Siamese Fighting Fish
Title: Siamese Fighting Fish
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, violence, poorly-handled powerplay, some hurt/comfort.
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Set just after 2007 U.S. Nationals, 3712 words.
It isn’t hard for Johnny to shop. He drives around Spokane in a white rented Prius until he find a strip mall, parks on the curb to avoid getting his boots dirty in the snow.
He goes to Bath & Body Works and Bed Bath & Beyond but not Target, god forbid. He sees what movies are playing at the AMC 20 (nothing good). He even ventures into a PetSmart, wrinkling his nose at the smell of reptiles and stale wood shavings and scuffed linoleum. He ends up in front of a wall of betta fish, ($4.49, combtail, veiltail, fantail, half-sun), and idles for a while. He seriously considers buying an ornamental red one for the top of his fireplace, until he remembers that he’s never home and that the fish will die in a mason jar on his mantle, gasping in ammonia. Johnny’s never been very good at taking care of things.
When he drives back to the hotel, (pashmina scarf in tow, fifty dollars poorer), the sun isn’t setting, but it’s throwing a sharp glint on the snow. He parks under a naked maple tree and leaves his Jamba juice in the car.
It feels like it takes the elevator takes longer than usual to ding down eleven stories. He doesn’t roll on the balls of his feet and his shoulders are relaxed, but he can feel the familiar bite of anxiety gnawing under his ribs; foreign, in social situations. The desk clerk smiles at him when he glances over the lobby for lanky, retreating legs, and it isn’t like he has to force a smile-he’s Johnny Weir. But it takes him a long two seconds to respond with a smile of his own, which makes him feel off, like he futzed easy footwork in practice and now his whole routine might be karmatically fucked.
There’s an abandoned cleaning cart six doors down the hall on his floor. Johnny flicks the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door handle with his finger as he digs in his back pocket, and his palm sticks to the plastic of the keycard when he swipes it. The light turns green, the door opens with a loud click, and Evan’s right where he left him four hours ago, kneeling in the middle of his bed.
Johnny's stomach clenches, and he doesn’t acknowledge him. He shucks his coat off, unpeels his scarf (wool not silk) and tosses his keys on the chair. His motions are fluid, no pauses, but that doesn’t mean he’s not looking at Evan the whole time. Evan can’t tell he’s looking anyway. Not with the blindfold.
Johnny thinks Evan’s one of the rare few who could actually pull off black head-to-toe Louis Vuitton without looking like a total asshole. He’s not in anything close to that now-he’d never know to pick it on his own-but he’s wearing black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, cuffs pushed up high on his elbows. Like he has a natural, enviable awareness for what suits him, even if he’s hopelessly lost with fashion. Or like he noticed how fucking hard Johnny was after the Carmen program-but Johnny likes to think he was never that easy to read.
Johnny feels Evan listen in his periphery more than he sees him, when he zips open his duffel bag for a change of clothes. He digs around for a while, considers a few pairs of jeans and a couple shirts, but ends up deciding against anything at all. He replies to a few texts and turns his phone on silent, walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
He thinks about Evan as he lathers up his hair under the spray. Evan sleeping with his headphones on the bus, Evan finishing every warm-up with a half lutz. Evan asking a German bellboy where the closest market is and mangling his umlauts, Evan trying to pick up Mongolian beef with chopsticks and dropping it every time, right before it reaches his mouth. Evan with his hands tied behind his back, kneeling blindfolded in Johnny’s bed for most of the afternoon-because Johnny told him to stay.
Johnny takes his time opening himself up with his fingers, thinking about the clean straight line of Evan’s neck, the hint of stubborn arrogance in the slope of his shoulders.
If anyone would ever be able to tell how turned on he was from the way he moved or the way he spoke, the signs are gone when Johnny steps out of the bathroom. Evan doesn’t move, but Johnny sees him breathe in slow and deep, for one inhale.
He wanders over to Evan, stops near the edge of the bed, but not touching. Evan is stone still. Johnny leans in.
“I wonder how your day went,” he muses. Evan’s mouth opens to reply, and it’s way too fucking easy for Johnny to backhand him, hard enough to snap his head to the side. Easy to see Evan landing the quad in the long program, easy to see the prick in high-school who looked just like him, who never bullied Johnny, but never gave him a second glance either. Evan had laughed after his program, and Johnny had fallen on his ass.
“I didn’t ask for an answer.”
Evan’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. Johnny watches a dull pink spread out on the sharp bone of his cheek, Evan’s head still tilted to the side, down a little. He feels an odd thrill of power.
He can see Evan fighting not to turn away when he climbs onto the mattress, settles in uncomfortably close.
