pool; the ringing in his ears as he watched the American flag rise high over the podiums; the fireworks of flashes from photographers as he stood, Michael's arm around his shoulders, holding up their medals for the world to see.
Chad lifts his face up to the spray of the shower - 51.44, that's what his time was. A personal best. He turns the water off and presses his forehead against the slick ceramic shower wall, closes his eyes and breathes heavily.
This is not who he is supposed to be. Not the Olympian part - of course, gold and silver medals (alongside Michael fucking Phelps, no less), that was something he'd never expected, but a claim he can embrace with pride. But this, the way Chad feels when he sees him: the pervasive warmth that starts in the depths of his stomach and crawls all the way up his throat; the near-fatal arrhythmia that makes his legs tremble - none of this is right, because he is supposed to return home after all of this, medals hanging around his neck, and be the hero, and marry the beautiful local girl and have children and throw them in the pool as soon as they can walk. He knows his father wouldn't so much as bat an eye if Chad told him all of this, which is a relatively enormous consolation, but everything else - all the eyes on him, all the time, and he's falling out of the script already.
He wraps a towel around his waist and wipes the condensation off of the mirror, staring at his reflection. The door to his room knocks, and he curses under his breath before stalking out of the bathroom.
"Goddamn it, Riann, if you lose your key one more --"
That perpetual smile, the crinkles in the corners of his eyes - Chad loses his breath and feels the cardiac arrest beginning.
"You expecting someone else?" Michael smiles, his mouth going crooked as he speaks. His hair is damp - was he just showering, too? Chad thinks, but he shakes his head before his mind can wander any further.
"Um." He clears his throat and tries to sound nonchalant. "Nah, just my roommate. You probably don't have one."
Michael cocks an eyebrow. "What, a roommate? What makes you say that?"
Chad's cheeks burn as he realizes how weirdly pretentious he'd sounded. "No, I mean - I didn't think they'd make Michael Phelps have a roommate. You know. You probably get the penthouse suite."
Michael laughs again and Chad swears he can feel his knees buckle. "Ryan's my roommate." He leans to the side, glancing over Chad's shoulder. "And I'm pretty sure my room is exactly the same as yours."
Chad nods, unable to find any words. HIs left hand is gripping the door frame so tightly his knuckles have gone white.
"So…" Michael shifts his weight from one foot to another. "Can I come in?"
"Oh! Oh, God, come in, I'm so sorry --" Chad leaps to the side, letting Michael in and closing the door, frantically shoving his mesh bag and warm-up gear into the corner.
Michael isn't fazed, and he settles on the sofa and props his feet up on. Chad is suddenly all too aware that he's practically naked - and that Michael Phelps is in his room.
Before Chad can duck into the bathroom and throw some shorts on, Michael is waving him over. "Come on, sit down."
He opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again, a million words wedged in his throat, unable to reach his lips. He settles on an "okay" and crosses the room, sitting on an ottoman across from Michael, resting his elbows on his knees just in case the towel comes loose.
"So, how's it feel?"
Oh my God, he knows.
"I mean, it's your first Olympic games, right? It's pretty crazy."
"Oh." Chad manages a smile. "Yeah, I still can't believe it. It's insane." Not as crazy as this.
Michael reaches over - he can cross the entire distance between them with one arm - and gently slaps Chad on the shoulder. "Relax, man. I'm human. You had a great swim today."
Chad ducks his chin and smiles, relishing the compliment. "Thank you. That means a lot to me."
Michael laughs - at him, Chad is sure - and shakes his head. "Please tell me you have alcohol."
"We're not supposed to drink during the games…" Chad glances up. "…but Riann has some beer."
Michael grins. "The roommate you were cursing out before? Alright, let's go." He's already neck-deep in the fridge by the time Chad stands, precariously gripping his towel.
Michael pops open the tops of two Carlsbergs, handing the neck of one to Chad. "Got any more events?"
He shakes his head. "I'm done." He takes a sip of the beer, then another. "I'm kind of glad."
"Yeah? It's a lot, isn't it?"
"I don't know how you do it," Chad smiles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "…I mean, seriously. How do you do it?"
Michael smirks. "You need a swim lesson?"
"I mean - everything. All of it. Knowing that everyone is watching you - everyone across the world, everyone you've ever met in your life, they know you and they're watching you, and they're just waiting to see you either stumble or succeed. And it never really ends, does it? You're done swimming but you're carrying all these titles now, the medals and everything, and everyone is still watching you. And there's the endorsements, the commercials, the charity events, and knowing that 20 years from now, they'll still be interviewing you at the Olympic games because you're the expert, you're the guy who has the most medals of all time."
