[FIC] (Swimming) Elephant
Title: Elephant
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte (Swimming)
Word Count: 3,441
Summary: If there is an elephant, he would have seen it and kicked its ass in the process.
Disclaimer: The following story is untrue and I am only borrowing the names and in no way does this story reflect the swimmers nor am I making any profit off of this.
Notes: This is a continuation of Maturity is (Over)Rated, set right afterward. Keeping the fandom alive! This is unbeta'd, any errors are mine. And I totally forgot I wrote the original in present tense and wrote this in past tense, hoy tense change and any of that is my error too. Originally posted here.
Ever since Michael won those eight medals back in August, his job turns into raking in as much screen time and money before his moment runs out and it becomes time for him to hit the pool again. Which sucks considering he’s only an athlete and yes, he did win those eight gold medals, but you know, this publicity stuff isn’t part of the job description.
With all the travelling, he only bumps into Lochte that one time in New York. And when he wakes up in Lochte’s hotel room, he finds himself alone in the bed and no sign of his best friend anywhere. He pulls out his phone from his jacket, after scouring for it as his clothes all over the floor. Bastard doesn’t even clean it up for him.
Speed dial 3. (Mom’s at 2.) Ring. Another ring. Two more rings before it goes to voice mail. Michael angrily presses the button and ends the call. He is confused and, of course, angry. This is not what he calls normal behavior for Ryan Lochte. Ryan never fucks and ditches, that is more of Michael’s thing - whether it is the right thing to do or not isn’t up for discussion at the moment.
Mumbling to himself, Michael picks up his clothes and quickly dresses himself as he scrambles to exit this room. As his hand reaches for the doorknob, he wonders if he should wait for Lochte to come back. He supposes that his best friend has to come back sooner or later, after all this is his hotel room and everything of his is here.
Or the idiot can find himself another room and he can buy everything he needs here - after all this is New York.
The debate rages on inside his head until Michael becomes annoyed with himself and slams the door behind him as he irately heads for the elevator and out of this ungodly place. He has other appointments to take care of, and right now he doesn’t have all the time in the world to wait for his immature best friend to get over whatever stupid thing he cooks up in his mind this time.
Michael has less than forty minutes to get to the taping of another talk show. Even though the studio is a few blocks down, flagging down a taxi is not the best optional given the traffic in Manhattan and the lack of vacant taxis. Suddenly he regrets turning down the ride that his agent offered. So he braces the rare cold day in September and pulls the toque over his head, covering his ears in the process as he walks down the busy streets of New York. He barely gets recognize without the ears sticking out.
*
Ryan sips on his fourth screwdriver of the afternoon before finally seeing Michael walking across the lobby and out of the hotel. It wasn’t his intention to drink when he left the room, but just an orange juice is much too bland for his taste given the situation at hand. A little drinky-drinky isn’t going to hurt anyone.
He gulps down the last of the orange juice before sliding off the bar stool. The floor shakes beneath his feet (earthquake? that’s too easy.) as his hands reaches out for something to steady himself. Ryan often forgets that he isn’t much of a drinker with his semi-emptied stomach, especially when Michael’s not around to remind him.
Ryan manages to get himself to the right floor and even pulls out his keycard and slips it in the right slot before stumbling into his hotel room. It is a miracle he did all this considering how unwell he felt since sliding off that bar stool.
He forgoes the bed, thinking that Michael is still sleeping in it but then remembers he just saw the man walking out of the hotel, so he joyously flops onto the glorious bed. Sleep consumes him with no time wasted as he lay flat on the bed, with thoughts of alcohol and Michael Phelps far, far away.
*
The taping ends two hours later, as Michael reluctantly stays until the end of the taping because there are some fans that want pictures with him. He doesn’t mind the staying part, but other than he keeps twitching throughout the entire show, knowing what is causing the twitches and trying to think of ways to stop the stupid twitches.
“Michael, how are you doing? Thank you for coming.” The host sits and asks after shaking Michael’s hand and waiting for the Olympian to sit down on the couch. Do they clean this thing?