“Heard you took a spill the other day,” he says. This is an understatement. He actually heard that Evan fucking wiped out, smashed down at an odd angle that banged up half his ribcage, knocked the wind out of his lungs and left him gasping on the ice like a guppy. Evan seems to remember the fall too, judging from the slight furrow in his brow, the kind of look that equates to a full-out wince on anyone else. But he's also learned his lesson, because he doesn’t say anything.
“Where was it?” Johnny coos, cupping Evan’s hips in his hands. He watches Evan’s Adam’s apple bob.
“Here?” He presses his thumb between two ribs on Evan's left side, and Evan remains impassive. But his lips turn down the smallest bit when Johnny switches, in anticipation, maybe, and then his mouth goes tight and pained when Johnny presses the heel of his hand against his right side. It makes Johnny’s dick kick to see him hurting, which is probably messed up.
“…Yeah. Dunno,” he says. He can tell Evan is squeezing his eyes shut tight under the blindfold. “I’m gonna look.”
Johnny runs his hand light and smooth down Evan's chest and Evan starts, when Johnny suddenly jerks his shirt out of his pants. And then Johnny can’t really see his face anymore, gently nosing at the strip of exposed skin above Evan’s jeans. His hair is still damp from the shower, and the muscles in Evan’s stomach pull tight when the tips of his bangs brush his skin.
Johnny laps kitten licks up his side, slowly pushes his shirt up with his thumbs until he finds an angry purple bruise, two fists wide and green along the edges. It’s the kind of mark they all have under the sequins and spandex, but it sends a hot shock through his body that feels entirely different than normal arousal, normal response. Evan seizes up when Johnny smears his mouth over it, and Johnny hears him moan like it’s someone else-mostly because he's never heard Evan moan before. They never make sounds around each other, doing this. It’s broken, uncomfortable, and foreign, and Johnny bites the bruise to make Evan do it again.
He doesn't give Evan much warning when he falls back on his elbows, fisting a rough hand in his collar and yanking him down after him. Evan flails for a second, struggling to maintain his balance and not completely face-plant on Johnny’s chest-Johnny watches his shoulders and abdomen tighten up at the last possible second, righting himself and regaining control of his body, his arms pinned back behind him. Evan’s panting with adrenaline and exhaustion and arousal, and he looks horribly perfect to Johnny, curled over above him, hair mussed, shaking with nerves and endorphins, a bruise blooming on his cheek. His shirt is still half rucked up on his side, purple peeking out from under the hem.
They don’t ever do this on a bed. They don’t ever do this naked. Johnny doesn’t get painfully hard just watching Evan wince, and Evan doesn’t moan. And Johnny’s never hurt him. Not like this anyways, not in a way that will leave the impressions of his teeth in his side. Things are starting to careen out of control, and Johnny isn’t even sure when the two of them started rolling down a hill.
And now Evan’s sore all over, trembling, humiliated, and clearly waiting for Johnny to give him instructions. It's making Johnny lightheaded. He traces a finger down Evan’s cheek, from his temple to the curve of his chin.
“I’m going to fuck your face,” he says casually. And it’s insane, when Evan just swallows and obediently parts his lips. Johnny watches him wait. And then it’s the hottest thing Johnny has ever seen, when Evan finally takes the hint and awkwardly leans forward, searching him out with his mouth. He’s too low and Johnny doesn’t care-Evan winces, surprised, when Johnny’s dick bobs higher against his face than he expected, smearing precome down his cheek. It’s a long moment before Evan collects himself, tilts his head and follows Johnny's dick up, mouth open and hot and slick, the back of his head sliding up the inside of Johnny’s thigh. Johnny’s hips roll the slightest bit when Evan's mouth closes over the tip, his hand clenching in the comforter.
Evan works hard at it. He’s in the most awkward position imaginable for a blowjob-kneeling, hands bound behind his back, leaning forward-his center of balance is all off, and Johnny knows it’s wearing him out. He’s already been been on his knees for five hours. Johnny can see his stomach quivering under his shirt. He can also see the bulge in his pants, the flush on his cheeks that means he’s really, really turned on. Johnny doesn’t know which of them is sicker: him for being second best and pretending to be first, Evan for saying he’s straight, believing he’s straight, and getting off this hard on a faggot queen slapping him around. This is the kind of thing Johnny refuses to think about.
In any case, for all his heteronormality, Evan’s great at blowjobs. Not the best Johnny’s had, but like Evan’s skating, reliably amazing. Johnny would say it’s because Evan whores around, except for how he knows he doesn’t, which complicates things. Usually, when semi-sex happens, it’s something close to the podium privilege cliché-but nothing that planned and rationalized. Just a frantic, violent exchange that’s been happening on and off since they were sixteen, messy and rough in the back of locker rooms or vans. So thinking about how Evan’s technique is perfectly calibrated to fit what Johnny wants, about how he’s never listened to someone else’s instructions, never had someone else’s dick in his mouth or someone else’s come on his face-that no-one else has ever looked down and seen Evan Lysacek’s eyes looking back up, lips taunt around their cock-understandably, Johnny avoids the topic. It’s too intimate and faggy and glaringly not them. He also doesn’t think about the fact that Evan won this time, but that it was Evan showed up to his room this morning smelling like coffee and Evan who backed up when Johnny pushed, Evan who let Johnny put him where he wanted him, who didn’t say a word when Johnny said “Stay” and left him alone, feeling angry and sadistic and destructive in a way he’d never let Evan see before.
