swimming // phelps&lochte // four times.
four times ryan watched michael touch other swimmers
(and one time he did something about it).
pairing: michael phelps/ryan lochte.
rating: r.
~3640 words.
i. peter vanderkaay.
There are a lot of things Ryan doesn’t understand.
Why the hell his stomach already feels so unsettled, for one. Why everyone looks so damn serious in the ready room. Why the reporters’ eyes glaze over every time he tries to say something deep. And, most importantly, if he’s the one who’s supposed to have this amazing love-hate rivalry with Michael Phelps, then why the fuck hasn’t he seen the guy, like, at all?
They’ve passed on deck a couple of times, but Michael’s always got his headphones in and it’s pretty much unwritten law in Beijing: thou shalt not disturb Michael Phelps whilst he listeneth to Lil Wayne. And Ryan gets it, okay, he understands the need to feel focused and ready before every swim. It’s not what floats his boat, but the guy’s undoubtedly the best swimmer in the world. So he’s obviously doing something right.
It’s just-there are times, when Ryan’s pretty sure he’s caught Michael’s eye, and he’ll lift a hand in greeting but suddenly Phelps is looking elsewhere, staring pointedly at the tile floor, or adjusting the volume on his iPod like it’s the most important task in the world.
Okay, Ryan thinks on these occasions, he doesn’t want to talk to me, and maybe it wouldn’t bug him if he was like that with everyone.
Because on the third day, he’s walking out of the bathroom and simultaneously drying his hands on his pants, so obviously he’s not looking up, but it’s simply a voice that stops him in his tracks. It’s an unmistakable voice, actually, because no other athlete in the world sounds like Michael Phelps (lisping asshole, Ryan thinks, even if he doesn’t mean it, because acting like Ryan doesn’t exist is a pretty dick move, even for Michael).
So he not-on-purpose glances up, and not only is Michael talking, in the middle of the hallway where everyone can see him, he’s talking to someone else. Not a reporter, not his coach. A swimmer. A teammate, a rival, a person wearing a Speedo suit and not named Ryan Lochte.
It’s Peter Vanderkaay, he gathers, and he’s leaning against the brick wall and looking kind of, well-scared out of his wits, to be honest. And maybe Ryan would feel bad for the guy if Michael didn’t happen to be standing there, his hand on Peter’s tensed shoulder, and what the fuck, Ryan thinks, since when does Phelps give free massages? He also starts to ponder that if it were true, he’d be first on the list, okay, because Michael has big hands and he can probably work wonders with them-but then he pushes the thought away, because seriously? Open hallway, flashing cameras, very little clothing. Now is not the time to get hard.
“Come on. You’re going to do amazing, Vander,” Michael tells him quietly, and Ryan’s brain barely registers the fact that he’s got a nickname for him, let alone that he’s giving encouragement.
And he watches as Peter sort of relaxes into Michael’s hand, and his hands are still dripping from the sink but he’s transfixed, can’t look away, and for the first time in his life he really, really wants to be Peter Vanderkaay.
He’s not though. He’s Ryan Lochte, the guy who does stupid things-like clears his throat really loudly in the middle of what’s obviously a Kodak fucking moment, and sort of grins when Michael jumps and drops his hand from Peter’s shoulder to his side. He’s a do-now, feel-guilty-later kind of dude. Always has been.
And so Ryan gets what he wanted-and all he wanted was for Phelps to look at him, to actually acknowledge him, he’s not exactly greedy-but incidentally, he has to deal with the fact that sometimes, it really sucks to get what you want. Michael does look at him, except it’s a dirty look-maybe one of the dirtiest he’s ever received. And then Peter’s bustling past him and Michael sighs, like way to go, asshole and trails after.
As he passes, Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but then he doesn’t. Because, he’s pretty sure, there are no words he can put together that will make Michael touch him like he was touching Peter, cause him to lay his hand against Ryan’s neck, a silent understanding that they’re on the same team, that they’re going to do this together.
So he says nothing at all.
ii. laszlo cseh.
The thing is, Ryan knows a lot about swimming. He really does, okay? He’s not stupid, no matter how determined the press is to prove otherwise. He may not know much else, but he knows swimming.
Or, at least, he thought he did, until now.
He pays attention to international events (ESPN.com is his homepage, after all, it’d be kind of hard not to) and sometimes his coach rips clippings out of newspapers and tapes them to his locker, and he’s totally familiar with all of them-Park and Kitajima and that Alain Bernard bastard.
But somehow, he forgets about Laszlo Cseh. When he’s psyching himself up for the 400 IM, his mind is on Phelps. Not some dude from Hungary (although, he relents, that’s a pretty sweet name for a country). Phelps, who has seemingly forgiven him for that slipup in the hallway, is his competition. Beat Phelps is the text message his dad sent him, currently saved in his inbox.
On the starting blocks, he’s looking at Michael. This is their race, right? The one everyone’s been anticipating. The Phelps/Lochte showdown of ’08.