Michael's eyes have widened, and Chad immediately backtracks. "I mean, don't get me wrong," he adds quickly. "I love it, and I know you do, and it's all so…really a dream come true. But sometimes it's just - it seems like a lot."
Michael just laughs again, hard, and takes another drink. "Goddamn, you've thought about this more than I have." He sets the beer down on the counter and crosses his arms across his chest. "I learned how to deal with it really quickly. You just have to give yourself the flexibility to adapt - don't try to predict how everything's going to turn out, because you can't know. And if everyone else ends up hating you - fuck it."
Chad nods like he understands and bites his lip to keep from rambling anymore.
Michael ducks his head in the fridge again. "You know, you're roommate's got Bacardi in here, too." He resurfaces and grins wildly. "You up for a shot or two?"
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Chad's towel is dangerously low.
How he would love to free himself right then and there, right on the sofa, just rip off the goddamn towel and be done with it. He takes another shot and chases it with some orange juice before leaning back, stretching his neck so that it feels as though his airways couldn't possibly be more open.
"Hey. Hey."
Chad rolls his head to he side, Michael's face hovering so close that Chad can smell the alcohol on his breath. Or maybe that was his own breath. "Hey."
"Listen - I think, I'm pretty sure I could kick your ass at FIFA."
A tumble of giggles becomes full-on laughter, and Chad shakes his head. "No fucking way, man. I mean, definitely not if we use PlayStation."
"Let's do it, let's play. You can be some South African team, but I wanna be Barcelona, okay?"
Chad is very aware that Michael's arm is around his shoulders. "We can't." He sighs. "You think I bought a video game to the Olympics?"
"We could go back to my room," Michael smiles sheepishly. "Ryan won't mind if we steal his sexbox."
"Sexbox?" Chad laughs. "…we probably shouldn't leave the room like this."
Michael smiles and rests his head on Chad's shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. You're…20? You're a fucking kid. Making better decisions than I am." He sits up suddenly, so quickly that Chad is sure he'll topple over. "Listen," Michael says, his face sobering as much as physically possible. "You're the reason I did this, you know? All this. Because I wanted to - to change people's lives. You can be even better than I was, you know? You already did it in these games. You can."
Chad feels his throat tighten. "You're the reason I did this, too," he says softly. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you, your performance in Athens."
Michael leans back, holding Chad's gaze. "I'm going to be watching you swim for a looooong time," he grins. "A long time."
Chad swallows hard and closes his eyes. "Michael, can I --"
"Mike. Call me Mike, okay?"
"Okay. Mike. I wanted to --"
"Hey." Michael sits up once again. "We're gonna go cage diving, right? Swim with the sharks and everything?"
Chad smiles and nods, feeling a sudden pain of homesickness at the thought of Cape Town. "Yeah, of course. You can come any time you want."
"Cage diving. Goddamn." Michael laughs. "Cage diving, and then FIFA, okay?"
"Okay."
"What were you going to say before?"
This was it, really. If I'm going to say it, I need to say it now. "Have you ever…felt like you're becoming someone…that you're not really supposed to be?"
Michael stares at him, his face blank. "I don't know," he says, his voice suddenly clearer.
Chad sighs and shakes his head. "You know what, never mind."
Michael inches closer, closing the space between them. "You know you can tell me, man." He pokes his index finger at Chad's bare chest. "You are who you are."
"I know. But what if that's not who I'm supposed to be?"
"Who is deciding who you can or can't be?"
"No one, I guess," Chad shrugs. "But --"
"But nothing. You call the shots in your life, man. So just do it, whatever it is. Just do it and - and fuck everything else, you know?" Michael leans forward and pours two shots, handing one glass to Chad. "Cheers," he grins before throwing it back.
Chad stares at Michael, not bothering with subtlety anymore. He memorizes the contours of Michael's face - the sharp angles of his jaw, the soft curve of his crooked mouth, the light lines carved around the corners of his lips and eyes, proof that he's spent his life smiling. He's all too aware that after this is all over - after they return to their respective homelands - Chad cannot be sure of when he will see Michael again. Sure, they can fantasize about cage diving and FIFA; there's a good chance they'll meet again at an event or meet, even if Michael isn't swimming. But nothing is certain except for this, here, right now.
You are who you are.
"You okay?"
Chad glances up, Michael's wide eyes trying to read him through the glaze. "Yeah," he says, feeling himself smile inexplicably. "Yeah - I am. I really am." Chad takes a breath. "Mike - I think I'm gay."
Michael sets his shot glass down on the table and laces his lanky fingers together. He sucks in his lips so that his mouth forms an almost invisible line and sits quietly, almost as if he hadn't heard a thing.
Shit. Shit shit fuck goddamn I fucked it up. I fucked everything up. He's going to leave now.