Johnny twitches in Evan's mouth and Evan hums and swallows, takes him to the back of his throat-only once, only for a few seconds-Johnny knows that’s all he can handle and somehow, the fact that Evan’s giving that to him makes it more than enough. He thrusts up and hits the back of Evan’s throat and Evan gags, puffs air hard out his nose, but doesn’t stop him. It gets to the point where Evan’s hardly moving his head at all, just sucking, tight and warm and wet but still, and Johnny knows it’s because he can hardly keep his head up.
Evan’s nearing his breaking point. Johnny can tell. His shoulders are trembling violently and his tongue is pressed up flat under Johnny’s dick, but Johnny doesn’t move. He lets it get right to the moment where he knows Evan’s muscles are about to involuntarily give out-Evan makes a small resilient grunt in his throat, like a frustrated encouragement to himself, and Johnny gives. He spreads his feet out farther apart than his hips, knock-kneed for stability, and lets Evan understand that he can lean on him, for a bit anyways. Evan makes a soft (but not grateful) mmf noise, pulls up off his dick with a long swallow. He braces his shoulder on the crook of Johnny’s knee. The line of spit between them is already broken, but Evan’s lips are still shining and pink and wet, his mouth open as he struggles to catch his breath.
They stay like that for a few minutes. Headlights race by on the wall, the heater clicks on. Johnny runs his hand through Evan’s hair, pushes his bangs back and lets them fall on his forehead-softer without the shitty drugstore gel he uses for competition-and then he tightens his fingers, pulls in way that borders on possessive. He watches Evan rest on his thigh, mouth open and nose pressed in his skin, and realizes he’s a lot closer to coming that he wants to be.
“I’m going to get myself off on your cock,” he says. Evan’s mouth moves without any sound coming out. Johnny doesn’t give him a chance to recover, just half sits up, Evan’s nose crushed in his neck as Johnny reaches behind his back. Evan makes a soft sound of discomfort and relief, when Johnny unties his wrists.
“Don’t you do a fucking thing,” and then Johnny leans back again, grabs one of Evan’s hands and drags it down, because suddenly he wants Evan to know everything-that he’s completely naked, that his legs are spread for him, that when Johnny left him alone earlier, it was only because he was getting himself ready for him, that he was wanting this all day when they’d never come anywhere close to fucking before. He slides a few of Evan’s fingers over himself, lets him feel how slick and open he is already, presses a few inside because he’s seriously gotten off to nothing but the thought of Evan fingering him before, half-clothed and half-asleep in his sheets. Evan groans and his fingers curl and Johnny knows he didn’t mean it, that it was shock and arousal, not teasing, but he slaps Evan’s hand away anyways, thanks god that he’s wearing a blindfold, that Evan can’t see how turned on he is.
“Brace yourself over me and don’t fucking think about moving. I swear to god I will leave you here.”
Evan’s hesitant and shaky as he blindly feels out where Johnny is, hands hot and careful in a way that makes Johnny bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, and then Evan locks his elbows on either side of Johnny’s shoulders and Johnny reaches down to slick up his cock with lube from the dresser.
They’re skaters, Johnny knows they both have clean bills of health. But it still feels taboo, opening Evan’s pants and fisting his cock without a condom, watching Evan try as hard as he can not to come, knowing that there isn’t going to be anything between them when they fuck. Johnny knows it’s unlikely that Evan will bite his lip hard enough to bleed, but he actually looks close, so he takes his hand away.
For a moment he regrets not pushing Evan on his back, thinks about how hot it would be to straddle him and make the headboard bang. But eight hours a day on the ice, and Johnny knows he can ride Evan well enough from the bottom. He shimmies down the sheets and guides him in, steady and sure, and before Evan can catch his breath, Johnny gives his hips a hard grind, rolling up, letting his thighs drop farther apart as he settles into a clockwork rhythm. The small of his back arches up off the mattress when he hits the good spot and for the first time, Johnny lets himself moan. Evan is statue-still above him, almost shaking-because his muscles are tired, because he’s fighting, with every inch of his body, not to move. Johnny knows it. He’s blocking any sounds in his throat and he's wincing, and Johnny imagines that underneath the blindfold, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight he sees red.