So they dive in. And he still feels like shit, okay? It’s important to point that out.
And they swim and he sees Phelps out of the corner of his eye, watches him at every turn, every few strokes, and he’s pulling away. First a little, then a lot. Then a lot more.
This is no Phelps/Lochte showdown. This is a strictly Phelps vs. Himself kind of race. Fine, Ryan concedes halfway through the third length, I’ll just take silver.
Except he’s got competition. Real competition. The guy in the next lane is riding his ass. And then he’s pulling away too. And Ryan reaches for the wall with every ounce of strength he has, but even before he looks at the clock, he knows it’s not enough.
Third place.
The crowd is cheering, but he knows it’s all for Michael’s new world record. And maybe for this guy from Hungary, too, the dude who took his silver.
Ryan surfaces and peeks at the times, just a little bit disappointed, and then turns to find Michael. Last time they swam this race together, Michael had grabbed him around the neck and pulled him against him, his chin cradling perfectly into the crook of Michael’s shoulder, and he’d grasped their hands and lifted them, shouting, “One-two, baby! One-two!”
This time, when Ryan looks over, Mike’s grinning and reaching across the lane line, towards Laszlo Cseh. (Now Ryan knows his name-how could he not?) Michael’s mouth forms the words “good job, man” and he half-hugs Cseh, touches the back of his head lightly. Cseh wraps his arm around Michael’s chest (where my arm should be, Ryan thinks vaguely) and they wave to the crowd before separating.
Maybe now is when Michael congratulates Ryan, like he has to go in order by rank, but he doesn’t stick around to find out. He’s climbing out of the pool, purposely not looking back, and he doesn’t react a second later when Cseh’s hand encloses on his hip, gives him a sorry-you’re-not-as-good-as-me pat (or, at least, that’s how Ryan takes it).
He doesn’t want to be touched by this guy. This guy who got to pop up after 400 meters and celebrate with Phelps, who will be wearing the silver medal on the podium and probably putting it in a little safe box in his living room for all of eternity.
He stole Ryan’s moment.
And the worst part of all is that Michael Phelps just doesn’t seem to care.
iii. ian crocker.
He’s heard the story. Watched the cute little montages they made about it, corny music playing in the background. Maybe he’s even read one or two or thirty-seven articles about it, when it happened in Athens. Michael is a good guy. That’s the only thing he discerns from the entire situation. Michael Phelps gives up relay spots to rival swimmers, and probably save kittens and feeds orphans, too.
Truthfully, Ryan never thought it was that heroic. The dude already had six gold medals. It’s not like he was going home heartbroken and empty-handed.
But he knows all about it, and that’s why he’s not surprised when they bring it up again-four years later. Blah blah blah Michael Phelps blah blah blah Ian Crocker blah blah blah outstanding sportsmanship. That’s all he hears out of Bob Costas’ mouth. The whole thing, dramatics and all, none of it is shocking.
What is surprising is Ian approaching him during lunch one day, pretty much out of nowhere, and he silently slides into the seat next to Ryan with his nice little pasta and salad, the meal Ryan probably should be eating. Ryan unwraps his Big Mac and doesn’t say anything. He’s never spoken to Ian before, outside of congratulations and a drunken Facebook message once, and, well, that was a big mistake. (For the record, Ian replied, but all he sent was a message that said “what?” and Ryan never bothered to explain.)
For a moment, there's an awkward and uncomfortable pause. Ian watches him out of the corner of his eye (and seriously dude, Ryan thinks, you are so fucking obvious) and waits until Ryan’s mouth is full to say anything.
“So I hear you’re the new posterboy for the famous rivalry with Phelps.”
Ryan almost chokes on his burger. He grimaces, forces it down, then turns to Ian with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah? I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Hey, it's not a bad thing. I know how it is. I was there four years ago.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe we should start a club. ‘Guys Who Take Second to Phelps.’”
“Maybe we should make it a Facebook group,” Ian says with a meaningful smile.
Ryan winces. Up until now, he was pretty sure he’d escape this conversation unscathed. He was also pretty sure Ian would never, ever bring that up again-in a distant, sort of humiliating way, Ryan vaguely remembers something about “wanting to lick” and-oh God-stroking his guitar.
“Maybe,” he mumbles.
“Anyway,” Ian says, because he’s the kind of guy who forgives and forgets easily, the kind who doesn’t get off on mortifying his fellow swimmers. “I just wanted to tell you good luck, and don’t let the pressure get to you.” He stacks his empty plate on his trey, pats him on the back once, and stands.
“And, oh,” he adds, doubling back, “are you sure you should be eating that?” He smiles, all-friendly, and nods towards Ryan’s second double cheeseburger. “Not to be gross, but your dad was out there telling the cameras that you have the runs. That… can’t be healthy.”
