RPS Fic: False Start 1/1 (Olympics, PG-13, Lochte/Phelps)
Title: False Start
Pairing: Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps RPF
Rating: PG -13
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and don't know them. In fact, I just really love it when they swim together and then hug.
A/N: Thanks to waterofthemoon for the beta. She's the man.
Michael’s PR agent likes for his coach to tell people-the press in particular-that he and Ryan bonded instantly. It’s a good story. Cute. It’s a nice “how we met” story that sounds really good and looks great on paper.
It’s not exactly true, though.
The truth is that back then, Michael doesn’t really bond with anyone. Only a year out of high school, he’s not exactly a people person, although his mom says that he once was.
Since he hit puberty, the most social he’s been outside of his family is on a four man relay. But when you say no to a post-meet slice of pizza or party enough times, people stop inviting you. And when people try to chat to you before a meet and you don’t answer often enough, they stop talking to you. Michael doesn’t really mind. His life isn’t about conversation.
Bob tells him about Ryan before they ever get to trials, that the guy’s an up-and-comer, that he could be a threat. That actually interests Michael enough to ask a few extra questions about his stats before they leave for Long Beach.
With the way Bob answers, he’s not surprised when Ryan finishes second to him in the prelims the first day. What does surprise him is the way Ryan grins at him over the lane divider before swimming towards him and giving him a wet, awkward hug.
“You’re totally insane, man. Were you even trying?”
Of course he was trying. He always tried, and screw this guy if he thought otherwise. Ryan doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already climbing out of the pool, dripping wet, smiling, triumphant, and clearly not giving a damn about killing Michael’s victory buzz.
What he notices about Ryan, as the week goes on, is that he doesn’t have any ritual, any schedule, any anything, really. Compared to Bob, Ryan's coach seems like he’s ten miles away from the guy most of the time. And he just seems… easy.
It makes Michael feel a little sick. Ryan is a few lanes down from him on the final for the 200 free, and Michael’s aware of him the entire race. He can't find the extra push in himself, and even though he comes in first, even though it’s a record time, his performance isn’t where it should be.
After that, Ryan seems to be everywhere. He can’t turn around without practically bumping into the guy. Twice, he actually does collide with him, tripping backwards over his own feet and saved by Ryan’s quick hands wrapping around his triceps.
It’s embarrassing and awful. He’s an Olympian, for god’s sake. So why does he feel like he’s fourteen again, nothing but gangly arms and huge ears, out of proportion and awkward as a baby giraffe every second that he’s out of the water. Why can’t he stop thinking about the way Ryan’s hands felt on his skin?
When he sees his mother in the evening, she doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, she rubs his neck and pats his shoulders. It melts a bit of the tension out of him, but she brings it back when she opens her mouth.
“You should talk to him. He seems like a nice boy.”
He tenses all over. “Mom.”
“What?” Her face is all innocence, but she’s got worry in her eyes.
“Come on.”
“You need more friends your own age, Michael.”
He smiles at her because she's tried so hard and she means well. He loves her, but sometimes he feels like they speak a different language.
“You know I can’t.”
“Michael,” she says. Her voice is sharp. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Michael says nothing, and she sighs. She’s not thrilled-she’s never been really happy with it-but she’s nothing if not there for him, even when she doesn’t want to be, and he loves her more for it.
“You should still talk to him.”
“I can’t.”
“For god’s sake, Michael, you’re not going to lose your endorsements just by talking to the boy.”
The thing is, Michael doesn’t think he could just talk to Ryan. It’s been four days, and he absolutely cannot talk to Ryan, so much so that people are starting to notice. If his mother’s noticed, then Bob sure as hell’s noticed, and who knows who else.
“Mom, just drop it, okay?”
“I don’t like to see you unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“You’re not happy either,” she says, her lips thin and tight with frustration. “Don’t think I don’t know.”
Michael doesn’t say anything to that. He just leans into his mother’s hands, a silent request to go back to her earlier soothing. She does without a word, and he can’t remember being more grateful.
Ryan’s finishes with his events first, but he’s still just there, watching from the front of the stands, wandering down to talk to friends from NCAA meets, and just there, sweating and shirtless in the California sun.
On day five, Michael plants his eyes on the ground. Earbuds firmly in his ears, he drowns out the world with a pulsing bass line that helps slow his rapid heartbeat.
On day six, his whole world changes. He’s leaning against a wall in the locker room before his second race, earbuds on, Ludacris pounding in his ears, his eyes on the tile when a familiar pair of bare feet appears in his line of vision. He closes his eyes so that he won’t follow the path up strong ankles to muscled calves, hard thighs, and god. God, he's just going to breathe now.