And then - it happens quicker than a flash of lightning or the blink of an eye, quicker than touching the wall a hundredth of a second before someone else. He tries to slow time for the moment and savor every single sensation - Michael's palm settling on the nape of Chad's neck; Michael coming forward, so close his features begin to blur; Michael's lips meeting Chad's, soft at first and then hungrier, pulling him in, sucking gently on Chad's lower lip - and here comes the arrhythmia, and an explosion of light in Chad's core, so intense that he feels as though his whole body might start to convulse.
Michael pulls back, only slightly, so that his nose is just barely grazing Chad's, his hand still touching the back of Chad's neck. "You either think," he whispers, "or you know."
God, did Chad know. He probably knew all along, but now - the unbearable weight that had been heavy on his chest for years has been lifted, and all of the words that Michael had said before suddenly make sense - everything makes sense, and he can not care less about what the rest of the world might think, if they all wanted to watch or turn away, none of it matters anymore, because now, right now, Michael Phelps is sitting just centimeters from him, and more importantly, Michael Phelps wants him. And the rational part of Chad - the one who would point out that they're both just drunk, that they shouldn't even be drinking in the first place, and how would he even manage to tell the whole world about this, and what would the newspapers say when they found out, and that Michael is his hero and seven years his senior - that part of Chad had evaporated moments ago, letting his heart begin to dictate his thoughts, his feelings, his movements.
"I know," Chad nods, breathlessly. "I know, I know, I know."
Michael grabs Chad's hand - they're about the same height, but the span of Michael's hand is practically twice that of Chad's - and leads him over to the bed, gently pushing Chad so that he falls onto the mattress. He walks over to the tall windows and pulls at the blinds, then walks to the door and locks the dead bolt. By the time he climbs onto the bed, Chad's towel is about to slip off, mostly because of the sudden hard on.
Michael kisses him again, and this time it's even more intense, his tongue dancing around Chad's mouth, his hands exploring the canvas of Chad's chest.
"I've never done this before," Chad murmurs when Michael pulls away. Well, he'd had sex before, sure - twice with two different girlfriends when he was in high school, mostly because his friends kept bugging him about whether or not he'd done it and he just wanted to say that he had.
"It's okay," Michael smiles, tangling his fingers in Chad's tawny hair. "We'll go slow."
Chad pulls Michael down and kisses him, beginning to find some sense of rhythm in their little dance. He inevitably bucks his hips up as Michael plants a trail of kisses along his neck and the curves of his collarbone. Without lifting his head, Michael reaches down and pulls the towel off of Chad's waist.
He grins, and Chad feels as though he's going to explode right then and there, but Michael decides to kiss his way down Chad's body in the most agonizing, painfully slow way. His lips meet every square inch of Chad's chest, nipples, ribcage, abs, stomach, waist, hips, pelvis, and by the time he reaches Chad's inner thighs, he's met by a groan and trembling legs and uncontrollable fidgeting.
"Shhh," Michael says, grinning wildly. "You're all mine." Very carefully, Michael begins to caress each of Chad's balls and then, all at once, so suddenly Chad cannot react, Michael's entire mouth envelops Chad's dick, taking him in all the way to the hilt, and Chad throws his head back, unable to contain himself. He briefly realizes that this is a million times better than any blowjob he's ever received before, and he knows exactly why.
Michael licks the base of Chad's cock, letting his tongue trail up the length of the shaft and flick over the tip. And then, again in an instant, he takes the entirety of Chad in his mouth, and he's moving now, up and down, one hand gently squeezing Chad's balls and the other moving along the shaft in time with his mouth. He gains more and more momentum, and Chad moans and pushes his hips forward; Michael moves so fast that his mouth and hand become a blur; and an overwhelming sense of euphoria beings to overwhelm Chad, heating his body from the inside out, and he can feel himself building, quicker and quicker --
"I'm gonna come," he manages, throaty and hoarse. It isn't until Michael lifts his eyes to meet Chad's that Chad lets himself go, in a final guttural groan, deep in Michael's throat, his muscles tightening until, finally, there is nothing left. Michael swallows and reaches up, intertwining his fingers in Chad's sweaty palm.
Michael pulls himself up, lying adjacent to Chad and laying an arm across his chest. "You okay?" He murmurs, smiling softly.
Chad is still panting in the wake of what just happened. "I'm really okay," he breathes. He grips Michael's hand, hard enough so that he cannot let go. He shifts so that he can see Michael, and the words float out of his mouth before he can stop them: "So…what happens now?"
Michael pauses for a moment, and then that all-too familiar grin plasters his face and Chad feels himself melting.
"Now," Michael says, "let's go play some FIFA."