“I’m a big boy,” Ryan says indignantly, possibly blushing a little. (The runs? Really, Dad?) To prove a point, he stuffs two chicken nuggets in his mouth and washes them down with a gigantic gulp of Coke while Ian studies him, amused.
“Fair enough, then. See you around.”
Ian gives him a little wave before leaving the cafeteria, and Ryan idly chews on a handful of fries as he watches him go. He’s pretty sure Ian is singing to himself, under his breath, even though, like, everyone can see.
Ian is fucking weird, Ryan thinks, but he can’t really hate him. He’s too nice of a guy.
***
That night, they recount the story for the eighty-billionth time. When they’re done, the camera finds Ian in the audience. He just shrugs his shoulders and talks to the guy next to him, pretending not to notice.
On the way to his blocks, Michael’s coach grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside. Ryan glances over, intrigued, while Bob tells him something and then points. To Ian Crocker, Ryan realizes. Michael’s eyes follow.
So then he’s headed that way, camera trailing right behind, and he’s right in front of Ian, and he’s saying something and laughing, and then Ian’s reaching down and Michael moves in for a hug.
It’s no post-race congratulatory hug. It’s the full-bodied, I’m-so-glad-we’re-friends kind. The kind Ryan has never received from Michael, ever.
He watches Ian Crocker hug him, and his insides churn, and his face feels hot, and he realizes distantly that Ian Crocker’s an asshole, okay, and he really, really hates him.
iv. garrett weber-gale.
Ryan remembers what it felt like to be the new guy, the rookie. All awkward and terrified and trying to shrink into the shadows, so if you screw up, maybe no one will notice.
It’s how he felt, a few years ago. And just by watching this dude-Garrett Weber-Gale, this college swimmer who has probably never dreamed of making it to the Olympics, let alone knows how to act now that he’s actually here-he can tell that it’s exactly what's going through his mind.
Yeah, well, good luck, kid, Ryan thinks on more than one occasion. You’re swimming with Michael Phelps. If you fuck up, everyone will notice.
He never tells Garrett this. The fact of the matter is that Garrett still looks starstruck every time Phelps walks past him. It’s almost cute, in a pathetic sort of way. If Ryan hadn’t seen him macking on his very-gorgeous girlfriend in the hotel lobby, he probably would have mistaken Garrett’s idolatry as a full blown man-crush.
(The kind you have, Ryan tells himself, and then, shut up.)
The night of the relay, Ryan is nervous. Probably not as nervous as Garrett or Cullen Jones or Jason Lezak-not Michael Phelps, though, Michael’s never nervous-but he knows what this could mean. That this race has the greatest chance of stopping Mike’s quest for all golds.
And Michael is his buddy, right, even if he refuses to talk to him or make eye-contact anymore. They’re still friends.
So he watches the race and he’s practically biting his fucking fingernails off, and shit, during Lezak’s last leg, it’s over, they’ve lost it. But then… some miracle happens, or something, and Lezak’s surging and-oh holy shit-they take first.
Ryan allows his eyes to flicker to the clock for, like, a fraction of a second, and then he turns to watch Michael. He’s going crazy, like Ryan is, and he’s raising his fists in the air. He and Cullen grab each other by the necks, pound their fists. He reaches into the water and rubs Lezak’s cap.
And then Ryan looks at Garrett. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, like his teammates, and man, he has perfect reason to. His very first Olympics, he’s on a team with Michael Phelps, and they do… this.
Suddenly Garret’s not the awkward rookie with an intimidated sort of reverence towards Michael. It’s like, now they’re equals, they’re on the same team, and Ryan watches as he comes up from behind, grabs Michael around the waist, and hangs on tight.
It’s a great moment to witness, Garrett’s transformation. Michael doesn’t shake him off or pretend not to notice. He grins and grips Garret’s shoulder, elated with uncontainable post-victory joy.
It’s the kind of moment Ryan wishes he could be a part of.
And, he thinks, if Michael would, you know, stop avoiding him like the plague, then maybe-in the 200 meter relay, or even an individual race-just maybe, he could.
v. ryan lochte.
Ryan waits until the second-to-last day to confront him.
It’s not about being a wimp, or anything like that. He could have easily done it sooner, if he wanted to. They’re just both busy guys. He doesn’t want to be the dude responsible for throwing Phelps off his game. His crazy, over-the-top fans hate him enough for, like, breathing as it is.
He plans on waiting it out, he really does. Like maybe they can hash it out over a text message when they’re back in the states. But then, there comes a time when you can’t take it anymore. And Ryan’s had it, okay, he’s totally fed up. So Michael won’t talk to him? Fine, he’ll take the initiative. They’ll have a conversation or it will be Ryan blowing up in his fucking face, it doesn’t matter either way to him. If Phelps doesn’t want to answer, then whatever.
He’s used to it by now.
So he lingers in the bathroom and paces, hands shoved in his pockets, planning exactly what he’s going to say. He’s not very good at that part. The yelling and hateful expressions, those he can do. He just needs some words to accompany them.
