Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Povídky

~by Estriel~

“Why not?“ Adam pouts and gives Eliot one of his looks, the kind that’s designed to make you do exactly what he wants. If Eliot wasn’t used to them, he’d probably budge and change his mind immediately, because there’s only so much boy-cutesy he can resist. Adam knows that, knows him, and Eliot is a little mad at the shameless manipulation attempt. He’s more than a little mad – at himself this time – when he realizes that it’s working, that he’s mulling it over in his head.

Why not, indeed? he asks himself and reaches out to tuck a stray strand of Adam’s hair behind his ear. The straightener Adam uses is beginning to wear off; his locks are half-curly, half-straight and the resulting mess is rather nice-looking.

Adam pouts some more and Eliot can’t help but think of all the times they fooled around in the past, of how soft and warm Adam’s lips felt while they kissed, and of the sweet shivers Adam’s fingers sent through him when he ran them across Eliot’s belly.

But no, Eliot decides, he needs to stay determined and stick to the new goals he set for himself. That’s how it’s always been for him; he’s never settled for the status quo. “Because I’m no longer in Juniors,” he says firmly.

“So?” Adam cocks his head to the side. “I don’t mind that you’re all old now,” he smiles and leans forward, eyes flirty and warm.

“But I do. I can now go play with the seniors,” Eliot explains and doesn’t even bother to tone down the eagerness in his voice. Seniors. The grand real world. The real men.

Adam crosses his arms in front of his chest and turns his face to the side, away from Eliot, the light gone from his eyes. “Who do you think you’re going to play with?” he snorts. “Or wait – who do you think is going to want to play with you?”

Eliot gives him a glare and quickly files through the list of potential candidates. Candidates in the sense that Eliot finds them attractive. It’s a rather long list, of course, because Eliot is seventeen and men’s singles just happens to offer a full array of interesting choices.
He could name Stephen, for example. That would sting, because Stephen isn’t really that much more a senior than Adam. But, in the end, he blurts out the name that he thinks is going to sound most impressive.
“Johnny Weir,” he announces, voice firm and determined. He’s quite proud of how confident he sounds, how... senior.

Adam’s eyes bug out and he almost looks worried for a second, but he swiftly composes himself and the surprised expression is quickly replaced by a sneer. “Yeah. Sure. Because Johnny Weir is just waiting to fuck you.”

Something about the way Adam emphasizes the last word makes Eliot blush furiously. “Why shouldn’t he?” he snaps.

“Because Johnny Weir doesn’t fuck anyone,” Adam informs him and rolls his eyes.

Eliot opens his mouth to argue, but Adam isn’t finished yet.

“Because he fucked up a whole season because of his love life and he doesn’t want that to happen again. Therefore – no distractions, no sex, no fun. He really wants that Olympic gold, you know. And even if – “ Adam pauses, thinking, then continues when he finds the right name: “Even if Plushenko himself came and tried to seduce him, Johnny still wouldn’t do him. So there. Good luck,” he spits.

It’s Eliot’s turn to pout. He doesn’t even try to argue, because it would be pointless. Adam is right, of course. It’s common knowledge that Johnny Weir lives like a monk these days, that he really – literally – spends his life at the rink. How could he not remember that before he blurted his name of all people? Didn’t he overhear Jeremy whining about how Johnny’s become worse than those Catholic novice boys?

But it’s not like he really has a choice, is it? There’s no way he could admit defeat now. Also, he’s cuter than Jeremy, so maybe he could still give it a try. So he lifts his chin, nose in the air, and says, trying to channel his earlier confidence and conviction: “He’ll make an exception for me.”

Adam laughs out loud this time. “Right,” he says and flops down on his bed.

“I will sleep with him,” Eliot declares defiantly, annoyed by the fact that Adam has made it so clear that he doesn’t take him seriously at all.

Adam smirks. “I really don’t envy you. Your balls are gonna turn blue and fall off long before he even looks at you.”

Eliot just glares, not sure how to respond, because he’s not even sure what the hell Adam’s point is.

“You’re gonna have to wait until 2010, at the very least. And even then, I doubt you’ll have a chance. I mean, you’re cute and all, but...” Adam gives Eliot a poignant once-over and raises his eyebrows.

“Just wait,” Eliot mumbles. He knows perfectly well where Adam is going with this. He’s going to taunt for so long until Eliot starts feeling like he needs to prove himself and show Adam that he’s a perfectly worthy lay. Or lover. Boyfriend. Whatever. Perfectly worthy.

But this time, Eliot is wiser than to fall for Adam’s game. “You just wait,” he repeats and turns on his heel to leave. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Adam bolt upright, but he ignores him. He ignores the shout of Eliot, wait as well and slams the door shut behind himself. He stomps out of the room they’re sharing and down the hallway, cheeks burning red with anger and annoyance. Damn Adam.

He runs all the way down to the hotel lobby and there he stops. He didn’t think to grab his jacket and it’s freezing outside. Damn Minnesota. He huffs in frustration and sinks into one of the armchairs by the wall, ignoring the odd look the receptionist gives him.

Ten minutes later, Eliot has calmed down and is slowly beginning to reconsider. He should have named Stephen. With Stephen he’d at least have a somewhat realistic chance. But damn, he’s a figure skater. Delusions of grandeur are part of his job description; how could anyone expect him to go for realistic?!

He still wants to have some fun, though, and forget about his less than grand senior debut. Could he return to their room now? Adam would be happy to take him; they are friends, after all. And he really isn’t that bad a choice.

Eliot hops to his feet, decided to be humble and go back to Adam. Maybe the status quo will do this time.
Or maybe not. Because in that moment, he notices that the object of his delusions is only a few steps away. Johnny Weir is smoothing his hair in front of the mirrors in the lobby, his tiny waist and round butt perfect in the jeans-and-sweater combo he’s wearing.

“Grandeur,” Eliot whispers to himself and takes a calming breath, then walks over with the shiniest smile he can muster. He’s a figure skater, after all, predestined to yearn for more, higher, better. Sometimes, he muses, even delusions are worth going after. Maybe. He runs his eyes down the curve of Johnny’s body. Definitely.


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