Evan’s cock feels big in him, heavy and stable. “Fuck I’m close,” Johnny says, breaking every rule-talking, fucking-he tightens himself up and bears down, gasping, and Evan moans above him, ragged and desperate. Johnny is way too close-he forces himself to open his eyes and all he sees is Evan in exquisite pain, about to come and not allowed to, not allowing himself to, and Johnny falls over the edge.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, shooting two stripes on his belly, and Evan makes a sound like a whimper. As soon as Johnny has air in his lungs, he starts talking.
“C’mon, Evan, c’mon-” he begins, and just like that, Evan comes. Johnny was expecting a hard thrust, Evan ploughing him into the mattress, but Evan’s hips just weakly stutter forward and then a sound bursts out of his mouth, something between surprise, confusion, and pain, broken in his throat. His elbows give. Johnny feels his whole body shudder against his own, afterwards.
And then Johnny’s left panting up at the ceiling, shell-shocked and out of his depth. Evan’s head is surprisingly heavy when he leans it on Johnny’s chest, nose in his sternum, and Johnny can smell Evan’s hair product, he can feel Evan breathing at the same time he is. And suddenly, it’s fucking overwhelming. He grunts and pushes at Evan’s shoulders until Evan rolls off of him, then stumbles off the bed and into the bathroom.
Once he’s cleaned up, when his body stops shaking and he regains some semblance of his usual control, he comes back out. Evan is sitting up now, fumbling at the blindfold. When he finally manages to pull it off, his hair is sticking up everywhere, his eyes are wide, pupils blown. His mouth moves like he's speaking, but he doesn't say anything. He reminds Johnny of when they were fourteen and idling in the locker room, right before they skated Juniors for the first time. No-one else could tell Evan was nervous, out of his element, scared-but Johnny could tell. He could always tell. Seeing that look for the first time in seven years makes him feel uncomfortable, angry, competitive, and possibly protective, all at the same time.
He suddenly notices Evan favoring his left wrist. That it's swollen, like Evan’d leaned back on it wrong, maybe pulled too hard on the sash. “You need to ice that,” he observes. He doesn’t give a fuck if he’s naked. Who gives a fuck. This is all fucked.
Evan’s rooting around on the side of Johnny’s bed, for his coat, maybe. “Fuck off, Johnny,” he bites. His voice sounds hoarse.
Johnny is pissed. He goes into the mini-kitchen and digs in the fridge for the mini-freezer tray, cracks the cubes out and shakes them into a ziplock bag. Zips it.
He doesn’t storm back in but he’s obviously fuming, and it sucks that he’s especially mad because he isn’t sure why he’s mad. By this point in their lives, Evan can probably tell he’s switched into diva mode. And by this point in their lives, Evan doesn’t care. Which also sucks.
“You need to fucking ice that,” Johnny says again. Now Evan’s fighting with his shoes. He’s managed to get one tied, but the other is proving a hassle for his fucking gimp hand. Watching him try despite the pain has got Johnny feeling that stupid feeling all over again, except now it’s concrete, physical, like a stitch in his side, laced with concern.
It sucks more royally than he thought it ever could.
“I’m not kidding, you prick.” Evan gives him a Look when he tries to walk over, and Johnny walks over anyways. Then Evan ignores him, so Johnny kicks at his good hand until he gives up trying to tie his shoe. Evan straightens, and for a second, Johnny thinks Evan might actually kick his ass.
“You need to ice it,” he repeats.
Evan glowers at him for a long second. Johnny can tell he’s forcing himself to make eye contact, and suddenly, he realizes Evan’s embarrassed. Evan seems to realize Johnny’s realized right when he realizes, and he frowns, grabs at the bag. “Fine.”
Johnny yanks it back, and Evan actually flexes his arm, like there’s a reflex there to deck Johnny that he’s barely, barely holding back.
“I’m supposed to do this,” Johnny insists, before he knows what he’s going to say. His tone is as argumentative and bitchy as ever, but now there’s a different force behind it now, authoritative and annoyed. Because for some reason, Johnny is thinking about porn sites, sense deprivation and smacking and blowing and aftercare and all the shit he reads about when he’s horny or bored on the plane, and he knows he has a responsibility, some kind of Responsibility to stick around and make sure Evan doesn’t run himself into walls when the blindfold comes off.
Evan looks as pissed off as ever, but he seems to recognize that there’s something different about the way Johnny’s saying it this time. Whether or not he actually understands-suddenly, Johnny’s intensely afraid that he might understand everything, maybe better than Johnny does-Evan gives him the ice pack and extends his wrist. He narrows his eyes when Johnny accepts it, but Johnny just sits down next to him, carefully cups the ice pack around the bone. A car drives by.
“Just stay for a while, okay,” Johnny says quietly. There isn’t much intonation in it, but it’s clear that he’s asking, not telling.
Evan stays.
Author: tyrannicides
Pairing: Evan Lysacek/Johnny Weir
Rating: NC-17 for sex, language, violence, poorly-handled powerplay, some hurt/comfort.
