Olympics RPS - The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps (MP/RL NC-17, 1/2)
You write a story and you post it, and you think that you're done, and then it just keeps fucking talking to you, like, you wish you were done. So, here it is, the ending (finally) of what I'm (very) loosely calling the Rules & Republics Trilogy.
This final section is dedicated to lifeinwords, silentfire, strawberryelfsp and thisisbone for 'showing' me around the fine city of Gainesville. I couldn't have written this without your incredible assistance.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
i. The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
ii. The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
There is no such thing as a direct flight to Gainesville, Florida -- at least not from Baltimore, Maryland. You can take a flight to a nearby city (Charlotte, Atlanta, Jacksonville, Orlando -- Juneau, Alaska) and then get a prop plane connection, which, just, no.
People over six feet tall should never be trapped in a prop plane, that's just mean.
Or, you can have some poor sucker drive an hour, or four, from Gainesville to come and pick you up at the Orlando or Jacksonville airports. Said sucker might object to that though. Or. You can grow wings and fly.
Michael Phelps can swim faster than any other person on earth, but he hasn't gotten the wings thing down yet, which kills option #3. Michael's also done the first one a few times, but if one more (wrinkly) flight attendant teases him about being strapped to the plane's wings because of his size, he's going to have air rage.
This leaves trains (too long), cars (too many potential accidents) and choice #2.
Michael's #2 happens to be Ryan Lochte. Ryan Lochte who regularly crashes anything with wheels, including his scooter (twice), his bike (it now has one wheel) and his skateboard (don't bother to count). Ryan doesn't even have a car anymore -- not because he can't afford it, but because it's kind of pointless. Between the scratches, dents, Ryan losing the keys, the occasional 'my bad, I rear-ended you' accident and the tickets -- oh, the tickets -- it was just a bad investment.
A really bad investment.
Michael's not a pussy, but Ryan's driving is really kind of cracked out. So, maybe it's a good thing that Ryan's driving his mom's minivan right now, but that only kind of explains the sixteen, seventeen, eighteen bottles of Gatorade and --
"Why's there a gun in the backseat?" Michael asks as they're merging onto 295.
It's late, almost midnight -- Michael prefers the red-eye flights with the drugged babies and the harried businessmen -- and he's kind of tired.
"Paintball," Ryan says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If I was going to, like, whack you, there'd be a shovel too. Unless there's one in the trunk, and you just don't know about it yet."
Michael blinks, and out the corner of his eye he sees Ryan cut him a glance. The car swerves into the other lane.
"Both eyes on the road," Michael says automatically.
Ryan smirks. "Don't worry, man, I have skills. You're in more danger of death by old lady kidnapping, or, like, Herman suffocating you in your sleep."
"You have swimming skills, don't get it twisted," Michael says. Ryan reaches out blindly and pinches Michael's arm. "Ow! Motherfucker! What the fuck?"
"I can drive," Ryan says mock petulantly. "At least I know better than to drive drunk."
"No, you just drive..." Stoned? Like you? Like a girl? Damn, Michael hates it when he can't think of a reply in time.
Ryan laughs. "No bitchassness in the car, MP. Hey, did you know that Gatorade was made specifically for the Florida Gators?"
Sometimes Michael really doesn't follow Ryan's lack of logic. "Uh, am I supposed to say something here?"
Ryan glances over at him again. "The Gatorade's for the kids at my mom's club." Ryan's mom used to be his swimming coach; Ryan's moved on, but his mom's still bringing up the next generation. "I had to buy it to borrow this sweet ride." Ryan whacks the steering wheel a couple times.
The minivan's not exactly a Ferrari Modena.
It shouldn't shock Michael when Ryan does considerate things, but it kind of does. "Seriously, what it's for? Gatorade shots?"
"That's not a bad idea," Ryan says thoughtfully as Michael yawns and contorts himself in the seat.
"You can sleep in the back if you want," Ryan offers.
Michael fakes offense. "I just got here, and you're already trying to get rid of me."
"Hey, I'm not the one who left me in Algarve to hit the clubs with Tiger Woods."
"Speaking of bitchassness," Michael says in a sing-song tone.
"You are a serious bitch when you're tired. Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," Ryan orders.
Michael glances out at the darkened road and yawns again. "I'm not that tired."
Ryan snorts. "If you sleep now, you won't fall asleep when you're blowing me later."
"Who said anything about blowing you?"
"Fuck you, funny man."
"Don't hate the player." Michael shifts in his seat, draping an arm around the head rest and placing a hand on the dashboard. The car swerves again as Ryan leans away from him.
"I'm not even touching you," Michael mocks. "Why are you acting like some sixteen year-old virgin?"
"Hey, dude, I am more than willing to have sex anytime anywhere, but if we crash my mom's car, she's going to be stupidly pissed."
"I'll buy her a new one."
"You'd have to buy her two," Ryan says, eying Michael's hand on the dashboard. "One to drive, and one for us to borrow for dirty sex."
Michael smiles broadly, dragging his hand down the dash, over the climate control, along his thigh and then adjusting himself blatantly.
He doesn't need to adjust anything -- he wears his jeans big -- but fuck being subtle.
The car swerves onto the shoulder all of sudden, and Michael grabs the dashboard as the car skids to a halt. "What the fuck?!" he hollers, his heart trying to climb out of his throat as his seatbelt slams him back against the seat.
Ryan ignores him, throwing the car into park and turning off the headlights. "Next time you want to have sex in the car," Ryan says, unfastening his belt and then Michael's, "just fucking say so."
Michael blinks rapidly as Ryan clambers into the backseat, knocking several bottles of Gatorade onto the floor.
He's still blinking when Ryan's head pops back between the seats. "Dude, are you coming or what?"
It's supposed to take, like, an hour or so to get from Jacksonville to Gainesville, but with Ryan's driving, and the blow jobs in the backseat, and Michael nearly losing an eye to the paintball gun, they get to Ryan's place at some ungodly time.
Michael's drooling in the backseat with his pants around his ankles when Ryan pokes him in the stomach. "Get up, Superman, we're here."
Michael grunts, tries to roll over and fails because his pants are holding him hostage. The paintball gun pokes him in the cheek this time. "I see why people hate the NRA," he bitches to Ryan as he struggles to pull up his pants and get out of the van.
Ryan's standing by the open door with Michael's bag in his hand. "Shut up, you peace-loving, pansy-ass hippie," he says good-naturedly as Michael trips down the one step.
Michael socks Ryan in the arm lightly, and Ryan fakes serious injury before shoving the bag into Michael's arms. "At the Casa Lochtenator, you carry your own shit."
"Damn, I knew I should've stayed at the Holiday Inn," Michael says.
They stumble down the street together, the humidity clinging to Michael like too many crazy fans. It's kind of hard for him to breathe. Michael's from Maryland, he knows all about the kind of humidity that makes you change shirts to walk across the street, but this is ridiculous. He slaps at something on his neck that turns out to be a mosquito the size of a hamburger. Jesus.
He shifts his bag from one hand to the other as he follows Ryan through the rusty gate. Of course the first piece of property Ryan bought on his own is kind of a broken-down shithole. The places on either side of Ryan's are nice, but home maintenance is most definitely not Ryan's strong suit.
The grass hasn't been mowed in fucking forever, there's a broken-down scooter in his front yard from that accident last year and there's garbage everywhere but in the trash cans.
Michael can see the lizards and palmetto bugs all over the porch; he's kind of shocked Ryan remembered to turn on the porch light. "Fucking lizards!" Ryan's voice is high-pitched as he bulldozes his way to the door; Ryan hates lizards.
The light's on in the hallway when Ryan opens the door, and Michael pauses on the steps because there's a lizard above Ryan's head on the doorframe. "Welcome to Casa Lochtenator," Ryan says with a very solemn bow, kicking away a roach trying to enter first.
Michael smirks as he files past, twitching when Ryan pokes him in the ribs. His fingers find the light switches by memory as he walks through the rooms.
The house is a fucking disaster, like normal. There's crap in every corner, the kitchen is vomiting McDonald's bags and pizza boxes and there's a whole corner full of Speedo freebies still in boxes and plastic wrappers. It's very Ryan, except for the sofa, which is surprisingly clear of items. The only thing more shocking than the state of the sofa is the bedroom, which kind of looks like somebody tried to clean it.
Michael drops his bag on the floor and bats at the medals hanging from Ryan's ceiling. They jangle wildly as Michael gets kicked in the ankle by a flying sneaker. When he turns around, Ryan's in the doorway, stepping out of his other shoe.
Michael looks at him innocently. "Did you get robbed? It looks kinda neat in here."
Ryan flings his other shoe at Michael's head. It's a wide shot that hits the wall and bounces off the bed. "Shut up, douchebag," he says around a yawn.