The music cuts out, and his eyes snap open, staring into Ryan’s smirking face. God, his lips are so fucking red. How could they possibly be that color?
“You weren’t answering.” Ryan says, holding the wire between his fingers. “Can you hear me now?”
Michael blinks at him, his mouth dropping open, and Ryan’s smirk shifts into a guileless smile.
“Good.”
“I,” Michael starts, his mouth dry and tongue thick. “I need those back.”
“No, you don’t. You need to get out of your own head, man. It’s not helping you any.”
“Just give them back,” Michael stutters.
Never in his life has he felt so completely pathetic. To his own ears, he sounds just like a kid with a bully. Gimme my stuff back, meanie, or I’ll tell my mom, although the thought darts across his brain amidst the fog of Ryan that’s clouding his normal thought process.
But Ryan holds his hand out, palm up, the wire dangling over the side. It’s like that old kung-fu trick with the fly, so he reaches out slow and cautious to take the wire. Michael’s hand is less than an half an inch from his when Ryan moves.
He catches Michael’s hand and pulls. It brings Michael stumbling forward a few steps and his hand into direct contact with the skin of Ryan’s chest, right above his heart.
“Mike, chill.”
Ryan’s thumb is rubbing over the skin on the back of his hand, and this is so not what he needs to be doing right now. He needs to… to… he needs to do something. Like get his hand back. Instead, he takes a step forward into Ryan, and it’s something he’s never thought would actually happen.
“Chill. You need to chill,” Ryan says again, only now his words are hot air on Michael’s face. “You’ve got a race in an hour, man. You need to relax.”
“I’m calm.”
“You haven’t been calm since the day I met you.”
“You don’t know-“
“Yeah, I do. Mike, I’m not stupid. And I can see you.”
That has got to be the scariest thing anyone has ever said to him. Ryan is even closer now, so close that Michael can feel every inch of him, even though the only place they’re touching is where their hands and arms meet.
“I can see you, Mike. And I know you’ve been looking back all week.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ryan brings their joined hands up between them and rests Michael’s fingers against his lips. It’s not a kiss, exactly, but it makes Michael so hard he can barely think. “The whole world’s watching, but I see you. I like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Michael says, flailing for something, anything to hold onto that would keep him from slipping deeper into the liquid calm that seems to pool around Ryan.
“Nope, not yet,” Ryan agrees. “Doesn’t mean I can't like you.”
“I’ve got a race.”
“I know. You’re going to tear it up out there.”
“Lochte, I need-“
“Ryan. I’m Ryan.”
“Ryan, I need-” He swallows and tries again. “I need you to- “ Let go of my hand. How hard is that to say? I need you to let go of my hand. Simple. Single syllable words. He's a legal adult; he should be able to just say that, but he can't.
“Whatever you need, man,” Ryan says.
“Ryan, I need-“ He really can’t finish that thought. He just can’t because nothing that comes out is going to be right. Ryan just smiles.
“Okay.”
Then Ryan is tugging them together by their joined hands. His mouth comes down, hot and wet, and it's so much better than Michael thought kissing could be. He doesn’t know what do with his tongue, and his lips feel too big, but Ryan’s free hand is cradling the back of his head and it is okay. It’s all okay.
Michael’s other arm snakes out on instinct and curves around Ryan’s back. Their bodies click into place together like jigsaw pieces. They fit, and leaning against Ryan like this, it’s like Michael’s skin fits again, too.
Ryan pulls away first, his lips looking too red and swollen. He brings their hands up again, and this time, he does kiss Michael’s fingers. “Tear it up, dude. Fucking kill it out there,” he says with a grin that lights up the empty locker room. Then Ryan squeezes his hand before stepping back and letting go.
Michael still feels Ryan’s lips as he climbs up on the starting block. He can feel Ryan’s right hand twined in his as he takes his mark and rests his fingertips against the edge of the block. He shoots through the water, and the sensation of flying through the water is so sharp and intense that it almost feels new, like he’s eleven years old again.
As he touches the wall, he can’t keep the smile off his face. It’s hurting his face, he’s smiling so hard, and he pulls his goggles off and grins up at the crowd. It’s the first race he’s felt good about since he got to California.
He pulls himself out of the pool as the judges announce the standing. Across the pool, he can see Ryan leaning against the wall next to the locker room door. Ryan nods his head and winks at Michael as Bob walks to him, crowing with pride, and it’s a beginning that’s more satisfying than any world record finish he’s ever had.