Disclaimer: Don't own, made up.
Summary: Set just after 2007 U.S. Nationals, 3712 words.
It isn’t hard for Johnny to shop. He drives around Spokane in a white rented Prius until he find a strip mall, parks on the curb to avoid getting his boots dirty in the snow.
He goes to Bath & Body Works and Bed Bath & Beyond but not Target, god forbid. He sees what movies are playing at the AMC 20 (nothing good). He even ventures into a PetSmart, wrinkling his nose at the smell of reptiles and stale wood shavings and scuffed linoleum. He ends up in front of a wall of betta fish, ($4.49, combtail, veiltail, fantail, half-sun), and idles for a while. He seriously considers buying an ornamental red one for the top of his fireplace, until he remembers that he’s never home and that the fish will die in a mason jar on his mantle, gasping in ammonia. Johnny’s never been very good at taking care of things.
When he drives back to the hotel, (pashmina scarf in tow, fifty dollars poorer), the sun isn’t setting, but it’s throwing a sharp glint on the snow. He parks under a naked maple tree and leaves his Jamba juice in the car.
It feels like it takes the elevator takes longer than usual to ding down eleven stories. He doesn’t roll on the balls of his feet and his shoulders are relaxed, but he can feel the familiar bite of anxiety gnawing under his ribs; foreign, in social situations. The desk clerk smiles at him when he glances over the lobby for lanky, retreating legs, and it isn’t like he has to force a smile-he’s Johnny Weir. But it takes him a long two seconds to respond with a smile of his own, which makes him feel off, like he futzed easy footwork in practice and now his whole routine might be karmatically fucked.
There’s an abandoned cleaning cart six doors down the hall on his floor. Johnny flicks the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door handle with his finger as he digs in his back pocket, and his palm sticks to the plastic of the keycard when he swipes it. The light turns green, the door opens with a loud click, and Evan’s right where he left him four hours ago, kneeling in the middle of his bed.
Johnny's stomach clenches, and he doesn’t acknowledge him. He shucks his coat off, unpeels his scarf (wool not silk) and tosses his keys on the chair. His motions are fluid, no pauses, but that doesn’t mean he’s not looking at Evan the whole time. Evan can’t tell he’s looking anyway. Not with the blindfold.
Johnny thinks Evan’s one of the rare few who could actually pull off black head-to-toe Louis Vuitton without looking like a total asshole. He’s not in anything close to that now-he’d never know to pick it on his own-but he’s wearing black pants and a black long-sleeved shirt, cuffs pushed up high on his elbows. Like he has a natural, enviable awareness for what suits him, even if he’s hopelessly lost with fashion. Or like he noticed how fucking hard Johnny was after the Carmen program-but Johnny likes to think he was never that easy to read.
Johnny feels Evan listen in his periphery more than he sees him, when he zips open his duffel bag for a change of clothes. He digs around for a while, considers a few pairs of jeans and a couple shirts, but ends up deciding against anything at all. He replies to a few texts and turns his phone on silent, walks into the bathroom and shuts the door.
He thinks about Evan as he lathers up his hair under the spray. Evan sleeping with his headphones on the bus, Evan finishing every warm-up with a half lutz. Evan asking a German bellboy where the closest market is and mangling his umlauts, Evan trying to pick up Mongolian beef with chopsticks and dropping it every time, right before it reaches his mouth. Evan with his hands tied behind his back, kneeling blindfolded in Johnny’s bed for most of the afternoon-because Johnny told him to stay.
Johnny takes his time opening himself up with his fingers, thinking about the clean straight line of Evan’s neck, the hint of stubborn arrogance in the slope of his shoulders.
If anyone would ever be able to tell how turned on he was from the way he moved or the way he spoke, the signs are gone when Johnny steps out of the bathroom. Evan doesn’t move, but Johnny sees him breathe in slow and deep, for one inhale.
He wanders over to Evan, stops near the edge of the bed, but not touching. Evan is stone still. Johnny leans in.
“I wonder how your day went,” he muses. Evan’s mouth opens to reply, and it’s way too fucking easy for Johnny to backhand him, hard enough to snap his head to the side. Easy to see Evan landing the quad in the long program, easy to see the prick in high-school who looked just like him, who never bullied Johnny, but never gave him a second glance either. Evan had laughed after his program, and Johnny had fallen on his ass.
“I didn’t ask for an answer.”
Evan’s mouth opens, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. Johnny watches a dull pink spread out on the sharp bone of his cheek, Evan’s head still tilted to the side, down a little. He feels an odd thrill of power.
He can see Evan fighting not to turn away when he climbs onto the mattress, settles in uncomfortably close.