Michael snickers. "Seriously, did you get body snatched? Ryan, are you in here somewhere? Knock twice if--" Ryan scowls and Michael holds up his hands. "Kidding. Kidding."
Ryan pulls his shirt off and advances toward Michael, Michael just stares. He's built kind of weirdly with the long arms and feet, but Ryan is stacked like -- that thought is so gay he refuses to finish it.
Michael licks his lips as Ryan gets closer, and then Ryan totally bypasses him and collapses on the bed.
"Wow, that's messed up," Michael says to the room.
Ryan snorts into his pillow. "Get the light on your way out."
"Get the light on my way..." Michael parrots slowly. "What the fuck?"
Ryan rolls over onto his side. His hair is everywhere, and apparently, he never finished zipping up his shorts. "The couch is all set up, just pull it out."
"I'm sleeping on the couch?" Michael didn't know his voice could go that high.
Ryan's face is perfectly serene. "Where else did you think you were gonna sleep?"
Michael knows he's being played, but still. "That's not funny, man."
Ryan shrugs. "Who's making a joke?"
Michael blinks once, because, okay, he's a little slow sometimes, but Ryan's not serious.
Is he?
Michael blinks again. "Seriously, not funny."
Ryan raises an eyebrow, pauses and then laughs. "You should see the look on your face," he says, clambering up on all fours to reach out and yank Michael towards him. Michael can feel the heat in his face as he hits the bed and lands next to Ryan.
"You fucker," he protests, looking up at the ceiling fan and not thinking about how much he might've been about to sulk.
Ryan's face blocks out the ceiling light. "It was a joke," he says, patting Michael's chest. "Calm down. You want me to put on some Lil' Wayne or something?"
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Lil' Wayne? Worst seduction technique ever."
Ryan scoffs loudly and drops back onto his side of the bed. "I've got mad game; you have no idea. And who said I was trying to seduce your flat ass anyway?"
Michael snorts. "My ass isn't flat."
"Shut up and go to sleep," Ryan says dismissively.
"Wow, normally you only hear that after sex," Michael mocks, sitting up to kick off his shoes.
He should really be expecting it when Ryan smacks him in the back of the head with a pillow. "Get the light," Ryan says.
Michael shakes his head before getting up, tripping over his bag and stumbling into the light switch.
In the darkness, Ryan says, "If you, like, fall on your way back to the bed and maim yourself, I'm not calling the hospital until tomorrow."
"Fuck you," Michael replies automatically.
He does trip over something, but still manages to mostly land on the bed, and even better, on Ryan. Ryan complains loudly.
"Asshole," Michael says, shoving Ryan over to make room for himself. Ryan's bed is huge, but Michael doesn't see why he shouldn't drape himself Ryan anyway. If Ryan wants to move, he will.
He doesn't.
Michael wakes up at some indeterminate hour facing the wall. He's got a strange crick in his neck, and when he turns the other way the sun's streaming in the windows and the bed is empty beside him. When Michael looks over the side of the bed, Ryan's not passed out on the floor either.
That's a little unexpected; Ryan's not a wake-up-first kind of guy.
Michael sniffs once to clear his nose, collapses back down on the sheets perpendicular to the bed and scratches his ass. He's still in the clothes he flew down in.
There are only so many places Ryan can be given the size of his house, and Michael takes his time clambering out of bed. According to the alarm clock on the nightstand, it's 2:18 in the afternoon, but according to the Jackass clock on the wall it's 9:13. Whatever. Michael's on vacation. Not that he really knows what that means -- Bob told him he'd have to figure it out on his own.
In fact, when Michael tried to get Bob to clarify the 'no workout' rule, Bob just looked at him and said, "Do you want me to clarify what 'is' and 'alone' are too?" Michael just blinked and Bob sighed. "Too young for Clinton references, huh?"
The fact remains that Michael's not good at doing "nothing". It took Michael ages just to get down to Florida to visit Ryan in the first place. It was supposed to take five days, but then he was in New York meeting with sponsors, and then he kind of walked into an Entourage role -- Jeremy Piven's kind a dick -- and then he had to go to Disney World. He only got to see Ryan for, like, four hours that whole weekend.
And then there were the YMCA clinics, Oprah, the MTV Video Music Awards and Saturday Night Live.
It's not like Michael hasn't seen Ryan since Baltimore, he just hasn't been able to, like, focus properly. Ryan was there for the VMAs and SNL and meeting Lil' Wayne, which might've been the single most awesome experience Michael's ever had. Ryan, however, will never let him forget being introduced to his idol and saying, "Shit! You're Lil' Wayne!"
And Wayne saying, "Yeah, dog, I know."
And okay, a lot of people wouldn't call any of this a vacation (except for the Gainesville part), but Michael's got a plan. He's not going to be hot like this forever -- he'll go back to being the weird-looking, lisping kid soon enough. Right now he's going to make all his money and then retire after London. Maybe. Possibly. If he can slow down enough not to burn out beforehand.
He hasn't even seen Herman in three weeks -- his dog might disown him, or his mom might keep him permanently. At least his mom thought that visiting Ryan and not doing another series of clinics sponsored by Speedo and McDonald's (his newest unofficial sponsor) was the right plan.
She probably wasn't thinking that Michael would be spending his days in the same clothes and having sex in the backseats of minivans -- and hopefully, first thing in the afternoon. Unfortunately, a quick tour of Ryan's house shows that Ryan's not there. There's no text message on Michael's phone either.
He immediately sends Ryan a message -- Where r u? -- and then goes back to the bedroom, where his eye catches the Domino's napkin on the other pillow.
Took car 2 mom. Brb. R.
Michael's observational skills aren't always the best.
Tossing his phone on the bed, he grabs his bag and pulls out soap, a toothbrush, shampoo and figures that's plenty. He shaved yesterday, although, his face feels like maybe it's been two days. Whatever. Vacation.
Ryan's bathroom is classic Ryan. There are dried condensation drawings on the mirror and there's a Sharpie sketch above the toilet that might be a pony or a zebra or dog, who knows. Whatever it is, it's holding an umbrella and a bottle of tequila.
The toilet looks as though it could stand an industrial cleaning, but Michael doesn't see anything with more legs than him crawling around, which is really all that counts. He's not a stickler, but there's got to be a standard. Somewhere.
Ryan's shower only has two starting temperatures and Michael goes with scalding hot, letting the water run as brushes his teeth with Ryan's crusty toothpaste, strips and then gets under the spray. He has to get back out to get his soap and shampoo.
He's worked up a good head full of lather when Ryan's voice calls around the curtain. "Do I need to get you, like, Hooked on Phonics or some shit?"
Michael smiles as he ducks under the water. "I can speak English just fine, asshole," he says, keeping his eyes closed to avoid going blind from shampoo.
"Yeah," Ryan says, "but you can't read at all." There's a slight draft, and Michael opens one eye to see Ryan standing before a very much not closed curtain, watching him obviously. Michael's other eye pops open in surprise.
"I suppose it doesn't matter that you can't read when you look like that though," Ryan says, gesturing towards him.
Michael magically knocks the shampoo bottle on his foot. "Fucking shit!" he hollers, slipping and falling pretty much right on Ryan. Michael scrambles to push himself upright, but Ryan seems sort of reluctant to let him go. Michael's dick takes note of this with great interest.
"I love kinky shower sex in the morning. Afternoon. Fuck, whenever," Ryan grins, stripping off his shirt and kicking his flip-flops behind him. Michael strokes himself absently as he watches the show.
This is a spectacularly bad idea. Him + Ryan + a shower can only end with bloodshed, but he doesn't really give a shit when Ryan slips out of his shorts and underwear and gets under the water, too.
Ryan steps in facing Michael, the water plastering his hair to his head and crowding Michael so much that Michael has to practically climb into the corner. There's not enough room for both of them in the shower. There's not even enough room for Michael to be honest; there never is.
Ryan's smile is huge, his dimples showing perfectly, and Michael twitches when one of Ryan's hands curls around his hip to pull him in. So close, but so not. "This isn't going to work if you keep hiding in the corner," Ryan teases.
Michael smiles crookedly, wrapping his hand around Ryan's cock and stroking once lightly, and then letting go. Ryan exhales loudly, his fingertips digging hard into Michael's hip. "Don't fuck around; do it again."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Make me."
"I will throw you out ass-naked," Ryan promises. "And wet."
Michael snorts. "Because I've never been naked and wet before?" He's completely taken off guard when Ryan pushes him into the wall, and consequently, he bangs his head against the tile. He shakes it off when Ryan wraps his free hand around Michael's cock and begins to jerk him off rapidly.