And, like, two minutes later, the bathroom door swings open. And it’s Michael, of course it is, headphones around his neck. He looks at Ryan, and Ryan looks back.
“Hi,” says Michael.
Well. This kind of throws him off his game.
Ryan nods and says, “Hey,” before he remembers that he’s supposed to be pissed off. He changes paces, narrows his eyes, and adds, “So you’re talking to me now, huh?”
Michael was sort of heading towards one of the stalls, but then he stops and turns around, and he’s got a funny expression on his face. Like maybe Ryan's gone temporarily insane. “What?”
“So all it takes is an empty bathroom?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, Phelps.” Ryan had decided a few hours ago that they were no longer on first-name basis. Calling him Phelps makes him feel sort of like a badass, to tell the truth.
But Michael doesn’t look offended. In fact, he looks kind of amused. “Phelps?” he says, his eyebrows creasing. “What's going on?”
Damn it, Ryan thinks. He really should have written his little speech down. He takes a breath. “Okay, I know things were kind of weird and awkward at that Men’s Journal photoshoot-”
“Kind of?” Michael interrupts, and he’s-he’s totally laughing. “That was the weirdest three hours of my life. Remember when they told us to-”
“That’s not the point!” Ryan didn’t mean to yell, honestly, but it comes out a little loud and Michael’s laugh just trails off into bewildered silence. Ryan clears his throat before trying again. “And, I mean, you probably noticed that I got a little… you know, but I couldn’t help it, okay? That doesn’t mean you should just start ignoring me.”
Michael stares at him, and his eyebrows are returning to normal position but he still looks pretty clueless. “Ryan-I mean, Lochte,” he says, and bites back a grin, “you’re really not making any sense.”
Ryan’s hands flail a little before he drops them back to his side. Being pissed at Michael takes a lot of effort, apparently. He’s already drained. “You haven’t talked to me at all this week.”
Michael looks surprised. “Dude, maybe you didn’t notice, but we’re at the Olympics. Not some week-long sleepover.”
“So what? You can’t say hey when you walk by me in the hallways?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, Michael? Because I sure as fuck don’t get it.”
Michael takes two giant steps forward, and then he’s right in front of Ryan, and he’s gripping his shoulders with both hands and looking him square in the face. Ryan’s so startled that he almost fumbles backwards, but Michael hardly reacts.
“Hey, Ryan,” he says sarcastically, and he’s not loosening his grip any. “How are you? I’m doing fine, you know, not stressed at all. It’s not like it’s an important week for me. I mean, I’m sure it’d be different if cameras weren’t following my every move and guys I’ve never even heard of are talking shit about me everywhere I turn, but you know, I’m really glad we have all this free time to catch up.”
Ryan tenses, tries to push Michael’s arms away. “I get it,” he says quietly, miserably.
“And not only that, but I have to deal with you shooting me these… these moody-ass looks every day.” Michael finally relaxes his fingers, but he doesn’t remove them. Instead, he lightly traces Ryan’s collarbone in a fond kind of way, like this was totally normal.
“Well,” Ryan says, flustered. “Sorry. But you were being kind of a dick.”
“C’mon, man. It’s not my fault.” His hand lifts from Ryan’s shirt to his hair. He runs his fingers through it, gently, and Ryan’s spine erupts with shivers.
“But it’s almost over,” Mike adds, in a low, breathy voice. He touches Ryan’s jaw, trails his fingertips across his skin. Ryan’s eyes fall closed, completely on their own accord. “And then… we’ll have all week. And I meant to ask… if you maybe wanted to room with me at the hotel…”
“Yeah,” Ryan mutters weakly, because of all the ways he’s dreamed of being touched by Phelps, he’s pretty sure nothing beats this.
And then it gets better.
“Good,” Michael says, and he tugs on Ryan’s hair until he opens his eyes, and he’s smirking and leaning in even closer, if that’s possible, and his lips are already parted.
Michael smells like chlorine and sort of tastes like it, too, but it’s enjoyable, it really is, and his kisses are rough even though his skin is smooth, and his hands grab either side of Ryan’s face and he shoves him into the bathroom wall and presses his knee between Ryan’s thighs.
“God, Michael,” Ryan halfway whimpers, when they pull away. And Michael is grinning, and even though there’s still two days of competition left, even though they’re in a public place, even though everything about this screams bad fucking idea, he lowers himself to his knees.
“I know you were hard at that photoshoot,” he says casually, pulling the strings on Ryan’s pants. He smirks. “See, I do notice you,” he adds, and then he says nothing at all.
***
There’s four of them on this relay team, but there might as well just be two. This time, when they finish, Michael throws his head back and grabs Ryan, pulls him into the biggest hug of his entire life, maybe, chest-to-chest, Michael’s mouth on his ear, telling him, we did it, baby, we did it, fuck yes.
Ryan just smiles and thinks tonight-tonight, he’ll return the favor.