“Heard you took a spill the other day,” he says. This is an understatement. He actually heard that Evan fucking wiped out, smashed down at an odd angle that banged up half his ribcage, knocked the wind out of his lungs and left him gasping on the ice like a guppy. Evan seems to remember the fall too, judging from the slight furrow in his brow, the kind of look that equates to a full-out wince on anyone else. But he's also learned his lesson, because he doesn’t say anything.
“Where was it?” Johnny coos, cupping Evan’s hips in his hands. He watches Evan’s Adam’s apple bob.
“Here?” He presses his thumb between two ribs on Evan's left side, and Evan remains impassive. But his lips turn down the smallest bit when Johnny switches, in anticipation, maybe, and then his mouth goes tight and pained when Johnny presses the heel of his hand against his right side. It makes Johnny’s dick kick to see him hurting, which is probably messed up.
“…Yeah. Dunno,” he says. He can tell Evan is squeezing his eyes shut tight under the blindfold. “I’m gonna look.”
Johnny runs his hand light and smooth down Evan's chest and Evan starts, when Johnny suddenly jerks his shirt out of his pants. And then Johnny can’t really see his face anymore, gently nosing at the strip of exposed skin above Evan’s jeans. His hair is still damp from the shower, and the muscles in Evan’s stomach pull tight when the tips of his bangs brush his skin.
Johnny laps kitten licks up his side, slowly pushes his shirt up with his thumbs until he finds an angry purple bruise, two fists wide and green along the edges. It’s the kind of mark they all have under the sequins and spandex, but it sends a hot shock through his body that feels entirely different than normal arousal, normal response. Evan seizes up when Johnny smears his mouth over it, and Johnny hears him moan like it’s someone else-mostly because he's never heard Evan moan before. They never make sounds around each other, doing this. It’s broken, uncomfortable, and foreign, and Johnny bites the bruise to make Evan do it again.
He doesn't give Evan much warning when he falls back on his elbows, fisting a rough hand in his collar and yanking him down after him. Evan flails for a second, struggling to maintain his balance and not completely face-plant on Johnny’s chest-Johnny watches his shoulders and abdomen tighten up at the last possible second, righting himself and regaining control of his body, his arms pinned back behind him. Evan’s panting with adrenaline and exhaustion and arousal, and he looks horribly perfect to Johnny, curled over above him, hair mussed, shaking with nerves and endorphins, a bruise blooming on his cheek. His shirt is still half rucked up on his side, purple peeking out from under the hem.
They don’t ever do this on a bed. They don’t ever do this naked. Johnny doesn’t get painfully hard just watching Evan wince, and Evan doesn’t moan. And Johnny’s never hurt him. Not like this anyways, not in a way that will leave the impressions of his teeth in his side. Things are starting to careen out of control, and Johnny isn’t even sure when the two of them started rolling down a hill.
And now Evan’s sore all over, trembling, humiliated, and clearly waiting for Johnny to give him instructions. It's making Johnny lightheaded. He traces a finger down Evan’s cheek, from his temple to the curve of his chin.
“I’m going to fuck your face,” he says casually. And it’s insane, when Evan just swallows and obediently parts his lips. Johnny watches him wait. And then it’s the hottest thing Johnny has ever seen, when Evan finally takes the hint and awkwardly leans forward, searching him out with his mouth. He’s too low and Johnny doesn’t care-Evan winces, surprised, when Johnny’s dick bobs higher against his face than he expected, smearing precome down his cheek. It’s a long moment before Evan collects himself, tilts his head and follows Johnny's dick up, mouth open and hot and slick, the back of his head sliding up the inside of Johnny’s thigh. Johnny’s hips roll the slightest bit when Evan's mouth closes over the tip, his hand clenching in the comforter.
Evan works hard at it. He’s in the most awkward position imaginable for a blowjob-kneeling, hands bound behind his back, leaning forward-his center of balance is all off, and Johnny knows it’s wearing him out. He’s already been been on his knees for five hours. Johnny can see his stomach quivering under his shirt. He can also see the bulge in his pants, the flush on his cheeks that means he’s really, really turned on. Johnny doesn’t know which of them is sicker: him for being second best and pretending to be first, Evan for saying he’s straight, believing he’s straight, and getting off this hard on a faggot queen slapping him around. This is the kind of thing Johnny refuses to think about.
In any case, for all his heteronormality, Evan’s great at blowjobs. Not the best Johnny’s had, but like Evan’s skating, reliably amazing. Johnny would say it’s because Evan whores around, except for how he knows he doesn’t, which complicates things. Usually, when semi-sex happens, it’s something close to the podium privilege cliché-but nothing that planned and rationalized. Just a frantic, violent exchange that’s been happening on and off since they were sixteen, messy and rough in the back of locker rooms or vans. So thinking about how Evan’s technique is perfectly calibrated to fit what Johnny wants, about how he’s never listened to someone else’s instructions, never had someone else’s dick in his mouth or someone else’s come on his face-that no-one else has ever looked down and seen Evan Lysacek’s eyes looking back up, lips taunt around their cock-understandably, Johnny avoids the topic. It’s too intimate and faggy and glaringly not them. He also doesn’t think about the fact that Evan won this time, but that it was Evan showed up to his room this morning smelling like coffee and Evan who backed up when Johnny pushed, Evan who let Johnny put him where he wanted him, who didn’t say a word when Johnny said “Stay” and left him alone, feeling angry and sadistic and destructive in a way he’d never let Evan see before.