"Jesus, shit," Michael babbles, struggling to thrust into Ryan's hand and not slip on his ass at the same time. Wet tiling has no traction, and Michael yanks at the shower curtain, which tears in a couple of places.
"You break it, you buy me a new one," Ryan says conversationally, his thumb rubbing the head of Michael's cock in very interesting and brain-shattering ways.
Michael spreads his legs out, pushing his feet against the sides of the tub to stay upright, but he leans into Ryan at the same time that Ryan slips; when Ryan goes down on his knees, he drags Michael with him into a disastrous heap.
Michael just misses breaking his nose on the bathtub tap.
They end up tangled in the bottom of the tub, the shower raining down on them and their legs mostly over the side of the tub. It hurts like a bitch.
Ryan chuckles, water streaming down his face. "That was so your fault."
"My fault?" Michael snaps.
Ryan narrows his eyes. "Yeah, your fault," he says, climbing over Michael and straddling his hips. "You're a fucking disaster." Michael's still scowling when Ryan takes both of their cocks in hand and begins stroking.
Michael bangs his head against the wall again, hard. "Fuck, okay," he says, grabbing at Ryan to pull him in. The water makes it almost impossible to get a decent hold. "It's my fault. I don't care; keep doing that."
Ryan's looming over him, his eyes cast down and focused on his hand dragging on the downstroke and pulling hard on the upstroke. Michael can't even thrust into Ryan's hand because of Ryan sitting on him. He's getting water in his eyes. "Harder," Michael urges, "fucking harder."
"You like that, huh?" Ryan asks. He's breathing shallowly, his eyes now on Michael and not on what he's doing.
When Ryan licks the water from his lips, Michael's cock aches; he can feel Ryan breathing on him. "Yes," he hisses, closing his eyes and riding what Ryan's doing to his cock.
His eyes snap open when Ryan's lips brush the shell of his ear. "You thinking about fucking me?" Ryan asks.
Michael's turns automatically towards Ryan's voice, his mouth just missing Ryan's as Ryan pulls back. Ryan's dick drags along the underside of Michael's cock one last time, and Michael comes so violently that he ends up banging his head against the wall. Again. There's pain and stars and water, and when Michael opens his eyes, Ryan's coming on his stomach.
Ryan blinks at him, the now cooling water running down his face. "Damn," he says bluntly, "that was new."
Guys generally want two things after sex: food and sleep. Michael and Ryan end up taking a nap, a very sore nap, and when they wake up, Ryan's knees and Michael's lower back are a collage of bruises. Michael doesn't mind, even if he's a little stiff.
They eventually venture out into the Gainesville evening, albeit a bit slowly. It's stupidly humid (obviously) and Michael's shirt is sticking to him before they reach the end of the block. Ryan's skateboarding on the road beside him; there's not much room for anything else in the street besides Ryan and parked cars, actually.
Ryan's house is fairly close to the Gator campus, and the nearer they get the more girls with heels, frat boys with backwards baseball caps and goths with piercings emerge from nowhere. Michael can feel people staring, so he keeps his eyes on the sidewalk and gives Ryan one word answers to his babbling questions, following the occasional holler of, "Right! No, bro, your other right!"
Michael's still walking when Ryan jumps the curb and nearly runs him over. "I know counting the cracks in the sidewalk is crazy interesting, but we're here."
Michael looks around with some confusion; he didn't even realize they were in a business area. "The Szechuan Panda," Michael reads aloud. And then it kicks in. "Chinese food!"
Michael loves Chinese food, but maybe not so much the way the Chinese eat it in China. He's kind of American that way.
"They love me here, dude," Ryan says, kick-standing his board and tucking it under his arm before opening the door and walking in. "And you're gonna love my ass, too."
"In your dreams," Michael says.
"Check it out." Ryan stops right inside the entrance, and naturally, Michael runs into him.
The Panda is ghetto-lite; it's got tape on its Chinese lanterns, the paint on the walls is peeling and there are kitschy items everywhere. It's just like Michael's favorite Chinese restaurant in Baltimore, only a little less tacky and sketchy.
And then Michael follows Ryan's line of sight and sees it. "They have a buffet," he says in awe.
Michael looks from Ryan to the buffet and then back to Ryan. "Do they know about swimmers here?" he asks. People don't tend to let Michael near buffets very much; he's been banned more than times that he can count because he really does eat that much.
"Hi, are you going to have the buffet?" a female voice inquires. When Michael looks down there's a hot Asian girl wearing a blue dress and flip-flops standing near his elbow.
She's got green stuff around her eyes, streaks in her hair and a pretty sweet rack. Damn.
"Uh, um, yeah," he says smoothly. "If, if - is that's okay?"
"Of course it is," the girl says with a grin.
Ryan makes a scoffing noise. "Hey, Tina, don't be snowed by his golly-gee game. You don't want any of that, girl."
Michael punches Ryan in the arm. "Shut up, dude."
Tina just laughs and gestures to the mostly empty restaurant. "I should've known he was with you, Ryan. Go on and help yourself; I'll tell my mom you brought a friend this time."
After Tina walks off, Michael glares at Ryan. "Way to cockblock, asshole."
Ryan just snorts. "In your dreams, man. There is no way you were gonna hit that."
"Does she know who I am?" Michael asks, following Ryan to the buffet.
"It's not does she know," Ryan corrects. "It's does she care?"
"No, the real question," Michael re-corrects as Ryan hands him a plate, "is how are these people going to feel when we kill their buffet?"
In Ann Arbor there are places that won't let large groups of athletes in because they end up eating the entire kitchen. Buffets are an athlete specialty. Well, buffets and those 'eat seventeen burgers and get them free for the rest of you life' deals.
Ryan and Michael pause at the start of the buffet, taking in all the possibility, and then they share a smile.
"Jeah?" Ryan asks.
Michael nods. "Jeah."
"We'll leave a big tip," Ryan promises.
It's well after dusk when they leave the Panda, and Michael's feeling several pounds heavier than he was when he arrived. The daytime humidity has been replaced by the nighttime humidity. He can't tell the difference, but it must be there. Somewhere. On top of that there are people everywhere, there's no way to avoid them, and inevitably they end up getting accosted outside of some bar called Durty Nelly's.
It's not as bad as it could be, Michael's ass only gets pinched three or four times, but he's still kind of banged up from the bathroom gymnastics and it hurts more than it should.
He jumps about a foot in the air when somebody in the crowd gets really frisky though, and Ryan laughs at him before going back to signing autographs with little sheep and smiley faces with bling grillz.
Eventually, they make their way back, slapping at mosquitoes the whole way. Michael's feeling fairly good, but he could stand some dessert. Maybe some pie, or ice cream or a cake. Maybe two. Ryan's kitchen looks just as disastrous as it did at buttfuck early this morning.
"How the fuck do you live like this?" Michael bitches over his shoulder, while Ryan channel surfs in the living room for sports or porn or both. If they make sports porn.
A couple of the pizza boxes in the sink rattle even though Michael's nowhere near the sink, but fortune favors the crazy, and eventually, Michael finds his reward hiding on a top shelf behind some pasta.
"You've been holding out on me," he crows, grabbing the package of Oreos and ripping it open. He stuffs two in his mouth automatically. "How the hell could you not -- FUCKING SHIT!" Michael hollers when something hard smacks him in the center of his back.
He drops the Oreos on the floor.
When he turns around, Ryan's standing in the kitchen doorway holding his paintball gun. Michael's mouth thins into a line. "You made me drop the Oreos," he says slowly.
And then it happens again -- Ryan shoots him in the chest. It's a huge explosion of orange paint all over Michael's tee shirt.
"You are going down, Lochte," Michael says, breaking for Ryan.
Ryan reels back, slamming into the hallway and then taking off towards the front door, laughing like The Joker the whole way.
"I swear to god," Michael shouts, chasing after him, "I'm going to fuck your shit up!"
"Jeah? Well, you've gotta catch my ass first!" Ryan calls back, yanking open the door and running out into the yard.
Michael approaches the doorway with caution, he manages to slam the door shut at the same time that Ryan fires and Michael can hear the paintball explode against the wood.
"Son of a bitch!" Ryan curses loudly. "I didn't want it to be orange. I thought there were some blue balls in here too!"
That is way funnier than it should be. Also, Michael needs a weapon. He dashes back to the kitchen and grabs two pizza boxes.
Seconds later he yanks open the front door, holding the pizza boxes like a shield. "Cowabunga!" he yells, charging down the steps towards Ryan as several paintballs splatter against the boxes.
Ryan shoots him in the leg at the same time that he runs over Ryan with the boxes, momentum and 200lbs of muscle and Chinese food on his side. They go crashing through the gate and onto the sidewalk. The gun goes flying.
In the end, Michael's knees are all scraped up but he's on top. "Who's the man?!"