Michael snaps back to reality as he remembers that he needs to put that stuff aside as the media-darling Michael takes over. “I'm doing very well, thank you.”
“I think most of America have seen your work in the pool and the medals you've won, tell us how important your teammates were to you during your competition? They were there for you during the relays but they were also competing against you in other races,” the host nodding as he asks his question.
Michael, the media-darling as he needs to be, takes the question in stride as he ignores the fact that the host probably thought he’s very smart with coming up these new and unique question, when in fact Michael has heard and answered these countless times before. But since he is in media-darling mode, any and all questions are brand new and unique like snowflakes. And it isn’t the host’s fault really that almost all forms of the same questions are asked for the billionth time.
“Oh, they were of course important, without them I wouldn't have gotten the 8 medals because swimming is as much of an individual sport as it is, uh, a team sport. As for the competition side of things, they are all top notch athletes and, uh, they all earned a spot in the race. Knowing how well they swim first hand, it makes me want to push myself more and, uh, a little harder to reach my goal and touch the edge of the pool.”
The host bobs along to Michael’s answer as his eyes gawk at Michael. Michael sees the glint in his eyes and knows the man wants to see the medals. He turns to his right and wraps his hands around the ribbons, pulling all 8 up at the same time. The medals shine against the studio lights and the glare hits his eyes. He ignores that too, knowing that the host won’t catch it as his beady little eyes go straight for the medals, while the audience cheers and screams as Michael holds out the medals for the world (or this audience) to see. He gently lays them down on the host's wooden table, eyes barely noticing how the medals clash against the brown.
“So Michael, what have you been doing after Beijing other than doing these talk shows? Are you just relaxing now?” The host's eyes stares into Michael's. Again, Michael knows exactly what the man wants and lightly tips his head. He watches the clammy hands attack the gold medals and the owner of those hands lifts up all eight medals at the same time. Michael wants to laugh at the reaction of the host as none of these hosts expects all eight of them together to be that heavy, but he keeps that to himself, with only a light smirk on his face indicating the amusement and displeasure.
He answers the question like all the others: “hasn’t been doing much, just taking it slow before the training starts up again...” His eyes land on the producer warning the host of the time left for the interview before commercial break. Michael knows there is another important guest on coming after him, so there is no way they are going to make him continue the interview after the commercial break right? His right eye twitches out of the blue and he laughs to cover it up.
“Thank you so much Michael for coming here and bringing the medals with you to the show. We all hope to see you compete again in 2012,” the host boisterously says. Michael shakes the man's still clammy hand before waving at the audience.
No one cares for anything in between the Olympics.
*
Ryan freaks out when he can’t breathe and tries to catch his breath but fails to. Then he realizes he is sleeping on his stomach and rolls over to take in a deep breath. To his surprise, he wakes up to no hangovers with the amount he drank. Maybe he should have ordered that fifth screwdriver if he knows he isn't going to be puking the content out.
He remembers a weird dream involving himself and Phelps, but it is all too fuzzy. All he recalls it is a dream that leaves a goofy grin on his face and there is some kicking involved, whatever that means.
Ryan squints to see the time on his watch as his wrist is much farther away than he expects, given that he is holding it out in the air. The time lets him know that it is already 11 at night and it must be true since his stomach tells him the same thing. There is food to be consumed, whether it is in his room with room service or heading down to the restaurant in the lobby - which he hopes that stupid waitress, whatever her stupid name is, will not be there anymore. He refuses to dine there again if she is around there, with her flirty eyes and low cut shirt. Isn’t that against the rules for an upscale hotel chain? Whatever.
Ryan decides to stick to his room, seeing that he will need to shower and look semi-presentable if he is to go down into the “upscale restaurant”. He slides off the bed and finds the menu on the desk. He jumps back onto the bed with it and flips on the TV with the remote.
“Boring. Boring. Watched it,” Ryan mutters to himself as he tries to find anything interesting at his hour. “Shit,” he mutters with his eyes glued to the TV screen. So that’s why Michael’s in town, Ryan thinks as he watches his friend talking and laughing with the host, and the eight goddamn medals, sprawling out on the table like some slut, ready and willing.