Johnny twitches in Evan's mouth and Evan hums and swallows, takes him to the back of his throat-only once, only for a few seconds-Johnny knows that’s all he can handle and somehow, the fact that Evan’s giving that to him makes it more than enough. He thrusts up and hits the back of Evan’s throat and Evan gags, puffs air hard out his nose, but doesn’t stop him. It gets to the point where Evan’s hardly moving his head at all, just sucking, tight and warm and wet but still, and Johnny knows it’s because he can hardly keep his head up.
Evan’s nearing his breaking point. Johnny can tell. His shoulders are trembling violently and his tongue is pressed up flat under Johnny’s dick, but Johnny doesn’t move. He lets it get right to the moment where he knows Evan’s muscles are about to involuntarily give out-Evan makes a small resilient grunt in his throat, like a frustrated encouragement to himself, and Johnny gives. He spreads his feet out farther apart than his hips, knock-kneed for stability, and lets Evan understand that he can lean on him, for a bit anyways. Evan makes a soft (but not grateful) mmf noise, pulls up off his dick with a long swallow. He braces his shoulder on the crook of Johnny’s knee. The line of spit between them is already broken, but Evan’s lips are still shining and pink and wet, his mouth open as he struggles to catch his breath.
They stay like that for a few minutes. Headlights race by on the wall, the heater clicks on. Johnny runs his hand through Evan’s hair, pushes his bangs back and lets them fall on his forehead-softer without the shitty drugstore gel he uses for competition-and then he tightens his fingers, pulls in way that borders on possessive. He watches Evan rest on his thigh, mouth open and nose pressed in his skin, and realizes he’s a lot closer to coming that he wants to be.
“I’m going to get myself off on your cock,” he says. Evan’s mouth moves without any sound coming out. Johnny doesn’t give him a chance to recover, just half sits up, Evan’s nose crushed in his neck as Johnny reaches behind his back. Evan makes a soft sound of discomfort and relief, when Johnny unties his wrists.
“Don’t you do a fucking thing,” and then Johnny leans back again, grabs one of Evan’s hands and drags it down, because suddenly he wants Evan to know everything-that he’s completely naked, that his legs are spread for him, that when Johnny left him alone earlier, it was only because he was getting himself ready for him, that he was wanting this all day when they’d never come anywhere close to fucking before. He slides a few of Evan’s fingers over himself, lets him feel how slick and open he is already, presses a few inside because he’s seriously gotten off to nothing but the thought of Evan fingering him before, half-clothed and half-asleep in his sheets. Evan groans and his fingers curl and Johnny knows he didn’t mean it, that it was shock and arousal, not teasing, but he slaps Evan’s hand away anyways, thanks god that he’s wearing a blindfold, that Evan can’t see how turned on he is.
“Brace yourself over me and don’t fucking think about moving. I swear to god I will leave you here.”
Evan’s hesitant and shaky as he blindly feels out where Johnny is, hands hot and careful in a way that makes Johnny bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, and then Evan locks his elbows on either side of Johnny’s shoulders and Johnny reaches down to slick up his cock with lube from the dresser.
They’re skaters, Johnny knows they both have clean bills of health. But it still feels taboo, opening Evan’s pants and fisting his cock without a condom, watching Evan try as hard as he can not to come, knowing that there isn’t going to be anything between them when they fuck. Johnny knows it’s unlikely that Evan will bite his lip hard enough to bleed, but he actually looks close, so he takes his hand away.
For a moment he regrets not pushing Evan on his back, thinks about how hot it would be to straddle him and make the headboard bang. But eight hours a day on the ice, and Johnny knows he can ride Evan well enough from the bottom. He shimmies down the sheets and guides him in, steady and sure, and before Evan can catch his breath, Johnny gives his hips a hard grind, rolling up, letting his thighs drop farther apart as he settles into a clockwork rhythm. The small of his back arches up off the mattress when he hits the good spot and for the first time, Johnny lets himself moan. Evan is statue-still above him, almost shaking-because his muscles are tired, because he’s fighting, with every inch of his body, not to move. Johnny knows it. He’s blocking any sounds in his throat and he's wincing, and Johnny imagines that underneath the blindfold, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight he sees red.
