Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Drabbles
You’re exhausted, I can tell; the way you’re curled up on the couch, not even bothered enough to take off your skates, even though they’re squishing your feet painfully, and the fact that you actually nick in for a few moments – these things speak volumes. You look lost, vulnerable, and I wish I could pick you up and carry you to bed, away from the cameras and the officials who seem so thrilled by this situation, from the fans, even, because you need to rest, not put on your pretty fake smile and sign posters.
Emotionally exhausting, these are the words you use in press conferences, the words we both use. And they are true, one of the few true things we’ve said this week, though not in the way the journalists interpret them.
The competition itself, defending or – in your case – reclaiming the national title, those are not what’s been sapping on our energy, not the main reasons, anyway. It’s the fear that, despite everything we said and promised to each other, this would drive us apart in the end; it’s the constant tip-toeing around each other, artificial and unnatural in an attempt to stick to the ridiculous Rivalry scenario the federation came up with, paying – and threatening – us to keep our mouths shut about the real state of things.
Instinctively, I set out towards you, just to sit down beside you, run my hand down your side, maybe, hold on to your arm for a while to make sure that I still can, that I’m still allowed, that you still want me. It’s automatic, my body moves on its own accord, gravitating towards you, following the invisible pull as if you were a magnet.
Suddenly, with a flash of blonde hair and a big bright smile, Tanith is there, positioning herself between me and you, palm on my chest to stop me from taking another step closer, flirting. She’s good at this, so much better than I am, and the TV camera that I haven’t noticed until now focuses on her like she’s the one who just got the medal a while ago.
Gold, only not really – gold has to be won, deserved, not handed over on a tie-breaker. I nearly ruined it all by pulling you into my arms on the podium; it hurt so bad to see you finger the silver they assigned to you, a decision made behind closed office doors rather than out there on the ice. I don’t want to think about how bad you must be hurting.
“Two more years,” you whispered when you hugged me backstage, only a brief embrace because anything more would be overstepping the line.
I grit my teeth, thinking positive, thinking of the lines that are going to pop up after Vancouver, once we’re done with this charade – the headlines.
Lysacek and Weir: From Rivals to Lovers.