He can’t make himself turn off the TV or change to another channel. It is mesmerizing watching Michael work his magic with the host, knowing full well how annoying it is to answer the same damn questions over and over again himself. Of course, he never has this many shows to attend to. But he still knows.
There is a knock on the door and Ryan groans at the noise. The last thing he wants to do is to be not only be bothered, but to need to get off his bed and get to the door, and he can't yell 'it's opened' either since hotel doors don't work that way. Ryan mumbles a few choice words under his breath before swinging his legs off the bed, heading to the door, unlocking and pulling it open.
“Of course it had to be you,” Ryan says as his eyes fall onto the same face he saw mere seconds ago on the TV screen.
“Who were you expecting?” Michael grins, holding up two large paper bags of what Ryan assumes are food. His eyes immediately go to those and his stomach growls in response.
“Aren't you going to invite me in?” Michael asks, hands still holding up the paper bags.
Ryan bobs his head and lets the man through before closing the door behind him.
“Food?” Ryan asks, with his voice hitched.
“Just a guess but had a feeling that you'd be hungry,” Michael replies as he takes out the content of the paper bags out into the table.
Ryan licks his lips in anticipation of the food, while putting other thoughts behind him for the moment.
“I wasn't sure what you had in mind, so I picked up some sushi and then got burgers from the restaurant below,” Michael says as he places a stack of sushi boxes on the desk. Ryan wishes Phelps would have just bought one of those big party trays. One of those can fill both of them up quite well, but beggars can't be choosers when his own stomach yearns for any sort of food.
Michael hands him a pair of chopsticks while Ryan grabs a burger and a few packs of sushi before migrating back onto the bed.
“What are you watching?” Michael asks when he finally turned to the TV screen.
Ryan, realizing that Michael's interview is still playing on the TV screen, shrugs. “Uh, I just stumbled on it.”
“Oh, that,” Michael laughs as he too moves onto the bed, nudging Lochte over. “That was an embarrassing interview.”
“Did I miss anything important?” Ryan asks, mumbling with an entire sushi roll in his mouth.
“No, just your typical interview.” Michael gives up on the chopsticks and just uses his hand to dip the rolls into the soy sauce and wasabi.
“Oh.” Ryan dips his own California rolls into Michael's soy sauce. “What?” Ryan says, as Phelps glares at him. “My hands are too slippery. And you wouldn't want me opening a pack of soy sauce on the bed anyway.”
Michael sighs in agreement before pushing over a plastic container that holds all the soy sauce and wasabi. It'd be hard to explain a large pool of dark liquids on the bed sheets, even if it smells like soy sauce. They both annihilate the sushi by the time the music guest starts playing, and by then they each took large bites out of the burgers. Michael makes sure Ryan got his ketchup, mustard and radish packets as he ordered, even if the waiter looked at him with a funny expression on his face.
Michael ends up opening the condiment packets for Ryan, even though Ryan probably should do it on the desk. But after a few kicking of the leg by Michael, and it doesn’t produce the result he has hoped for, he reluctantly does so for Lochte, which garners a huge goofy grin from Ryan, and Michael thinks it’s rather worth it.
The talk show concludes and the next one continues on with more light-hearted music as introduction. The two finishes up their meal and are drinking the last of the few cans of beer Michael could stuff into the paper bags.
“So are we not going to talk about it?” Michael starts, crushing the empty can with his bare hands and tosses it to the ground.
“Talk about what?” Lochte replies, downing the last of the beer and trying to burp unsuccessfully.
“What happened today, when you, uh, left,” Michael painfully clarifies, keeping his eyes on the TV screen.
“Oh, that,” Ryan mumbles, knowing what the man next to him meant the moment the question left his mouth. But he isn’t jumping for joy to deal with the problem at the moment with his stomach full of beer and greasy food alike.
“Yes, that,” Michael tries again, his tone more serious this time.