"Cowabunga?" Ryan rolls his eyes. They both see the old lady standing on the sidewalk ten feet away at the same time. She's holding a shopping bag and eying them very disapprovingly.
"If I get arrested for scaring that lady, I will kill you." Michael says through his teeth, waving to the woman and giving her his best mom grin.
Underneath him, Ryan just laughs. "I think you mean get arrested, again."
Michael punches Ryan in the chest (not lightly), gets to his feet and staggers over to the paintball gun. Picking it up, he shoots Ryan right in the ribs.
"Fuckin' A!" Ryan bitches, clutching his side.
"It's okay, ma'am," Michael calls amiably. "It's just paint!"
"Fucking college kids," the woman says loudly, before crossing the street to the other side.
Michael just snickers as he walks back inside.
He's really pleased with himself until Ryan tackles him from behind, and they both go sliding stomach-first down the hall and into the wall.
Michael wakes up with bruises covering almost every inch of skin he can see, and considering he's sleeping in his boxers, he can see a lot of skin. His morning erection is trapped between him and the mattress, and when he shifts he can feel the itchy, tightness of new scabs on his knees.
The last time Michael hurt this much he was at the Olympics, but it wasn't this kind of hurt. This kind of hurt is awesome.
He blinks at Ryan drooling on his arm, seconds later he pushes him out of the bed.
"Fucking shit!" Ryan hollers when he lands on the floor with a thud. Michael's laughing before he even looks over the side of the bed.
Ryan's sprawled out on the floor, one foot still tangled in the sheets. His hair is a riot and he looks completely confused. "Wassit? Earthquake?"
Michael snorts. "In Florida?"
"Why the hell am--" Ryan's words die off as Michael clambers off the bed, onto the floor and begins trying to yank off Ryan's underwear.
When Michael glances up, Ryan's watching him with an amused grin. "You can just wake me up if you want sex, all the violence isn't necessary."
Michael gives one last yank on Ryan's boxers, which loose a feeble rip but don't come off. Michael sighs deliberately and slides his hand inside Ryan's boxers to retrieve his morning hard-on.
Ryan moans loudly as Michael gropes him. "Best idea ever," he babbles, as Michael lowers his head and flicks his tongue along the side Ryan's cock. "You need to just, like -- like, move to the G-Spot permanently."
Michael would say something, but he's kind of busy sucking Ryan's dick.
Eventually, they get up and leave the house. The streets are teaming with students en route to classes or drinking or sports or sex, or possibly, some variation of all four. Michael may spend most of his time in the pool, but he was in Ann Arbor for a few years. He knows how this shit goes.
They have breakfast at the Waffle House, or they attempt to in between the waitress flirting outrageously with Ryan and people continually taking pictures of them with their camera phones. Michael tries not to mind all he attention, but it's kind of irritating for people to take pictures when he's shoving his first waffle in his mouth. By the third waffle he doesn't mind so much. And the bacon helps.
He pokes Ryan's hand with his fork when he tries to steal some of Michael's home fries. "Didn't you just have two plates of potatoes?"
"But I'm still hungry," Ryan sulks. "I'm a growing boy."
Michael raises an eyebrow, and Ryan kicks him underneath the table. Michael duly winces. "You started it," he complains, sliding some of the waffles and potatoes on his plate in Ryan's direction anyway.
Ryan's smiles as he spears the waffles, managing to chew and still get syrup all over his face. Michael chuckles but makes a vague motion, and Ryan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Close enough.
After breakfast, Ryan drags him around campus for a bit. It's not like Michael hasn't visited Ryan before, but normally they spend their time playing video games, eating and fucking. Walking around all these people might be like putting a neon sign over his head, but it turns out to be mostly incident free, except for a couple of cat-calls from girls who Ryan says he's more than happy to take off of Michael's hands.
Michael's already been to the O'Connell Center for swim meets, but they end up passing by Lake Alice, the gator sanctuary, too.
When Michael asks about a tour, Ryan just laughs. "It's not the aquarium, dude, there's no glass. You go in there and there will be no more Olympics medals and circle jerks with Tiger Woods for you."
"Circle jerks with Tiger Woods?" Michael sputters.
"I'm Michael Phelps; this is Saturday Night Live, and Shit! You're Lil' Wayne!" Ryan says in a mock falsetto.
Michael puts Ryan in a headlock. Some people just can't let shit go.
Ryan slaps at Michael's arms, wheezing. "Our gators are the real deal. They come out of the drainage ditches and eat pets! Why do you think I don't mow the lawn?"
"Because you're lazy."
"Well, that too."
"Don't even tell me you're afraid you have gators in your grass."
"I might," Ryan protests.
"Which is exactly why need to clean up!"
"Fuck you," Ryan says petulantly as Michael finally releases him.
When Ryan stands up, his face is flushed with blood and his hair is even crazier than normal. His eyes are bright and he has this confused look on his face like he can't figure out if it's worth it to actually get mad at Michael or if he's just going to laugh it off. Ryan doesn't normally think this hard; Michael doesn't normally stare this hard.
He can feel the heat in his face that has nothing to do with Gainesville's swamp-like weather or the sun beating down on him. Ryan's got sweat dotting his upper lip and Michael's mouth is dry.
"Beer," they agree in unison.
Tim & Terry's is bar a few blocks away from campus. It's almost an exact duplicate of Ryan's house right down to the porch. All that's missing is the stupidly long grass, trash and lizards everywhere. It's an older building with narrow halls and wood floors, and Michael follows Ryan inside, ducking to avoid any potential accidents on light fixtures hanging from the low ceilings.
Michael probably has a permanent concussion from all the chandeliers, doorframes and other items that that have been lower than they looked upon his first approach.
There are people milling around, ordering beers, and Michael almost gets run over by some beefy guy lugging an amp out of the bathroom area.
Michael grabs Ryan's shirt, tugs and points. "There's a studio upstairs," Ryan explains. "For when you want to record your first hit record, 'Michael Phelps Sings Like a Girl'."
"Fucktard." Michael punches Ryan in the shoulder, and Ryan stumbles a bit as he leads the way out the back and down to the patio. There are a couple of people sitting around, smoking, drinking and very much not giving a shit when Ryan and Michael sprawl out in two chairs. Michael likes it immediately.
"Beer and burgers," Ryan says without looking at the menu.
"Works for me," Michael shrugs.
"How many?"
Michael thinks this over. "However many you think we need, double that."
Ryan chuckles. "Anything else, your highness?"
Michael looks around at the people not paying attention them. He's with Ryan and he's on vacation. He's got seventeen thousand gold medals, America loves him and he can get laid anytime he wants. Life is pretty fucking sweet. Plus, very soon he's going to be greased up with burgers and beer. And fries. "Fries."
Ryan shakes his head. "You really think I would forget the fries? You have no faith."
Michael smirks. "I have plenty of faith. And don't spit in my beer either."
"You really think I would spit in your beer?" Ryan looks kind of scandalized; Michael's not fooled.
He leans across the table and Ryan moves in conspiratorially. "You may have all these other people fooled with those dimples," Michael says mock seriously, "but I know your ass."
Ryan looks around furtively and leans in even more. Michael could probably count his eyelashes. "Do you really think this bar is the place to be talking about my ass?" he says in a low tone. "I know you like it, but we're in public, dude. Have some restraint."
Michael just gapes; he's still in shock long after Ryan goes into the bar, most likely to place their orders. Michael has restraint, thank you very much. He's not the one who attacked him in the shower. Or the one who shot him with paintballs. Or the one who started this whole thing by giving hand jobs in the showers at swim meets. He's not even keeping track of how many blowjobs Ryan still owes him. He -- he -- fucking Ryan.
Michael jumps when Ryan bangs down beers and shot glasses on the table. He's still grinning from earlier, Michael just sticks out his tongue. Then he grabs one of the shot glasses and throws it back in one.
Oh, Jesus. Fucking Jager.
It burns in places liquor normally doesn't go.
"So," Ryan says, sitting down with a smirk. "It's going to be that kind of night."
Michael kicks him under the table, and Ryan jumps. His knees bang the underside of the table, and Michael grins triumphantly. Ryan's smile broadens; he's showing way too many teeth. "Oh, so, you wanna play?"
Michael just shrugs and takes a long pull on one of the Heinekens Ryan's brought over. "You sure I didn't spit in that beer?" Ryan asks him conversationally. "I mean it's my spit, it won't matter to me."
Michael spews his beer all over the table. And all over Ryan, but Ryan just looks smug.
"Asshole," Michael curses.
Ryan laughs. "Manwhore."
"Douchebag."
"Pussy."
"Cockblocker."
"Fuckwit."
"Asswipe."
"Retard."
"My four year-old niece could out-swim your ass."
Ryan pouts. "That was harsh, dude."