(and one time he did something about it).
pairing: michael phelps/ryan lochte.
rating: r.
~3640 words.
i. peter vanderkaay.
There are a lot of things Ryan doesn’t understand.
Why the hell his stomach already feels so unsettled, for one. Why everyone looks so damn serious in the ready room. Why the reporters’ eyes glaze over every time he tries to say something deep. And, most importantly, if he’s the one who’s supposed to have this amazing love-hate rivalry with Michael Phelps, then why the fuck hasn’t he seen the guy, like, at all?
They’ve passed on deck a couple of times, but Michael’s always got his headphones in and it’s pretty much unwritten law in Beijing: thou shalt not disturb Michael Phelps whilst he listeneth to Lil Wayne. And Ryan gets it, okay, he understands the need to feel focused and ready before every swim. It’s not what floats his boat, but the guy’s undoubtedly the best swimmer in the world. So he’s obviously doing something right.
It’s just-there are times, when Ryan’s pretty sure he’s caught Michael’s eye, and he’ll lift a hand in greeting but suddenly Phelps is looking elsewhere, staring pointedly at the tile floor, or adjusting the volume on his iPod like it’s the most important task in the world.
Okay, Ryan thinks on these occasions, he doesn’t want to talk to me, and maybe it wouldn’t bug him if he was like that with everyone.
Because on the third day, he’s walking out of the bathroom and simultaneously drying his hands on his pants, so obviously he’s not looking up, but it’s simply a voice that stops him in his tracks. It’s an unmistakable voice, actually, because no other athlete in the world sounds like Michael Phelps (lisping asshole, Ryan thinks, even if he doesn’t mean it, because acting like Ryan doesn’t exist is a pretty dick move, even for Michael).
So he not-on-purpose glances up, and not only is Michael talking, in the middle of the hallway where everyone can see him, he’s talking to someone else. Not a reporter, not his coach. A swimmer. A teammate, a rival, a person wearing a Speedo suit and not named Ryan Lochte.
It’s Peter Vanderkaay, he gathers, and he’s leaning against the brick wall and looking kind of, well-scared out of his wits, to be honest. And maybe Ryan would feel bad for the guy if Michael didn’t happen to be standing there, his hand on Peter’s tensed shoulder, and what the fuck, Ryan thinks, since when does Phelps give free massages? He also starts to ponder that if it were true, he’d be first on the list, okay, because Michael has big hands and he can probably work wonders with them-but then he pushes the thought away, because seriously? Open hallway, flashing cameras, very little clothing. Now is not the time to get hard.
“Come on. You’re going to do amazing, Vander,” Michael tells him quietly, and Ryan’s brain barely registers the fact that he’s got a nickname for him, let alone that he’s giving encouragement.
And he watches as Peter sort of relaxes into Michael’s hand, and his hands are still dripping from the sink but he’s transfixed, can’t look away, and for the first time in his life he really, really wants to be Peter Vanderkaay.
He’s not though. He’s Ryan Lochte, the guy who does stupid things-like clears his throat really loudly in the middle of what’s obviously a Kodak fucking moment, and sort of grins when Michael jumps and drops his hand from Peter’s shoulder to his side. He’s a do-now, feel-guilty-later kind of dude. Always has been.
And so Ryan gets what he wanted-and all he wanted was for Phelps to look at him, to actually acknowledge him, he’s not exactly greedy-but incidentally, he has to deal with the fact that sometimes, it really sucks to get what you want. Michael does look at him, except it’s a dirty look-maybe one of the dirtiest he’s ever received. And then Peter’s bustling past him and Michael sighs, like way to go, asshole and trails after.
As he passes, Ryan opens his mouth to say something, but then he doesn’t. Because, he’s pretty sure, there are no words he can put together that will make Michael touch him like he was touching Peter, cause him to lay his hand against Ryan’s neck, a silent understanding that they’re on the same team, that they’re going to do this together.
So he says nothing at all.
ii. laszlo cseh.
The thing is, Ryan knows a lot about swimming. He really does, okay? He’s not stupid, no matter how determined the press is to prove otherwise. He may not know much else, but he knows swimming.
Or, at least, he thought he did, until now.
He pays attention to international events (ESPN.com is his homepage, after all, it’d be kind of hard not to) and sometimes his coach rips clippings out of newspapers and tapes them to his locker, and he’s totally familiar with all of them-Park and Kitajima and that Alain Bernard bastard.
But somehow, he forgets about Laszlo Cseh. When he’s psyching himself up for the 400 IM, his mind is on Phelps. Not some dude from Hungary (although, he relents, that’s a pretty sweet name for a country). Phelps, who has seemingly forgiven him for that slipup in the hallway, is his competition. Beat Phelps is the text message his dad sent him, currently saved in his inbox.
On the starting blocks, he’s looking at Michael. This is their race, right? The one everyone’s been anticipating. The Phelps/Lochte showdown of ’08.