“I, uh, went get some food?” Ryan tried, knowing he isn't going to get away with this, but tries his feeble excuse anyway. The last thing he wants is an all out fight with Michael, or sleeping with the guy again. Neither is a viable option, which totally makes sense in Ryan’s books, figuratively speaking, he doesn’t own books - wait.
Fighting with Michael sucks and sleeping with him will violate every rule in the said book, especially after his resolve to not sleep with Phelps again. There is no other path to take, is there? “Fine, you know what. I had to leave. Is that what you want to know?”
“An explanation would be nice,” Michael grits his teeth. “I know it's hypocritical of me to say this, but it's not the best feeling in the world to fuck me then leave, when this is your hotel room and all.”
Ryan turns and glares at Michael, knowing that what Michael just said is the last thing he expects and wants to hear. Those words coming out of Michael Phelps’s mouth are the exact words every girl Michael slept with would think afterwards. Karma's a bitch.
“It's different with those girls, Ry,” Michael stresses. “I would never see those girls again, but I'll still see you. Friends don't do that to friends, you know.”
If only Ryan can turn off his hearing right now, because Michael Phelps is being the world's biggest douchebag at the moment and he probably doesn’t even know it. It is painfully obvious to Ryan, for once in his life. That is the reason why he walked away, isn't it? And now here he is again, all because of his hungry stomach wanting food. Damn swimmer’s stomach.
“We're not talking about this, Phelps,” Ryan replies, raising his voice this time. “Either you be MP - the easy going guy and an actual friend, or you get out, because I don't want to talk to you when you're like this.”
“Woah, where did that come from?” Michael's eyes widen.
All my pent up anger? All the time when I didn’t say anything because you were across the country doing talk shows? Let’s see where to start. Ryan shakes his head at Phelps. “I can’t be sleeping with you anymore. It’s not fair to either of us, or whoever you’re dating this time around. Every time we see each other we end up hooking up. We’re not fuck buddies, MP.”
Michael throws his hands in the air. “Then we won’t sleep with each other. It’s not the hardest thing to do in the world, Lochte. If this is the reason why you’re acting this way, then stop. This is the stupidest argument ever.”
“No, this isn’t. We are friends, we’ll always be friends. But I’m around you, I am not the Ryan Lochte I want to be,” Ryan says lamely.
“You’re seriously throwing the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ cliché at me? This is not jeah, not jeah at all, dude.”
“This isn’t about jeah, so don’t bring that up,” Ryan sits up, crosses his legs into an Indian pose, and fakes a yawn. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to fight.”
Michael shakes his head, legs already swinging off the bed. “Then you want me to leave?”
“You probably should,” Ryan blurts out, despite feeling that familiar squeeze of his heart. “I have, uh, this function thing tomorrow, so I should get some sleep.”
Michael lets out an uneasy breath. He can’t decide if he should blow Ryan’s cover or let him be. He’s tempted to do the former because this entire thing isn’t sitting well with him and tonight he’s going to be tossing and turning in the bed in his own room if they don’t resolve this.
And the fact that Michael doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here for the rest of the night may factor into his decision.
“Bullshit. Whatever function that wants you to make an appearance won’t ask you to be there before noon because your agent knows you can’t be up earlier than that other than for training. So why don’t we actually deal with the elephant in the room before this gets to the point where we’re too fucking stubborn to talk to each other.” Michael, with that last burst of courage, half-yells at Ryan, with his back turned against his best friend.
“Shut up, MP. There is no elephant. The only elephant in the room is you if that’s what you want to call it,” Ryan hotly replies. He is not a coward. If there is an elephant, he would have seen it and kicked its ass in the process.
“The fact that you just left me without waking me up is something you’re willing to ignore?” Michael rubs the back of his neck in displeasure. “Why are we fighting about this, Ry?”
“Shit, I don’t know. It’s not very jeah, is it?” Ryan turns to face Michael but is greeted with his back.
Michael twists his head and their eyes meet. “So are we good?” Michael asks.
Ryan bobs his head in agreement. But he knows it’s not jeah and Michael the Elephant Phelps is still in the room and in every room they’ll ever be in.