--Part two--
This final section is dedicated to lifeinwords, silentfire, strawberryelfsp and thisisbone for 'showing' me around the fine city of Gainesville. I couldn't have written this without your incredible assistance.
Olympics RPS
Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte
Rated NC-17
i. The Golden Rule ('When Zeus Met a Dolphin' Playlist)
ii. The One Chair Rule of Heterosexuality
The Person's Republic of Michael Phelps
There is no such thing as a direct flight to Gainesville, Florida -- at least not from Baltimore, Maryland. You can take a flight to a nearby city (Charlotte, Atlanta, Jacksonville, Orlando -- Juneau, Alaska) and then get a prop plane connection, which, just, no.
People over six feet tall should never be trapped in a prop plane, that's just mean.
Or, you can have some poor sucker drive an hour, or four, from Gainesville to come and pick you up at the Orlando or Jacksonville airports. Said sucker might object to that though. Or. You can grow wings and fly.
Michael Phelps can swim faster than any other person on earth, but he hasn't gotten the wings thing down yet, which kills option #3. Michael's also done the first one a few times, but if one more (wrinkly) flight attendant teases him about being strapped to the plane's wings because of his size, he's going to have air rage.
This leaves trains (too long), cars (too many potential accidents) and choice #2.
Michael's #2 happens to be Ryan Lochte. Ryan Lochte who regularly crashes anything with wheels, including his scooter (twice), his bike (it now has one wheel) and his skateboard (don't bother to count). Ryan doesn't even have a car anymore -- not because he can't afford it, but because it's kind of pointless. Between the scratches, dents, Ryan losing the keys, the occasional 'my bad, I rear-ended you' accident and the tickets -- oh, the tickets -- it was just a bad investment.
A really bad investment.
Michael's not a pussy, but Ryan's driving is really kind of cracked out. So, maybe it's a good thing that Ryan's driving his mom's minivan right now, but that only kind of explains the sixteen, seventeen, eighteen bottles of Gatorade and --
"Why's there a gun in the backseat?" Michael asks as they're merging onto 295.
It's late, almost midnight -- Michael prefers the red-eye flights with the drugged babies and the harried businessmen -- and he's kind of tired.
"Paintball," Ryan says, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "If I was going to, like, whack you, there'd be a shovel too. Unless there's one in the trunk, and you just don't know about it yet."
Michael blinks, and out the corner of his eye he sees Ryan cut him a glance. The car swerves into the other lane.
"Both eyes on the road," Michael says automatically.
Ryan smirks. "Don't worry, man, I have skills. You're in more danger of death by old lady kidnapping, or, like, Herman suffocating you in your sleep."
"You have swimming skills, don't get it twisted," Michael says. Ryan reaches out blindly and pinches Michael's arm. "Ow! Motherfucker! What the fuck?"
"I can drive," Ryan says mock petulantly. "At least I know better than to drive drunk."
"No, you just drive..." Stoned? Like you? Like a girl? Damn, Michael hates it when he can't think of a reply in time.
Ryan laughs. "No bitchassness in the car, MP. Hey, did you know that Gatorade was made specifically for the Florida Gators?"
Sometimes Michael really doesn't follow Ryan's lack of logic. "Uh, am I supposed to say something here?"
Ryan glances over at him again. "The Gatorade's for the kids at my mom's club." Ryan's mom used to be his swimming coach; Ryan's moved on, but his mom's still bringing up the next generation. "I had to buy it to borrow this sweet ride." Ryan whacks the steering wheel a couple times.
The minivan's not exactly a Ferrari Modena.
It shouldn't shock Michael when Ryan does considerate things, but it kind of does. "Seriously, what it's for? Gatorade shots?"
"That's not a bad idea," Ryan says thoughtfully as Michael yawns and contorts himself in the seat.
"You can sleep in the back if you want," Ryan offers.
Michael fakes offense. "I just got here, and you're already trying to get rid of me."
"Hey, I'm not the one who left me in Algarve to hit the clubs with Tiger Woods."
"Speaking of bitchassness," Michael says in a sing-song tone.
"You are a serious bitch when you're tired. Shut the fuck up and go to sleep," Ryan orders.
Michael glances out at the darkened road and yawns again. "I'm not that tired."
Ryan snorts. "If you sleep now, you won't fall asleep when you're blowing me later."
"Who said anything about blowing you?"
"Fuck you, funny man."
"Don't hate the player." Michael shifts in his seat, draping an arm around the head rest and placing a hand on the dashboard. The car swerves again as Ryan leans away from him.
"I'm not even touching you," Michael mocks. "Why are you acting like some sixteen year-old virgin?"
"Hey, dude, I am more than willing to have sex anytime anywhere, but if we crash my mom's car, she's going to be stupidly pissed."
"I'll buy her a new one."
"You'd have to buy her two," Ryan says, eying Michael's hand on the dashboard. "One to drive, and one for us to borrow for dirty sex."
Michael smiles broadly, dragging his hand down the dash, over the climate control, along his thigh and then adjusting himself blatantly.
He doesn't need to adjust anything -- he wears his jeans big -- but fuck being subtle.
The car swerves onto the shoulder all of sudden, and Michael grabs the dashboard as the car skids to a halt. "What the fuck?!" he hollers, his heart trying to climb out of his throat as his seatbelt slams him back against the seat.
Ryan ignores him, throwing the car into park and turning off the headlights. "Next time you want to have sex in the car," Ryan says, unfastening his belt and then Michael's, "just fucking say so."
Michael blinks rapidly as Ryan clambers into the backseat, knocking several bottles of Gatorade onto the floor.
He's still blinking when Ryan's head pops back between the seats. "Dude, are you coming or what?"
It's supposed to take, like, an hour or so to get from Jacksonville to Gainesville, but with Ryan's driving, and the blow jobs in the backseat, and Michael nearly losing an eye to the paintball gun, they get to Ryan's place at some ungodly time.
Michael's drooling in the backseat with his pants around his ankles when Ryan pokes him in the stomach. "Get up, Superman, we're here."
Michael grunts, tries to roll over and fails because his pants are holding him hostage. The paintball gun pokes him in the cheek this time. "I see why people hate the NRA," he bitches to Ryan as he struggles to pull up his pants and get out of the van.
Ryan's standing by the open door with Michael's bag in his hand. "Shut up, you peace-loving, pansy-ass hippie," he says good-naturedly as Michael trips down the one step.
Michael socks Ryan in the arm lightly, and Ryan fakes serious injury before shoving the bag into Michael's arms. "At the Casa Lochtenator, you carry your own shit."
"Damn, I knew I should've stayed at the Holiday Inn," Michael says.
They stumble down the street together, the humidity clinging to Michael like too many crazy fans. It's kind of hard for him to breathe. Michael's from Maryland, he knows all about the kind of humidity that makes you change shirts to walk across the street, but this is ridiculous. He slaps at something on his neck that turns out to be a mosquito the size of a hamburger. Jesus.
He shifts his bag from one hand to the other as he follows Ryan through the rusty gate. Of course the first piece of property Ryan bought on his own is kind of a broken-down shithole. The places on either side of Ryan's are nice, but home maintenance is most definitely not Ryan's strong suit.
The grass hasn't been mowed in fucking forever, there's a broken-down scooter in his front yard from that accident last year and there's garbage everywhere but in the trash cans.
Michael can see the lizards and palmetto bugs all over the porch; he's kind of shocked Ryan remembered to turn on the porch light. "Fucking lizards!" Ryan's voice is high-pitched as he bulldozes his way to the door; Ryan hates lizards.
The light's on in the hallway when Ryan opens the door, and Michael pauses on the steps because there's a lizard above Ryan's head on the doorframe. "Welcome to Casa Lochtenator," Ryan says with a very solemn bow, kicking away a roach trying to enter first.
Michael smirks as he files past, twitching when Ryan pokes him in the ribs. His fingers find the light switches by memory as he walks through the rooms.
The house is a fucking disaster, like normal. There's crap in every corner, the kitchen is vomiting McDonald's bags and pizza boxes and there's a whole corner full of Speedo freebies still in boxes and plastic wrappers. It's very Ryan, except for the sofa, which is surprisingly clear of items. The only thing more shocking than the state of the sofa is the bedroom, which kind of looks like somebody tried to clean it.
Michael drops his bag on the floor and bats at the medals hanging from Ryan's ceiling. They jangle wildly as Michael gets kicked in the ankle by a flying sneaker. When he turns around, Ryan's in the doorway, stepping out of his other shoe.
Michael looks at him innocently. "Did you get robbed? It looks kinda neat in here."
Ryan flings his other shoe at Michael's head. It's a wide shot that hits the wall and bounces off the bed. "Shut up, douchebag," he says around a yawn.