So they dive in. And he still feels like shit, okay? It’s important to point that out.
And they swim and he sees Phelps out of the corner of his eye, watches him at every turn, every few strokes, and he’s pulling away. First a little, then a lot. Then a lot more.
This is no Phelps/Lochte showdown. This is a strictly Phelps vs. Himself kind of race. Fine, Ryan concedes halfway through the third length, I’ll just take silver.
Except he’s got competition. Real competition. The guy in the next lane is riding his ass. And then he’s pulling away too. And Ryan reaches for the wall with every ounce of strength he has, but even before he looks at the clock, he knows it’s not enough.
Third place.
The crowd is cheering, but he knows it’s all for Michael’s new world record. And maybe for this guy from Hungary, too, the dude who took his silver.
Ryan surfaces and peeks at the times, just a little bit disappointed, and then turns to find Michael. Last time they swam this race together, Michael had grabbed him around the neck and pulled him against him, his chin cradling perfectly into the crook of Michael’s shoulder, and he’d grasped their hands and lifted them, shouting, “One-two, baby! One-two!”
This time, when Ryan looks over, Mike’s grinning and reaching across the lane line, towards Laszlo Cseh. (Now Ryan knows his name-how could he not?) Michael’s mouth forms the words “good job, man” and he half-hugs Cseh, touches the back of his head lightly. Cseh wraps his arm around Michael’s chest (where my arm should be, Ryan thinks vaguely) and they wave to the crowd before separating.
Maybe now is when Michael congratulates Ryan, like he has to go in order by rank, but he doesn’t stick around to find out. He’s climbing out of the pool, purposely not looking back, and he doesn’t react a second later when Cseh’s hand encloses on his hip, gives him a sorry-you’re-not-as-good-as-me pat (or, at least, that’s how Ryan takes it).
He doesn’t want to be touched by this guy. This guy who got to pop up after 400 meters and celebrate with Phelps, who will be wearing the silver medal on the podium and probably putting it in a little safe box in his living room for all of eternity.
He stole Ryan’s moment.
And the worst part of all is that Michael Phelps just doesn’t seem to care.
iii. ian crocker.
He’s heard the story. Watched the cute little montages they made about it, corny music playing in the background. Maybe he’s even read one or two or thirty-seven articles about it, when it happened in Athens. Michael is a good guy. That’s the only thing he discerns from the entire situation. Michael Phelps gives up relay spots to rival swimmers, and probably save kittens and feeds orphans, too.
Truthfully, Ryan never thought it was that heroic. The dude already had six gold medals. It’s not like he was going home heartbroken and empty-handed.
But he knows all about it, and that’s why he’s not surprised when they bring it up again-four years later. Blah blah blah Michael Phelps blah blah blah Ian Crocker blah blah blah outstanding sportsmanship. That’s all he hears out of Bob Costas’ mouth. The whole thing, dramatics and all, none of it is shocking.
What is surprising is Ian approaching him during lunch one day, pretty much out of nowhere, and he silently slides into the seat next to Ryan with his nice little pasta and salad, the meal Ryan probably should be eating. Ryan unwraps his Big Mac and doesn’t say anything. He’s never spoken to Ian before, outside of congratulations and a drunken Facebook message once, and, well, that was a big mistake. (For the record, Ian replied, but all he sent was a message that said “what?” and Ryan never bothered to explain.)
For a moment, there's an awkward and uncomfortable pause. Ian watches him out of the corner of his eye (and seriously dude, Ryan thinks, you are so fucking obvious) and waits until Ryan’s mouth is full to say anything.
“So I hear you’re the new posterboy for the famous rivalry with Phelps.”
Ryan almost chokes on his burger. He grimaces, forces it down, then turns to Ian with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah? I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Hey, it's not a bad thing. I know how it is. I was there four years ago.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe we should start a club. ‘Guys Who Take Second to Phelps.’”
“Maybe we should make it a Facebook group,” Ian says with a meaningful smile.
Ryan winces. Up until now, he was pretty sure he’d escape this conversation unscathed. He was also pretty sure Ian would never, ever bring that up again-in a distant, sort of humiliating way, Ryan vaguely remembers something about “wanting to lick” and-oh God-stroking his guitar.
“Maybe,” he mumbles.
“Anyway,” Ian says, because he’s the kind of guy who forgives and forgets easily, the kind who doesn’t get off on mortifying his fellow swimmers. “I just wanted to tell you good luck, and don’t let the pressure get to you.” He stacks his empty plate on his trey, pats him on the back once, and stands.
“And, oh,” he adds, doubling back, “are you sure you should be eating that?” He smiles, all-friendly, and nods towards Ryan’s second double cheeseburger. “Not to be gross, but your dad was out there telling the cameras that you have the runs. That… can’t be healthy.”
“I’m a big boy,” Ryan says indignantly, possibly blushing a little. (The runs? Really, Dad?) To prove a point, he stuffs two chicken nuggets in his mouth and washes them down with a gigantic gulp of Coke while Ian studies him, amused.