Rating: R
Pairing/Characters: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte (Swimming)
Word Count: 3,441
Summary: If there is an elephant, he would have seen it and kicked its ass in the process.
Disclaimer: The following story is untrue and I am only borrowing the names and in no way does this story reflect the swimmers nor am I making any profit off of this.
Notes: This is a continuation of Maturity is (Over)Rated, set right afterward. Keeping the fandom alive! This is unbeta'd, any errors are mine. And I totally forgot I wrote the original in present tense and wrote this in past tense, hoy tense change and any of that is my error too. Originally posted here.
Ever since Michael won those eight medals back in August, his job turns into raking in as much screen time and money before his moment runs out and it becomes time for him to hit the pool again. Which sucks considering he’s only an athlete and yes, he did win those eight gold medals, but you know, this publicity stuff isn’t part of the job description.
With all the travelling, he only bumps into Lochte that one time in New York. And when he wakes up in Lochte’s hotel room, he finds himself alone in the bed and no sign of his best friend anywhere. He pulls out his phone from his jacket, after scouring for it as his clothes all over the floor. Bastard doesn’t even clean it up for him.
Speed dial 3. (Mom’s at 2.) Ring. Another ring. Two more rings before it goes to voice mail. Michael angrily presses the button and ends the call. He is confused and, of course, angry. This is not what he calls normal behavior for Ryan Lochte. Ryan never fucks and ditches, that is more of Michael’s thing - whether it is the right thing to do or not isn’t up for discussion at the moment.
Mumbling to himself, Michael picks up his clothes and quickly dresses himself as he scrambles to exit this room. As his hand reaches for the doorknob, he wonders if he should wait for Lochte to come back. He supposes that his best friend has to come back sooner or later, after all this is his hotel room and everything of his is here.
Or the idiot can find himself another room and he can buy everything he needs here - after all this is New York.
The debate rages on inside his head until Michael becomes annoyed with himself and slams the door behind him as he irately heads for the elevator and out of this ungodly place. He has other appointments to take care of, and right now he doesn’t have all the time in the world to wait for his immature best friend to get over whatever stupid thing he cooks up in his mind this time.
Michael has less than forty minutes to get to the taping of another talk show. Even though the studio is a few blocks down, flagging down a taxi is not the best optional given the traffic in Manhattan and the lack of vacant taxis. Suddenly he regrets turning down the ride that his agent offered. So he braces the rare cold day in September and pulls the toque over his head, covering his ears in the process as he walks down the busy streets of New York. He barely gets recognize without the ears sticking out.
*
Ryan sips on his fourth screwdriver of the afternoon before finally seeing Michael walking across the lobby and out of the hotel. It wasn’t his intention to drink when he left the room, but just an orange juice is much too bland for his taste given the situation at hand. A little drinky-drinky isn’t going to hurt anyone.
He gulps down the last of the orange juice before sliding off the bar stool. The floor shakes beneath his feet (earthquake? that’s too easy.) as his hands reaches out for something to steady himself. Ryan often forgets that he isn’t much of a drinker with his semi-emptied stomach, especially when Michael’s not around to remind him.
Ryan manages to get himself to the right floor and even pulls out his keycard and slips it in the right slot before stumbling into his hotel room. It is a miracle he did all this considering how unwell he felt since sliding off that bar stool.
He forgoes the bed, thinking that Michael is still sleeping in it but then remembers he just saw the man walking out of the hotel, so he joyously flops onto the glorious bed. Sleep consumes him with no time wasted as he lay flat on the bed, with thoughts of alcohol and Michael Phelps far, far away.
*
The taping ends two hours later, as Michael reluctantly stays until the end of the taping because there are some fans that want pictures with him. He doesn’t mind the staying part, but other than he keeps twitching throughout the entire show, knowing what is causing the twitches and trying to think of ways to stop the stupid twitches.
“Michael, how are you doing? Thank you for coming.” The host sits and asks after shaking Michael’s hand and waiting for the Olympian to sit down on the couch. Do they clean this thing?