Pairing: Ryan Lochte/Michael Phelps RPF
Rating: PG -13
Disclaimer: I don't own them, and don't know them. In fact, I just really love it when they swim together and then hug.
A/N: Thanks to waterofthemoon for the beta. She's the man.
Michael’s PR agent likes for his coach to tell people-the press in particular-that he and Ryan bonded instantly. It’s a good story. Cute. It’s a nice “how we met” story that sounds really good and looks great on paper.
It’s not exactly true, though.
The truth is that back then, Michael doesn’t really bond with anyone. Only a year out of high school, he’s not exactly a people person, although his mom says that he once was.
Since he hit puberty, the most social he’s been outside of his family is on a four man relay. But when you say no to a post-meet slice of pizza or party enough times, people stop inviting you. And when people try to chat to you before a meet and you don’t answer often enough, they stop talking to you. Michael doesn’t really mind. His life isn’t about conversation.
Bob tells him about Ryan before they ever get to trials, that the guy’s an up-and-comer, that he could be a threat. That actually interests Michael enough to ask a few extra questions about his stats before they leave for Long Beach.
With the way Bob answers, he’s not surprised when Ryan finishes second to him in the prelims the first day. What does surprise him is the way Ryan grins at him over the lane divider before swimming towards him and giving him a wet, awkward hug.
“You’re totally insane, man. Were you even trying?”
Of course he was trying. He always tried, and screw this guy if he thought otherwise. Ryan doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already climbing out of the pool, dripping wet, smiling, triumphant, and clearly not giving a damn about killing Michael’s victory buzz.
What he notices about Ryan, as the week goes on, is that he doesn’t have any ritual, any schedule, any anything, really. Compared to Bob, Ryan's coach seems like he’s ten miles away from the guy most of the time. And he just seems… easy.
It makes Michael feel a little sick. Ryan is a few lanes down from him on the final for the 200 free, and Michael’s aware of him the entire race. He can't find the extra push in himself, and even though he comes in first, even though it’s a record time, his performance isn’t where it should be.
After that, Ryan seems to be everywhere. He can’t turn around without practically bumping into the guy. Twice, he actually does collide with him, tripping backwards over his own feet and saved by Ryan’s quick hands wrapping around his triceps.
It’s embarrassing and awful. He’s an Olympian, for god’s sake. So why does he feel like he’s fourteen again, nothing but gangly arms and huge ears, out of proportion and awkward as a baby giraffe every second that he’s out of the water. Why can’t he stop thinking about the way Ryan’s hands felt on his skin?
When he sees his mother in the evening, she doesn’t ask any questions. Instead, she rubs his neck and pats his shoulders. It melts a bit of the tension out of him, but she brings it back when she opens her mouth.
“You should talk to him. He seems like a nice boy.”
He tenses all over. “Mom.”
“What?” Her face is all innocence, but she’s got worry in her eyes.
“Come on.”
“You need more friends your own age, Michael.”
He smiles at her because she's tried so hard and she means well. He loves her, but sometimes he feels like they speak a different language.
“You know I can’t.”
“Michael,” she says. Her voice is sharp. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Michael says nothing, and she sighs. She’s not thrilled-she’s never been really happy with it-but she’s nothing if not there for him, even when she doesn’t want to be, and he loves her more for it.
“You should still talk to him.”
“I can’t.”
“For god’s sake, Michael, you’re not going to lose your endorsements just by talking to the boy.”
The thing is, Michael doesn’t think he could just talk to Ryan. It’s been four days, and he absolutely cannot talk to Ryan, so much so that people are starting to notice. If his mother’s noticed, then Bob sure as hell’s noticed, and who knows who else.
“Mom, just drop it, okay?”
“I don’t like to see you unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“You’re not happy either,” she says, her lips thin and tight with frustration. “Don’t think I don’t know.”
Michael doesn’t say anything to that. He just leans into his mother’s hands, a silent request to go back to her earlier soothing. She does without a word, and he can’t remember being more grateful.
Ryan’s finishes with his events first, but he’s still just there, watching from the front of the stands, wandering down to talk to friends from NCAA meets, and just there, sweating and shirtless in the California sun.
On day five, Michael plants his eyes on the ground. Earbuds firmly in his ears, he drowns out the world with a pulsing bass line that helps slow his rapid heartbeat.
On day six, his whole world changes. He’s leaning against a wall in the locker room before his second race, earbuds on, Ludacris pounding in his ears, his eyes on the tile when a familiar pair of bare feet appears in his line of vision. He closes his eyes so that he won’t follow the path up strong ankles to muscled calves, hard thighs, and god. God, he's just going to breathe now.