Evan’s cock feels big in him, heavy and stable. “Fuck I’m close,” Johnny says, breaking every rule-talking, fucking-he tightens himself up and bears down, gasping, and Evan moans above him, ragged and desperate. Johnny is way too close-he forces himself to open his eyes and all he sees is Evan in exquisite pain, about to come and not allowed to, not allowing himself to, and Johnny falls over the edge.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he breathes, shooting two stripes on his belly, and Evan makes a sound like a whimper. As soon as Johnny has air in his lungs, he starts talking.
“C’mon, Evan, c’mon-” he begins, and just like that, Evan comes. Johnny was expecting a hard thrust, Evan ploughing him into the mattress, but Evan’s hips just weakly stutter forward and then a sound bursts out of his mouth, something between surprise, confusion, and pain, broken in his throat. His elbows give. Johnny feels his whole body shudder against his own, afterwards.
And then Johnny’s left panting up at the ceiling, shell-shocked and out of his depth. Evan’s head is surprisingly heavy when he leans it on Johnny’s chest, nose in his sternum, and Johnny can smell Evan’s hair product, he can feel Evan breathing at the same time he is. And suddenly, it’s fucking overwhelming. He grunts and pushes at Evan’s shoulders until Evan rolls off of him, then stumbles off the bed and into the bathroom.
Once he’s cleaned up, when his body stops shaking and he regains some semblance of his usual control, he comes back out. Evan is sitting up now, fumbling at the blindfold. When he finally manages to pull it off, his hair is sticking up everywhere, his eyes are wide, pupils blown. His mouth moves like he's speaking, but he doesn't say anything. He reminds Johnny of when they were fourteen and idling in the locker room, right before they skated Juniors for the first time. No-one else could tell Evan was nervous, out of his element, scared-but Johnny could tell. He could always tell. Seeing that look for the first time in seven years makes him feel uncomfortable, angry, competitive, and possibly protective, all at the same time.
He suddenly notices Evan favoring his left wrist. That it's swollen, like Evan’d leaned back on it wrong, maybe pulled too hard on the sash. “You need to ice that,” he observes. He doesn’t give a fuck if he’s naked. Who gives a fuck. This is all fucked.
Evan’s rooting around on the side of Johnny’s bed, for his coat, maybe. “Fuck off, Johnny,” he bites. His voice sounds hoarse.
Johnny is pissed. He goes into the mini-kitchen and digs in the fridge for the mini-freezer tray, cracks the cubes out and shakes them into a ziplock bag. Zips it.
He doesn’t storm back in but he’s obviously fuming, and it sucks that he’s especially mad because he isn’t sure why he’s mad. By this point in their lives, Evan can probably tell he’s switched into diva mode. And by this point in their lives, Evan doesn’t care. Which also sucks.
“You need to fucking ice that,” Johnny says again. Now Evan’s fighting with his shoes. He’s managed to get one tied, but the other is proving a hassle for his fucking gimp hand. Watching him try despite the pain has got Johnny feeling that stupid feeling all over again, except now it’s concrete, physical, like a stitch in his side, laced with concern.
It sucks more royally than he thought it ever could.
“I’m not kidding, you prick.” Evan gives him a Look when he tries to walk over, and Johnny walks over anyways. Then Evan ignores him, so Johnny kicks at his good hand until he gives up trying to tie his shoe. Evan straightens, and for a second, Johnny thinks Evan might actually kick his ass.
“You need to ice it,” he repeats.
Evan glowers at him for a long second. Johnny can tell he’s forcing himself to make eye contact, and suddenly, he realizes Evan’s embarrassed. Evan seems to realize Johnny’s realized right when he realizes, and he frowns, grabs at the bag. “Fine.”
Johnny yanks it back, and Evan actually flexes his arm, like there’s a reflex there to deck Johnny that he’s barely, barely holding back.
“I’m supposed to do this,” Johnny insists, before he knows what he’s going to say. His tone is as argumentative and bitchy as ever, but now there’s a different force behind it now, authoritative and annoyed. Because for some reason, Johnny is thinking about porn sites, sense deprivation and smacking and blowing and aftercare and all the shit he reads about when he’s horny or bored on the plane, and he knows he has a responsibility, some kind of Responsibility to stick around and make sure Evan doesn’t run himself into walls when the blindfold comes off.
Evan looks as pissed off as ever, but he seems to recognize that there’s something different about the way Johnny’s saying it this time. Whether or not he actually understands-suddenly, Johnny’s intensely afraid that he might understand everything, maybe better than Johnny does-Evan gives him the ice pack and extends his wrist. He narrows his eyes when Johnny accepts it, but Johnny just sits down next to him, carefully cups the ice pack around the bone. A car drives by.
“Just stay for a while, okay,” Johnny says quietly. There isn’t much intonation in it, but it’s clear that he’s asking, not telling.
Evan stays.