Michael snickers. "Seriously, did you get body snatched? Ryan, are you in here somewhere? Knock twice if--" Ryan scowls and Michael holds up his hands. "Kidding. Kidding."
Ryan pulls his shirt off and advances toward Michael, Michael just stares. He's built kind of weirdly with the long arms and feet, but Ryan is stacked like -- that thought is so gay he refuses to finish it.
Michael licks his lips as Ryan gets closer, and then Ryan totally bypasses him and collapses on the bed.
"Wow, that's messed up," Michael says to the room.
Ryan snorts into his pillow. "Get the light on your way out."
"Get the light on my way..." Michael parrots slowly. "What the fuck?"
Ryan rolls over onto his side. His hair is everywhere, and apparently, he never finished zipping up his shorts. "The couch is all set up, just pull it out."
"I'm sleeping on the couch?" Michael didn't know his voice could go that high.
Ryan's face is perfectly serene. "Where else did you think you were gonna sleep?"
Michael knows he's being played, but still. "That's not funny, man."
Ryan shrugs. "Who's making a joke?"
Michael blinks once, because, okay, he's a little slow sometimes, but Ryan's not serious.
Is he?
Michael blinks again. "Seriously, not funny."
Ryan raises an eyebrow, pauses and then laughs. "You should see the look on your face," he says, clambering up on all fours to reach out and yank Michael towards him. Michael can feel the heat in his face as he hits the bed and lands next to Ryan.
"You fucker," he protests, looking up at the ceiling fan and not thinking about how much he might've been about to sulk.
Ryan's face blocks out the ceiling light. "It was a joke," he says, patting Michael's chest. "Calm down. You want me to put on some Lil' Wayne or something?"
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Lil' Wayne? Worst seduction technique ever."
Ryan scoffs loudly and drops back onto his side of the bed. "I've got mad game; you have no idea. And who said I was trying to seduce your flat ass anyway?"
Michael snorts. "My ass isn't flat."
"Shut up and go to sleep," Ryan says dismissively.
"Wow, normally you only hear that after sex," Michael mocks, sitting up to kick off his shoes.
He should really be expecting it when Ryan smacks him in the back of the head with a pillow. "Get the light," Ryan says.
Michael shakes his head before getting up, tripping over his bag and stumbling into the light switch.
In the darkness, Ryan says, "If you, like, fall on your way back to the bed and maim yourself, I'm not calling the hospital until tomorrow."
"Fuck you," Michael replies automatically.
He does trip over something, but still manages to mostly land on the bed, and even better, on Ryan. Ryan complains loudly.
"Asshole," Michael says, shoving Ryan over to make room for himself. Ryan's bed is huge, but Michael doesn't see why he shouldn't drape himself Ryan anyway. If Ryan wants to move, he will.
He doesn't.
Michael wakes up at some indeterminate hour facing the wall. He's got a strange crick in his neck, and when he turns the other way the sun's streaming in the windows and the bed is empty beside him. When Michael looks over the side of the bed, Ryan's not passed out on the floor either.
That's a little unexpected; Ryan's not a wake-up-first kind of guy.
Michael sniffs once to clear his nose, collapses back down on the sheets perpendicular to the bed and scratches his ass. He's still in the clothes he flew down in.
There are only so many places Ryan can be given the size of his house, and Michael takes his time clambering out of bed. According to the alarm clock on the nightstand, it's 2:18 in the afternoon, but according to the Jackass clock on the wall it's 9:13. Whatever. Michael's on vacation. Not that he really knows what that means -- Bob told him he'd have to figure it out on his own.
In fact, when Michael tried to get Bob to clarify the 'no workout' rule, Bob just looked at him and said, "Do you want me to clarify what 'is' and 'alone' are too?" Michael just blinked and Bob sighed. "Too young for Clinton references, huh?"
The fact remains that Michael's not good at doing "nothing". It took Michael ages just to get down to Florida to visit Ryan in the first place. It was supposed to take five days, but then he was in New York meeting with sponsors, and then he kind of walked into an Entourage role -- Jeremy Piven's kind a dick -- and then he had to go to Disney World. He only got to see Ryan for, like, four hours that whole weekend.
And then there were the YMCA clinics, Oprah, the MTV Video Music Awards and Saturday Night Live.
It's not like Michael hasn't seen Ryan since Baltimore, he just hasn't been able to, like, focus properly. Ryan was there for the VMAs and SNL and meeting Lil' Wayne, which might've been the single most awesome experience Michael's ever had. Ryan, however, will never let him forget being introduced to his idol and saying, "Shit! You're Lil' Wayne!"
And Wayne saying, "Yeah, dog, I know."
And okay, a lot of people wouldn't call any of this a vacation (except for the Gainesville part), but Michael's got a plan. He's not going to be hot like this forever -- he'll go back to being the weird-looking, lisping kid soon enough. Right now he's going to make all his money and then retire after London. Maybe. Possibly. If he can slow down enough not to burn out beforehand.
He hasn't even seen Herman in three weeks -- his dog might disown him, or his mom might keep him permanently. At least his mom thought that visiting Ryan and not doing another series of clinics sponsored by Speedo and McDonald's (his newest unofficial sponsor) was the right plan.
She probably wasn't thinking that Michael would be spending his days in the same clothes and having sex in the backseats of minivans -- and hopefully, first thing in the afternoon. Unfortunately, a quick tour of Ryan's house shows that Ryan's not there. There's no text message on Michael's phone either.
He immediately sends Ryan a message -- Where r u? -- and then goes back to the bedroom, where his eye catches the Domino's napkin on the other pillow.
Took car 2 mom. Brb. R.
Michael's observational skills aren't always the best.
Tossing his phone on the bed, he grabs his bag and pulls out soap, a toothbrush, shampoo and figures that's plenty. He shaved yesterday, although, his face feels like maybe it's been two days. Whatever. Vacation.
Ryan's bathroom is classic Ryan. There are dried condensation drawings on the mirror and there's a Sharpie sketch above the toilet that might be a pony or a zebra or dog, who knows. Whatever it is, it's holding an umbrella and a bottle of tequila.
The toilet looks as though it could stand an industrial cleaning, but Michael doesn't see anything with more legs than him crawling around, which is really all that counts. He's not a stickler, but there's got to be a standard. Somewhere.
Ryan's shower only has two starting temperatures and Michael goes with scalding hot, letting the water run as brushes his teeth with Ryan's crusty toothpaste, strips and then gets under the spray. He has to get back out to get his soap and shampoo.
He's worked up a good head full of lather when Ryan's voice calls around the curtain. "Do I need to get you, like, Hooked on Phonics or some shit?"
Michael smiles as he ducks under the water. "I can speak English just fine, asshole," he says, keeping his eyes closed to avoid going blind from shampoo.
"Yeah," Ryan says, "but you can't read at all." There's a slight draft, and Michael opens one eye to see Ryan standing before a very much not closed curtain, watching him obviously. Michael's other eye pops open in surprise.
"I suppose it doesn't matter that you can't read when you look like that though," Ryan says, gesturing towards him.
Michael magically knocks the shampoo bottle on his foot. "Fucking shit!" he hollers, slipping and falling pretty much right on Ryan. Michael scrambles to push himself upright, but Ryan seems sort of reluctant to let him go. Michael's dick takes note of this with great interest.
"I love kinky shower sex in the morning. Afternoon. Fuck, whenever," Ryan grins, stripping off his shirt and kicking his flip-flops behind him. Michael strokes himself absently as he watches the show.
This is a spectacularly bad idea. Him + Ryan + a shower can only end with bloodshed, but he doesn't really give a shit when Ryan slips out of his shorts and underwear and gets under the water, too.
Ryan steps in facing Michael, the water plastering his hair to his head and crowding Michael so much that Michael has to practically climb into the corner. There's not enough room for both of them in the shower. There's not even enough room for Michael to be honest; there never is.
Ryan's smile is huge, his dimples showing perfectly, and Michael twitches when one of Ryan's hands curls around his hip to pull him in. So close, but so not. "This isn't going to work if you keep hiding in the corner," Ryan teases.
Michael smiles crookedly, wrapping his hand around Ryan's cock and stroking once lightly, and then letting go. Ryan exhales loudly, his fingertips digging hard into Michael's hip. "Don't fuck around; do it again."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Make me."
"I will throw you out ass-naked," Ryan promises. "And wet."
Michael snorts. "Because I've never been naked and wet before?" He's completely taken off guard when Ryan pushes him into the wall, and consequently, he bangs his head against the tile. He shakes it off when Ryan wraps his free hand around Michael's cock and begins to jerk him off rapidly.
"Jesus, shit," Michael babbles, struggling to thrust into Ryan's hand and not slip on his ass at the same time. Wet tiling has no traction, and Michael yanks at the shower curtain, which tears in a couple of places.