Michael snaps back to reality as he remembers that he needs to put that stuff aside as the media-darling Michael takes over. “I'm doing very well, thank you.”
“I think most of America have seen your work in the pool and the medals you've won, tell us how important your teammates were to you during your competition? They were there for you during the relays but they were also competing against you in other races,” the host nodding as he asks his question.
Michael, the media-darling as he needs to be, takes the question in stride as he ignores the fact that the host probably thought he’s very smart with coming up these new and unique question, when in fact Michael has heard and answered these countless times before. But since he is in media-darling mode, any and all questions are brand new and unique like snowflakes. And it isn’t the host’s fault really that almost all forms of the same questions are asked for the billionth time.
“Oh, they were of course important, without them I wouldn't have gotten the 8 medals because swimming is as much of an individual sport as it is, uh, a team sport. As for the competition side of things, they are all top notch athletes and, uh, they all earned a spot in the race. Knowing how well they swim first hand, it makes me want to push myself more and, uh, a little harder to reach my goal and touch the edge of the pool.”
The host bobs along to Michael’s answer as his eyes gawk at Michael. Michael sees the glint in his eyes and knows the man wants to see the medals. He turns to his right and wraps his hands around the ribbons, pulling all 8 up at the same time. The medals shine against the studio lights and the glare hits his eyes. He ignores that too, knowing that the host won’t catch it as his beady little eyes go straight for the medals, while the audience cheers and screams as Michael holds out the medals for the world (or this audience) to see. He gently lays them down on the host's wooden table, eyes barely noticing how the medals clash against the brown.
“So Michael, what have you been doing after Beijing other than doing these talk shows? Are you just relaxing now?” The host's eyes stares into Michael's. Again, Michael knows exactly what the man wants and lightly tips his head. He watches the clammy hands attack the gold medals and the owner of those hands lifts up all eight medals at the same time. Michael wants to laugh at the reaction of the host as none of these hosts expects all eight of them together to be that heavy, but he keeps that to himself, with only a light smirk on his face indicating the amusement and displeasure.
He answers the question like all the others: “hasn’t been doing much, just taking it slow before the training starts up again...” His eyes land on the producer warning the host of the time left for the interview before commercial break. Michael knows there is another important guest on coming after him, so there is no way they are going to make him continue the interview after the commercial break right? His right eye twitches out of the blue and he laughs to cover it up.
“Thank you so much Michael for coming here and bringing the medals with you to the show. We all hope to see you compete again in 2012,” the host boisterously says. Michael shakes the man's still clammy hand before waving at the audience.
No one cares for anything in between the Olympics.
*
Ryan freaks out when he can’t breathe and tries to catch his breath but fails to. Then he realizes he is sleeping on his stomach and rolls over to take in a deep breath. To his surprise, he wakes up to no hangovers with the amount he drank. Maybe he should have ordered that fifth screwdriver if he knows he isn't going to be puking the content out.
He remembers a weird dream involving himself and Phelps, but it is all too fuzzy. All he recalls it is a dream that leaves a goofy grin on his face and there is some kicking involved, whatever that means.
Ryan squints to see the time on his watch as his wrist is much farther away than he expects, given that he is holding it out in the air. The time lets him know that it is already 11 at night and it must be true since his stomach tells him the same thing. There is food to be consumed, whether it is in his room with room service or heading down to the restaurant in the lobby - which he hopes that stupid waitress, whatever her stupid name is, will not be there anymore. He refuses to dine there again if she is around there, with her flirty eyes and low cut shirt. Isn’t that against the rules for an upscale hotel chain? Whatever.
Ryan decides to stick to his room, seeing that he will need to shower and look semi-presentable if he is to go down into the “upscale restaurant”. He slides off the bed and finds the menu on the desk. He jumps back onto the bed with it and flips on the TV with the remote.
“Boring. Boring. Watched it,” Ryan mutters to himself as he tries to find anything interesting at his hour. “Shit,” he mutters with his eyes glued to the TV screen. So that’s why Michael’s in town, Ryan thinks as he watches his friend talking and laughing with the host, and the eight goddamn medals, sprawling out on the table like some slut, ready and willing.