“Fair enough, then. See you around.”
Ian gives him a little wave before leaving the cafeteria, and Ryan idly chews on a handful of fries as he watches him go. He’s pretty sure Ian is singing to himself, under his breath, even though, like, everyone can see.
Ian is fucking weird, Ryan thinks, but he can’t really hate him. He’s too nice of a guy.
***
That night, they recount the story for the eighty-billionth time. When they’re done, the camera finds Ian in the audience. He just shrugs his shoulders and talks to the guy next to him, pretending not to notice.
On the way to his blocks, Michael’s coach grabs him by the arm and pulls him aside. Ryan glances over, intrigued, while Bob tells him something and then points. To Ian Crocker, Ryan realizes. Michael’s eyes follow.
So then he’s headed that way, camera trailing right behind, and he’s right in front of Ian, and he’s saying something and laughing, and then Ian’s reaching down and Michael moves in for a hug.
It’s no post-race congratulatory hug. It’s the full-bodied, I’m-so-glad-we’re-friends kind. The kind Ryan has never received from Michael, ever.
He watches Ian Crocker hug him, and his insides churn, and his face feels hot, and he realizes distantly that Ian Crocker’s an asshole, okay, and he really, really hates him.
iv. garrett weber-gale.
Ryan remembers what it felt like to be the new guy, the rookie. All awkward and terrified and trying to shrink into the shadows, so if you screw up, maybe no one will notice.
It’s how he felt, a few years ago. And just by watching this dude-Garrett Weber-Gale, this college swimmer who has probably never dreamed of making it to the Olympics, let alone knows how to act now that he’s actually here-he can tell that it’s exactly what's going through his mind.
Yeah, well, good luck, kid, Ryan thinks on more than one occasion. You’re swimming with Michael Phelps. If you fuck up, everyone will notice.
He never tells Garrett this. The fact of the matter is that Garrett still looks starstruck every time Phelps walks past him. It’s almost cute, in a pathetic sort of way. If Ryan hadn’t seen him macking on his very-gorgeous girlfriend in the hotel lobby, he probably would have mistaken Garrett’s idolatry as a full blown man-crush.
(The kind you have, Ryan tells himself, and then, shut up.)
The night of the relay, Ryan is nervous. Probably not as nervous as Garrett or Cullen Jones or Jason Lezak-not Michael Phelps, though, Michael’s never nervous-but he knows what this could mean. That this race has the greatest chance of stopping Mike’s quest for all golds.
And Michael is his buddy, right, even if he refuses to talk to him or make eye-contact anymore. They’re still friends.
So he watches the race and he’s practically biting his fucking fingernails off, and shit, during Lezak’s last leg, it’s over, they’ve lost it. But then… some miracle happens, or something, and Lezak’s surging and-oh holy shit-they take first.
Ryan allows his eyes to flicker to the clock for, like, a fraction of a second, and then he turns to watch Michael. He’s going crazy, like Ryan is, and he’s raising his fists in the air. He and Cullen grab each other by the necks, pound their fists. He reaches into the water and rubs Lezak’s cap.
And then Ryan looks at Garrett. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, like his teammates, and man, he has perfect reason to. His very first Olympics, he’s on a team with Michael Phelps, and they do… this.
Suddenly Garret’s not the awkward rookie with an intimidated sort of reverence towards Michael. It’s like, now they’re equals, they’re on the same team, and Ryan watches as he comes up from behind, grabs Michael around the waist, and hangs on tight.
It’s a great moment to witness, Garrett’s transformation. Michael doesn’t shake him off or pretend not to notice. He grins and grips Garret’s shoulder, elated with uncontainable post-victory joy.
It’s the kind of moment Ryan wishes he could be a part of.
And, he thinks, if Michael would, you know, stop avoiding him like the plague, then maybe-in the 200 meter relay, or even an individual race-just maybe, he could.
v. ryan lochte.
Ryan waits until the second-to-last day to confront him.
It’s not about being a wimp, or anything like that. He could have easily done it sooner, if he wanted to. They’re just both busy guys. He doesn’t want to be the dude responsible for throwing Phelps off his game. His crazy, over-the-top fans hate him enough for, like, breathing as it is.
He plans on waiting it out, he really does. Like maybe they can hash it out over a text message when they’re back in the states. But then, there comes a time when you can’t take it anymore. And Ryan’s had it, okay, he’s totally fed up. So Michael won’t talk to him? Fine, he’ll take the initiative. They’ll have a conversation or it will be Ryan blowing up in his fucking face, it doesn’t matter either way to him. If Phelps doesn’t want to answer, then whatever.
He’s used to it by now.
So he lingers in the bathroom and paces, hands shoved in his pockets, planning exactly what he’s going to say. He’s not very good at that part. The yelling and hateful expressions, those he can do. He just needs some words to accompany them.