"You break it, you buy me a new one," Ryan says conversationally, his thumb rubbing the head of Michael's cock in very interesting and brain-shattering ways.
Michael spreads his legs out, pushing his feet against the sides of the tub to stay upright, but he leans into Ryan at the same time that Ryan slips; when Ryan goes down on his knees, he drags Michael with him into a disastrous heap.
Michael just misses breaking his nose on the bathtub tap.
They end up tangled in the bottom of the tub, the shower raining down on them and their legs mostly over the side of the tub. It hurts like a bitch.
Ryan chuckles, water streaming down his face. "That was so your fault."
"My fault?" Michael snaps.
Ryan narrows his eyes. "Yeah, your fault," he says, climbing over Michael and straddling his hips. "You're a fucking disaster." Michael's still scowling when Ryan takes both of their cocks in hand and begins stroking.
Michael bangs his head against the wall again, hard. "Fuck, okay," he says, grabbing at Ryan to pull him in. The water makes it almost impossible to get a decent hold. "It's my fault. I don't care; keep doing that."
Ryan's looming over him, his eyes cast down and focused on his hand dragging on the downstroke and pulling hard on the upstroke. Michael can't even thrust into Ryan's hand because of Ryan sitting on him. He's getting water in his eyes. "Harder," Michael urges, "fucking harder."
"You like that, huh?" Ryan asks. He's breathing shallowly, his eyes now on Michael and not on what he's doing.
When Ryan licks the water from his lips, Michael's cock aches; he can feel Ryan breathing on him. "Yes," he hisses, closing his eyes and riding what Ryan's doing to his cock.
His eyes snap open when Ryan's lips brush the shell of his ear. "You thinking about fucking me?" Ryan asks.
Michael's turns automatically towards Ryan's voice, his mouth just missing Ryan's as Ryan pulls back. Ryan's dick drags along the underside of Michael's cock one last time, and Michael comes so violently that he ends up banging his head against the wall. Again. There's pain and stars and water, and when Michael opens his eyes, Ryan's coming on his stomach.
Ryan blinks at him, the now cooling water running down his face. "Damn," he says bluntly, "that was new."
Guys generally want two things after sex: food and sleep. Michael and Ryan end up taking a nap, a very sore nap, and when they wake up, Ryan's knees and Michael's lower back are a collage of bruises. Michael doesn't mind, even if he's a little stiff.
They eventually venture out into the Gainesville evening, albeit a bit slowly. It's stupidly humid (obviously) and Michael's shirt is sticking to him before they reach the end of the block. Ryan's skateboarding on the road beside him; there's not much room for anything else in the street besides Ryan and parked cars, actually.
Ryan's house is fairly close to the Gator campus, and the nearer they get the more girls with heels, frat boys with backwards baseball caps and goths with piercings emerge from nowhere. Michael can feel people staring, so he keeps his eyes on the sidewalk and gives Ryan one word answers to his babbling questions, following the occasional holler of, "Right! No, bro, your other right!"
Michael's still walking when Ryan jumps the curb and nearly runs him over. "I know counting the cracks in the sidewalk is crazy interesting, but we're here."
Michael looks around with some confusion; he didn't even realize they were in a business area. "The Szechuan Panda," Michael reads aloud. And then it kicks in. "Chinese food!"
Michael loves Chinese food, but maybe not so much the way the Chinese eat it in China. He's kind of American that way.
"They love me here, dude," Ryan says, kick-standing his board and tucking it under his arm before opening the door and walking in. "And you're gonna love my ass, too."
"In your dreams," Michael says.
"Check it out." Ryan stops right inside the entrance, and naturally, Michael runs into him.
The Panda is ghetto-lite; it's got tape on its Chinese lanterns, the paint on the walls is peeling and there are kitschy items everywhere. It's just like Michael's favorite Chinese restaurant in Baltimore, only a little less tacky and sketchy.
And then Michael follows Ryan's line of sight and sees it. "They have a buffet," he says in awe.
Michael looks from Ryan to the buffet and then back to Ryan. "Do they know about swimmers here?" he asks. People don't tend to let Michael near buffets very much; he's been banned more than times that he can count because he really does eat that much.
"Hi, are you going to have the buffet?" a female voice inquires. When Michael looks down there's a hot Asian girl wearing a blue dress and flip-flops standing near his elbow.
She's got green stuff around her eyes, streaks in her hair and a pretty sweet rack. Damn.
"Uh, um, yeah," he says smoothly. "If, if - is that's okay?"
"Of course it is," the girl says with a grin.
Ryan makes a scoffing noise. "Hey, Tina, don't be snowed by his golly-gee game. You don't want any of that, girl."
Michael punches Ryan in the arm. "Shut up, dude."
Tina just laughs and gestures to the mostly empty restaurant. "I should've known he was with you, Ryan. Go on and help yourself; I'll tell my mom you brought a friend this time."
After Tina walks off, Michael glares at Ryan. "Way to cockblock, asshole."
Ryan just snorts. "In your dreams, man. There is no way you were gonna hit that."
"Does she know who I am?" Michael asks, following Ryan to the buffet.
"It's not does she know," Ryan corrects. "It's does she care?"
"No, the real question," Michael re-corrects as Ryan hands him a plate, "is how are these people going to feel when we kill their buffet?"
In Ann Arbor there are places that won't let large groups of athletes in because they end up eating the entire kitchen. Buffets are an athlete specialty. Well, buffets and those 'eat seventeen burgers and get them free for the rest of you life' deals.
Ryan and Michael pause at the start of the buffet, taking in all the possibility, and then they share a smile.
"Jeah?" Ryan asks.
Michael nods. "Jeah."
"We'll leave a big tip," Ryan promises.
It's well after dusk when they leave the Panda, and Michael's feeling several pounds heavier than he was when he arrived. The daytime humidity has been replaced by the nighttime humidity. He can't tell the difference, but it must be there. Somewhere. On top of that there are people everywhere, there's no way to avoid them, and inevitably they end up getting accosted outside of some bar called Durty Nelly's.
It's not as bad as it could be, Michael's ass only gets pinched three or four times, but he's still kind of banged up from the bathroom gymnastics and it hurts more than it should.
He jumps about a foot in the air when somebody in the crowd gets really frisky though, and Ryan laughs at him before going back to signing autographs with little sheep and smiley faces with bling grillz.
Eventually, they make their way back, slapping at mosquitoes the whole way. Michael's feeling fairly good, but he could stand some dessert. Maybe some pie, or ice cream or a cake. Maybe two. Ryan's kitchen looks just as disastrous as it did at buttfuck early this morning.
"How the fuck do you live like this?" Michael bitches over his shoulder, while Ryan channel surfs in the living room for sports or porn or both. If they make sports porn.
A couple of the pizza boxes in the sink rattle even though Michael's nowhere near the sink, but fortune favors the crazy, and eventually, Michael finds his reward hiding on a top shelf behind some pasta.
"You've been holding out on me," he crows, grabbing the package of Oreos and ripping it open. He stuffs two in his mouth automatically. "How the hell could you not -- FUCKING SHIT!" Michael hollers when something hard smacks him in the center of his back.
He drops the Oreos on the floor.
When he turns around, Ryan's standing in the kitchen doorway holding his paintball gun. Michael's mouth thins into a line. "You made me drop the Oreos," he says slowly.
And then it happens again -- Ryan shoots him in the chest. It's a huge explosion of orange paint all over Michael's tee shirt.
"You are going down, Lochte," Michael says, breaking for Ryan.
Ryan reels back, slamming into the hallway and then taking off towards the front door, laughing like The Joker the whole way.
"I swear to god," Michael shouts, chasing after him, "I'm going to fuck your shit up!"
"Jeah? Well, you've gotta catch my ass first!" Ryan calls back, yanking open the door and running out into the yard.
Michael approaches the doorway with caution, he manages to slam the door shut at the same time that Ryan fires and Michael can hear the paintball explode against the wood.
"Son of a bitch!" Ryan curses loudly. "I didn't want it to be orange. I thought there were some blue balls in here too!"
That is way funnier than it should be. Also, Michael needs a weapon. He dashes back to the kitchen and grabs two pizza boxes.
Seconds later he yanks open the front door, holding the pizza boxes like a shield. "Cowabunga!" he yells, charging down the steps towards Ryan as several paintballs splatter against the boxes.
Ryan shoots him in the leg at the same time that he runs over Ryan with the boxes, momentum and 200lbs of muscle and Chinese food on his side. They go crashing through the gate and onto the sidewalk. The gun goes flying.
In the end, Michael's knees are all scraped up but he's on top. "Who's the man?!"