He can’t make himself turn off the TV or change to another channel. It is mesmerizing watching Michael work his magic with the host, knowing full well how annoying it is to answer the same damn questions over and over again himself. Of course, he never has this many shows to attend to. But he still knows.
There is a knock on the door and Ryan groans at the noise. The last thing he wants to do is to be not only be bothered, but to need to get off his bed and get to the door, and he can't yell 'it's opened' either since hotel doors don't work that way. Ryan mumbles a few choice words under his breath before swinging his legs off the bed, heading to the door, unlocking and pulling it open.
“Of course it had to be you,” Ryan says as his eyes fall onto the same face he saw mere seconds ago on the TV screen.
“Who were you expecting?” Michael grins, holding up two large paper bags of what Ryan assumes are food. His eyes immediately go to those and his stomach growls in response.
“Aren't you going to invite me in?” Michael asks, hands still holding up the paper bags.
Ryan bobs his head and lets the man through before closing the door behind him.
“Food?” Ryan asks, with his voice hitched.
“Just a guess but had a feeling that you'd be hungry,” Michael replies as he takes out the content of the paper bags out into the table.
Ryan licks his lips in anticipation of the food, while putting other thoughts behind him for the moment.
“I wasn't sure what you had in mind, so I picked up some sushi and then got burgers from the restaurant below,” Michael says as he places a stack of sushi boxes on the desk. Ryan wishes Phelps would have just bought one of those big party trays. One of those can fill both of them up quite well, but beggars can't be choosers when his own stomach yearns for any sort of food.
Michael hands him a pair of chopsticks while Ryan grabs a burger and a few packs of sushi before migrating back onto the bed.
“What are you watching?” Michael asks when he finally turned to the TV screen.
Ryan, realizing that Michael's interview is still playing on the TV screen, shrugs. “Uh, I just stumbled on it.”
“Oh, that,” Michael laughs as he too moves onto the bed, nudging Lochte over. “That was an embarrassing interview.”
“Did I miss anything important?” Ryan asks, mumbling with an entire sushi roll in his mouth.
“No, just your typical interview.” Michael gives up on the chopsticks and just uses his hand to dip the rolls into the soy sauce and wasabi.
“Oh.” Ryan dips his own California rolls into Michael's soy sauce. “What?” Ryan says, as Phelps glares at him. “My hands are too slippery. And you wouldn't want me opening a pack of soy sauce on the bed anyway.”
Michael sighs in agreement before pushing over a plastic container that holds all the soy sauce and wasabi. It'd be hard to explain a large pool of dark liquids on the bed sheets, even if it smells like soy sauce. They both annihilate the sushi by the time the music guest starts playing, and by then they each took large bites out of the burgers. Michael makes sure Ryan got his ketchup, mustard and radish packets as he ordered, even if the waiter looked at him with a funny expression on his face.
Michael ends up opening the condiment packets for Ryan, even though Ryan probably should do it on the desk. But after a few kicking of the leg by Michael, and it doesn’t produce the result he has hoped for, he reluctantly does so for Lochte, which garners a huge goofy grin from Ryan, and Michael thinks it’s rather worth it.
The talk show concludes and the next one continues on with more light-hearted music as introduction. The two finishes up their meal and are drinking the last of the few cans of beer Michael could stuff into the paper bags.
“So are we not going to talk about it?” Michael starts, crushing the empty can with his bare hands and tosses it to the ground.
“Talk about what?” Lochte replies, downing the last of the beer and trying to burp unsuccessfully.
“What happened today, when you, uh, left,” Michael painfully clarifies, keeping his eyes on the TV screen.
“Oh, that,” Ryan mumbles, knowing what the man next to him meant the moment the question left his mouth. But he isn’t jumping for joy to deal with the problem at the moment with his stomach full of beer and greasy food alike.
“Yes, that,” Michael tries again, his tone more serious this time.