And, like, two minutes later, the bathroom door swings open. And it’s Michael, of course it is, headphones around his neck. He looks at Ryan, and Ryan looks back.
“Hi,” says Michael.
Well. This kind of throws him off his game.
Ryan nods and says, “Hey,” before he remembers that he’s supposed to be pissed off. He changes paces, narrows his eyes, and adds, “So you’re talking to me now, huh?”
Michael was sort of heading towards one of the stalls, but then he stops and turns around, and he’s got a funny expression on his face. Like maybe Ryan's gone temporarily insane. “What?”
“So all it takes is an empty bathroom?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, Phelps.” Ryan had decided a few hours ago that they were no longer on first-name basis. Calling him Phelps makes him feel sort of like a badass, to tell the truth.
But Michael doesn’t look offended. In fact, he looks kind of amused. “Phelps?” he says, his eyebrows creasing. “What's going on?”
Damn it, Ryan thinks. He really should have written his little speech down. He takes a breath. “Okay, I know things were kind of weird and awkward at that Men’s Journal photoshoot-”
“Kind of?” Michael interrupts, and he’s-he’s totally laughing. “That was the weirdest three hours of my life. Remember when they told us to-”
“That’s not the point!” Ryan didn’t mean to yell, honestly, but it comes out a little loud and Michael’s laugh just trails off into bewildered silence. Ryan clears his throat before trying again. “And, I mean, you probably noticed that I got a little… you know, but I couldn’t help it, okay? That doesn’t mean you should just start ignoring me.”
Michael stares at him, and his eyebrows are returning to normal position but he still looks pretty clueless. “Ryan-I mean, Lochte,” he says, and bites back a grin, “you’re really not making any sense.”
Ryan’s hands flail a little before he drops them back to his side. Being pissed at Michael takes a lot of effort, apparently. He’s already drained. “You haven’t talked to me at all this week.”
Michael looks surprised. “Dude, maybe you didn’t notice, but we’re at the Olympics. Not some week-long sleepover.”
“So what? You can’t say hey when you walk by me in the hallways?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, Michael? Because I sure as fuck don’t get it.”
Michael takes two giant steps forward, and then he’s right in front of Ryan, and he’s gripping his shoulders with both hands and looking him square in the face. Ryan’s so startled that he almost fumbles backwards, but Michael hardly reacts.
“Hey, Ryan,” he says sarcastically, and he’s not loosening his grip any. “How are you? I’m doing fine, you know, not stressed at all. It’s not like it’s an important week for me. I mean, I’m sure it’d be different if cameras weren’t following my every move and guys I’ve never even heard of are talking shit about me everywhere I turn, but you know, I’m really glad we have all this free time to catch up.”
Ryan tenses, tries to push Michael’s arms away. “I get it,” he says quietly, miserably.
“And not only that, but I have to deal with you shooting me these… these moody-ass looks every day.” Michael finally relaxes his fingers, but he doesn’t remove them. Instead, he lightly traces Ryan’s collarbone in a fond kind of way, like this was totally normal.
“Well,” Ryan says, flustered. “Sorry. But you were being kind of a dick.”
“C’mon, man. It’s not my fault.” His hand lifts from Ryan’s shirt to his hair. He runs his fingers through it, gently, and Ryan’s spine erupts with shivers.
“But it’s almost over,” Mike adds, in a low, breathy voice. He touches Ryan’s jaw, trails his fingertips across his skin. Ryan’s eyes fall closed, completely on their own accord. “And then… we’ll have all week. And I meant to ask… if you maybe wanted to room with me at the hotel…”
“Yeah,” Ryan mutters weakly, because of all the ways he’s dreamed of being touched by Phelps, he’s pretty sure nothing beats this.
And then it gets better.
“Good,” Michael says, and he tugs on Ryan’s hair until he opens his eyes, and he’s smirking and leaning in even closer, if that’s possible, and his lips are already parted.
Michael smells like chlorine and sort of tastes like it, too, but it’s enjoyable, it really is, and his kisses are rough even though his skin is smooth, and his hands grab either side of Ryan’s face and he shoves him into the bathroom wall and presses his knee between Ryan’s thighs.
“God, Michael,” Ryan halfway whimpers, when they pull away. And Michael is grinning, and even though there’s still two days of competition left, even though they’re in a public place, even though everything about this screams bad fucking idea, he lowers himself to his knees.
“I know you were hard at that photoshoot,” he says casually, pulling the strings on Ryan’s pants. He smirks. “See, I do notice you,” he adds, and then he says nothing at all.
***
There’s four of them on this relay team, but there might as well just be two. This time, when they finish, Michael throws his head back and grabs Ryan, pulls him into the biggest hug of his entire life, maybe, chest-to-chest, Michael’s mouth on his ear, telling him, we did it, baby, we did it, fuck yes.
Ryan just smiles and thinks tonight-tonight, he’ll return the favor.