"Cowabunga?" Ryan rolls his eyes. They both see the old lady standing on the sidewalk ten feet away at the same time. She's holding a shopping bag and eying them very disapprovingly.
"If I get arrested for scaring that lady, I will kill you." Michael says through his teeth, waving to the woman and giving her his best mom grin.
Underneath him, Ryan just laughs. "I think you mean get arrested, again."
Michael punches Ryan in the chest (not lightly), gets to his feet and staggers over to the paintball gun. Picking it up, he shoots Ryan right in the ribs.
"Fuckin' A!" Ryan bitches, clutching his side.
"It's okay, ma'am," Michael calls amiably. "It's just paint!"
"Fucking college kids," the woman says loudly, before crossing the street to the other side.
Michael just snickers as he walks back inside.
He's really pleased with himself until Ryan tackles him from behind, and they both go sliding stomach-first down the hall and into the wall.
Michael wakes up with bruises covering almost every inch of skin he can see, and considering he's sleeping in his boxers, he can see a lot of skin. His morning erection is trapped between him and the mattress, and when he shifts he can feel the itchy, tightness of new scabs on his knees.
The last time Michael hurt this much he was at the Olympics, but it wasn't this kind of hurt. This kind of hurt is awesome.
He blinks at Ryan drooling on his arm, seconds later he pushes him out of the bed.
"Fucking shit!" Ryan hollers when he lands on the floor with a thud. Michael's laughing before he even looks over the side of the bed.
Ryan's sprawled out on the floor, one foot still tangled in the sheets. His hair is a riot and he looks completely confused. "Wassit? Earthquake?"
Michael snorts. "In Florida?"
"Why the hell am--" Ryan's words die off as Michael clambers off the bed, onto the floor and begins trying to yank off Ryan's underwear.
When Michael glances up, Ryan's watching him with an amused grin. "You can just wake me up if you want sex, all the violence isn't necessary."
Michael gives one last yank on Ryan's boxers, which loose a feeble rip but don't come off. Michael sighs deliberately and slides his hand inside Ryan's boxers to retrieve his morning hard-on.
Ryan moans loudly as Michael gropes him. "Best idea ever," he babbles, as Michael lowers his head and flicks his tongue along the side Ryan's cock. "You need to just, like -- like, move to the G-Spot permanently."
Michael would say something, but he's kind of busy sucking Ryan's dick.
Eventually, they get up and leave the house. The streets are teaming with students en route to classes or drinking or sports or sex, or possibly, some variation of all four. Michael may spend most of his time in the pool, but he was in Ann Arbor for a few years. He knows how this shit goes.
They have breakfast at the Waffle House, or they attempt to in between the waitress flirting outrageously with Ryan and people continually taking pictures of them with their camera phones. Michael tries not to mind all he attention, but it's kind of irritating for people to take pictures when he's shoving his first waffle in his mouth. By the third waffle he doesn't mind so much. And the bacon helps.
He pokes Ryan's hand with his fork when he tries to steal some of Michael's home fries. "Didn't you just have two plates of potatoes?"
"But I'm still hungry," Ryan sulks. "I'm a growing boy."
Michael raises an eyebrow, and Ryan kicks him underneath the table. Michael duly winces. "You started it," he complains, sliding some of the waffles and potatoes on his plate in Ryan's direction anyway.
Ryan's smiles as he spears the waffles, managing to chew and still get syrup all over his face. Michael chuckles but makes a vague motion, and Ryan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Close enough.
After breakfast, Ryan drags him around campus for a bit. It's not like Michael hasn't visited Ryan before, but normally they spend their time playing video games, eating and fucking. Walking around all these people might be like putting a neon sign over his head, but it turns out to be mostly incident free, except for a couple of cat-calls from girls who Ryan says he's more than happy to take off of Michael's hands.
Michael's already been to the O'Connell Center for swim meets, but they end up passing by Lake Alice, the gator sanctuary, too.
When Michael asks about a tour, Ryan just laughs. "It's not the aquarium, dude, there's no glass. You go in there and there will be no more Olympics medals and circle jerks with Tiger Woods for you."
"Circle jerks with Tiger Woods?" Michael sputters.
"I'm Michael Phelps; this is Saturday Night Live, and Shit! You're Lil' Wayne!" Ryan says in a mock falsetto.
Michael puts Ryan in a headlock. Some people just can't let shit go.
Ryan slaps at Michael's arms, wheezing. "Our gators are the real deal. They come out of the drainage ditches and eat pets! Why do you think I don't mow the lawn?"
"Because you're lazy."
"Well, that too."
"Don't even tell me you're afraid you have gators in your grass."
"I might," Ryan protests.
"Which is exactly why need to clean up!"
"Fuck you," Ryan says petulantly as Michael finally releases him.
When Ryan stands up, his face is flushed with blood and his hair is even crazier than normal. His eyes are bright and he has this confused look on his face like he can't figure out if it's worth it to actually get mad at Michael or if he's just going to laugh it off. Ryan doesn't normally think this hard; Michael doesn't normally stare this hard.
He can feel the heat in his face that has nothing to do with Gainesville's swamp-like weather or the sun beating down on him. Ryan's got sweat dotting his upper lip and Michael's mouth is dry.
"Beer," they agree in unison.
Tim & Terry's is bar a few blocks away from campus. It's almost an exact duplicate of Ryan's house right down to the porch. All that's missing is the stupidly long grass, trash and lizards everywhere. It's an older building with narrow halls and wood floors, and Michael follows Ryan inside, ducking to avoid any potential accidents on light fixtures hanging from the low ceilings.
Michael probably has a permanent concussion from all the chandeliers, doorframes and other items that that have been lower than they looked upon his first approach.
There are people milling around, ordering beers, and Michael almost gets run over by some beefy guy lugging an amp out of the bathroom area.
Michael grabs Ryan's shirt, tugs and points. "There's a studio upstairs," Ryan explains. "For when you want to record your first hit record, 'Michael Phelps Sings Like a Girl'."
"Fucktard." Michael punches Ryan in the shoulder, and Ryan stumbles a bit as he leads the way out the back and down to the patio. There are a couple of people sitting around, smoking, drinking and very much not giving a shit when Ryan and Michael sprawl out in two chairs. Michael likes it immediately.
"Beer and burgers," Ryan says without looking at the menu.
"Works for me," Michael shrugs.
"How many?"
Michael thinks this over. "However many you think we need, double that."
Ryan chuckles. "Anything else, your highness?"
Michael looks around at the people not paying attention them. He's with Ryan and he's on vacation. He's got seventeen thousand gold medals, America loves him and he can get laid anytime he wants. Life is pretty fucking sweet. Plus, very soon he's going to be greased up with burgers and beer. And fries. "Fries."
Ryan shakes his head. "You really think I would forget the fries? You have no faith."
Michael smirks. "I have plenty of faith. And don't spit in my beer either."
"You really think I would spit in your beer?" Ryan looks kind of scandalized; Michael's not fooled.
He leans across the table and Ryan moves in conspiratorially. "You may have all these other people fooled with those dimples," Michael says mock seriously, "but I know your ass."
Ryan looks around furtively and leans in even more. Michael could probably count his eyelashes. "Do you really think this bar is the place to be talking about my ass?" he says in a low tone. "I know you like it, but we're in public, dude. Have some restraint."
Michael just gapes; he's still in shock long after Ryan goes into the bar, most likely to place their orders. Michael has restraint, thank you very much. He's not the one who attacked him in the shower. Or the one who shot him with paintballs. Or the one who started this whole thing by giving hand jobs in the showers at swim meets. He's not even keeping track of how many blowjobs Ryan still owes him. He -- he -- fucking Ryan.
Michael jumps when Ryan bangs down beers and shot glasses on the table. He's still grinning from earlier, Michael just sticks out his tongue. Then he grabs one of the shot glasses and throws it back in one.
Oh, Jesus. Fucking Jager.
It burns in places liquor normally doesn't go.
"So," Ryan says, sitting down with a smirk. "It's going to be that kind of night."
Michael kicks him under the table, and Ryan jumps. His knees bang the underside of the table, and Michael grins triumphantly. Ryan's smile broadens; he's showing way too many teeth. "Oh, so, you wanna play?"
Michael just shrugs and takes a long pull on one of the Heinekens Ryan's brought over. "You sure I didn't spit in that beer?" Ryan asks him conversationally. "I mean it's my spit, it won't matter to me."
Michael spews his beer all over the table. And all over Ryan, but Ryan just looks smug.
"Asshole," Michael curses.
Ryan laughs. "Manwhore."
"Douchebag."
"Pussy."
"Cockblocker."
"Fuckwit."
"Asswipe."
"Retard."
"My four year-old niece could out-swim your ass."
Ryan pouts. "That was harsh, dude."
--Part two--