“I, uh, went get some food?” Ryan tried, knowing he isn't going to get away with this, but tries his feeble excuse anyway. The last thing he wants is an all out fight with Michael, or sleeping with the guy again. Neither is a viable option, which totally makes sense in Ryan’s books, figuratively speaking, he doesn’t own books - wait.
Fighting with Michael sucks and sleeping with him will violate every rule in the said book, especially after his resolve to not sleep with Phelps again. There is no other path to take, is there? “Fine, you know what. I had to leave. Is that what you want to know?”
“An explanation would be nice,” Michael grits his teeth. “I know it's hypocritical of me to say this, but it's not the best feeling in the world to fuck me then leave, when this is your hotel room and all.”
Ryan turns and glares at Michael, knowing that what Michael just said is the last thing he expects and wants to hear. Those words coming out of Michael Phelps’s mouth are the exact words every girl Michael slept with would think afterwards. Karma's a bitch.
“It's different with those girls, Ry,” Michael stresses. “I would never see those girls again, but I'll still see you. Friends don't do that to friends, you know.”
If only Ryan can turn off his hearing right now, because Michael Phelps is being the world's biggest douchebag at the moment and he probably doesn’t even know it. It is painfully obvious to Ryan, for once in his life. That is the reason why he walked away, isn't it? And now here he is again, all because of his hungry stomach wanting food. Damn swimmer’s stomach.
“We're not talking about this, Phelps,” Ryan replies, raising his voice this time. “Either you be MP - the easy going guy and an actual friend, or you get out, because I don't want to talk to you when you're like this.”
“Woah, where did that come from?” Michael's eyes widen.
All my pent up anger? All the time when I didn’t say anything because you were across the country doing talk shows? Let’s see where to start. Ryan shakes his head at Phelps. “I can’t be sleeping with you anymore. It’s not fair to either of us, or whoever you’re dating this time around. Every time we see each other we end up hooking up. We’re not fuck buddies, MP.”
Michael throws his hands in the air. “Then we won’t sleep with each other. It’s not the hardest thing to do in the world, Lochte. If this is the reason why you’re acting this way, then stop. This is the stupidest argument ever.”
“No, this isn’t. We are friends, we’ll always be friends. But I’m around you, I am not the Ryan Lochte I want to be,” Ryan says lamely.
“You’re seriously throwing the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ cliché at me? This is not jeah, not jeah at all, dude.”
“This isn’t about jeah, so don’t bring that up,” Ryan sits up, crosses his legs into an Indian pose, and fakes a yawn. “You know what, never mind. I don’t want to fight.”
Michael shakes his head, legs already swinging off the bed. “Then you want me to leave?”
“You probably should,” Ryan blurts out, despite feeling that familiar squeeze of his heart. “I have, uh, this function thing tomorrow, so I should get some sleep.”
Michael lets out an uneasy breath. He can’t decide if he should blow Ryan’s cover or let him be. He’s tempted to do the former because this entire thing isn’t sitting well with him and tonight he’s going to be tossing and turning in the bed in his own room if they don’t resolve this.
And the fact that Michael doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here for the rest of the night may factor into his decision.
“Bullshit. Whatever function that wants you to make an appearance won’t ask you to be there before noon because your agent knows you can’t be up earlier than that other than for training. So why don’t we actually deal with the elephant in the room before this gets to the point where we’re too fucking stubborn to talk to each other.” Michael, with that last burst of courage, half-yells at Ryan, with his back turned against his best friend.
“Shut up, MP. There is no elephant. The only elephant in the room is you if that’s what you want to call it,” Ryan hotly replies. He is not a coward. If there is an elephant, he would have seen it and kicked its ass in the process.
“The fact that you just left me without waking me up is something you’re willing to ignore?” Michael rubs the back of his neck in displeasure. “Why are we fighting about this, Ry?”
“Shit, I don’t know. It’s not very jeah, is it?” Ryan turns to face Michael but is greeted with his back.
Michael twists his head and their eyes meet. “So are we good?” Michael asks.
Ryan bobs his head in agreement. But he knows it’s not jeah and Michael the Elephant Phelps is still in the room and in every room they’ll ever be in.