The music cuts out, and his eyes snap open, staring into Ryan’s smirking face. God, his lips are so fucking red. How could they possibly be that color?
“You weren’t answering.” Ryan says, holding the wire between his fingers. “Can you hear me now?”
Michael blinks at him, his mouth dropping open, and Ryan’s smirk shifts into a guileless smile.
“Good.”
“I,” Michael starts, his mouth dry and tongue thick. “I need those back.”
“No, you don’t. You need to get out of your own head, man. It’s not helping you any.”
“Just give them back,” Michael stutters.
Never in his life has he felt so completely pathetic. To his own ears, he sounds just like a kid with a bully. Gimme my stuff back, meanie, or I’ll tell my mom, although the thought darts across his brain amidst the fog of Ryan that’s clouding his normal thought process.
But Ryan holds his hand out, palm up, the wire dangling over the side. It’s like that old kung-fu trick with the fly, so he reaches out slow and cautious to take the wire. Michael’s hand is less than an half an inch from his when Ryan moves.
He catches Michael’s hand and pulls. It brings Michael stumbling forward a few steps and his hand into direct contact with the skin of Ryan’s chest, right above his heart.
“Mike, chill.”
Ryan’s thumb is rubbing over the skin on the back of his hand, and this is so not what he needs to be doing right now. He needs to… to… he needs to do something. Like get his hand back. Instead, he takes a step forward into Ryan, and it’s something he’s never thought would actually happen.
“Chill. You need to chill,” Ryan says again, only now his words are hot air on Michael’s face. “You’ve got a race in an hour, man. You need to relax.”
“I’m calm.”
“You haven’t been calm since the day I met you.”
“You don’t know-“
“Yeah, I do. Mike, I’m not stupid. And I can see you.”
That has got to be the scariest thing anyone has ever said to him. Ryan is even closer now, so close that Michael can feel every inch of him, even though the only place they’re touching is where their hands and arms meet.
“I can see you, Mike. And I know you’ve been looking back all week.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Ryan brings their joined hands up between them and rests Michael’s fingers against his lips. It’s not a kiss, exactly, but it makes Michael so hard he can barely think. “The whole world’s watching, but I see you. I like you.”
“You don’t know me,” Michael says, flailing for something, anything to hold onto that would keep him from slipping deeper into the liquid calm that seems to pool around Ryan.
“Nope, not yet,” Ryan agrees. “Doesn’t mean I can't like you.”
“I’ve got a race.”
“I know. You’re going to tear it up out there.”
“Lochte, I need-“
“Ryan. I’m Ryan.”
“Ryan, I need-” He swallows and tries again. “I need you to- “ Let go of my hand. How hard is that to say? I need you to let go of my hand. Simple. Single syllable words. He's a legal adult; he should be able to just say that, but he can't.
“Whatever you need, man,” Ryan says.
“Ryan, I need-“ He really can’t finish that thought. He just can’t because nothing that comes out is going to be right. Ryan just smiles.
“Okay.”
Then Ryan is tugging them together by their joined hands. His mouth comes down, hot and wet, and it's so much better than Michael thought kissing could be. He doesn’t know what do with his tongue, and his lips feel too big, but Ryan’s free hand is cradling the back of his head and it is okay. It’s all okay.
Michael’s other arm snakes out on instinct and curves around Ryan’s back. Their bodies click into place together like jigsaw pieces. They fit, and leaning against Ryan like this, it’s like Michael’s skin fits again, too.
Ryan pulls away first, his lips looking too red and swollen. He brings their hands up again, and this time, he does kiss Michael’s fingers. “Tear it up, dude. Fucking kill it out there,” he says with a grin that lights up the empty locker room. Then Ryan squeezes his hand before stepping back and letting go.
Michael still feels Ryan’s lips as he climbs up on the starting block. He can feel Ryan’s right hand twined in his as he takes his mark and rests his fingertips against the edge of the block. He shoots through the water, and the sensation of flying through the water is so sharp and intense that it almost feels new, like he’s eleven years old again.
As he touches the wall, he can’t keep the smile off his face. It’s hurting his face, he’s smiling so hard, and he pulls his goggles off and grins up at the crowd. It’s the first race he’s felt good about since he got to California.
He pulls himself out of the pool as the judges announce the standing. Across the pool, he can see Ryan leaning against the wall next to the locker room door. Ryan nods his head and winks at Michael as Bob walks to him, crowing with pride, and it’s a beginning that’s more satisfying than any world record finish he’s ever had.