Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Povídky



Make Me Fall Slow
~by Estriel~

Pozn.: Odehrává se těsně po skončení mistrovství USA 2008.


~*~


Johnny is never getting up again, ever. Or at least not until the next morning, when he’ll have to get up if he wants to catch his flight back home. And he does want to get home, because while it wasn’t exactly warm in New Jersey when he was leaving, St. Paul manages to beat Wayne by a good ten degrees. Judging by the weather, one would almost think Nationals is being held in Siberia this year, only there are no Russians around, to Johnny’s great dismay.

Right now, however, Johnny’s lying splat on his stomach on the bed, in a nicely warm hotel room, wearing just a pair of sweatpants. The skating is done, he didn’t disappoint, and he doesn’t have to practice tomorrow. Johnny would be quite content, actually, if it wasn’t for certain... circumstances. Like the fact that his back is killing him and that his hair is disheveled and awful, because combing and blow-drying it into shape would require some prolonged arm-lifting, which would make his back kill him even more.

On the other hand, though, the state of his hair makes him feel almost glad that he can’t move his head enough to look in the mirror, because if there’s one thing he doesn’t need right now, it’s the additional trauma a glance at his miserable appearance would give him.

Another thing he sure as hell doesn’t need is someone knocking at his door.

“Go away,” he mumbles into the pillow, trying to focus on making the intruder give up and leave by the sheer power of his will. Sadly, that kind of trick only works on TV. There is another knock, more insistent this time.

“Fuck. You,” Johnny grumbles, but doesn’t dare to yell it out loud because it could be Galina. And an offended, pissed off Galina means his pain times a hundred in the next practice. The throbbing along his spine can be drowned out by a few (or a few more) pills. The pain that would follow one of Galina’s show-me-another-quad-toe-and-another-and-another practice sessions... not so much.

He allows himself one last annoyed groan and pushes himself up, moving at about the pace of a slow-motion movie. He determinedly ignores the zombie in the mirror as he passes it on his way to the door.

“I’m coming,” he yells when there’s another knock. He doesn’t bother to stop to put on a shirt, or at least pull his pants up a little – they’re hanging low on his hips; he’s lost weight since he bought them in Moscow in November. He’s displaying half of his butt, sure, but it’s not like it matters – Galina has seen him naked and should it not be Galina at his door... well, they won’t get more than a tiny glimpse of him before he slams the door shut in their face, anyway.

Johnny opens the door, one hand against the wall for support. He’s going to need more of the painkiller.

“Halverson?!”

“Eliot,” the kid beams at him and when Johnny continues to glare at him incredulously, he adds: “Call me Eliot.” And he moves forward before Johnny can go through with his plan and slam the door shut. That’s the bad thing about those lovely Advil capsules he’s drugged himself with – they make him a little slow. He should have considered that before foolishly answering the door.

“Wait, wait,” he shakes his head and presses his palm against Eliot’s chest to stop his entry. “What do you think you’re – ?“

But before he can finish the sentence, Eliot shoves something in his face; a secret weapon he’s been hiding behind his back. “I’ve brought ice cream!” he announces and Johnny drops his gaze to Eliot’s hand. Melting in a small silvery bowl is a perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream, complete with a richly red strawberry on top.

“Oh,” Johnny mutters, mouth watering at the sight. “But why?” he asks, still on the slow track. It’s not like his competitors bring him treats on regular basis – or ever – so perhaps he has the right to be a bit confused.

“To celebrate?” Eliot suggests as if it was obvious and his smile grows a little bashful. “I mean, I know they didn’t give you the gold, but you deserved it at least as much as Evan did. And I know you’re probably not allowed to eat ice cream – I’m not – but maybe your coach won’t kill you for one scoop? Mine wouldn’t,” he finishes his rant and then he furrows his brow briefly: “But your coach is scarier.”

Johnny feels the smile tug at his mouth. This is a rather nice distraction from the pain. And he kind of really wants the ice cream. “Come in,” he says and drops his restraining hand from Eliot’s chest, then turns to walk back to the bed, because the bed is the only place soft and comfortable enough to be.

He hears a choked gasp behind him and whips his head around –
“Fuck!” he hisses. “Ouch.” He cautiously raises his hand to rub at his neck, then he slowly turns around, careful to keep his head in a steady position, no twisting, and avoid any movements faster than those of a sloth. “What is it?” he asks once he’s facing Eliot again.

“Oh – I – um,” Eliot stutters. “Nothing?” he then flashes an innocent grin.

Johnny might be drugged, but not drugged enough to not notice the way Eliot’s suddenly having trouble to keep his eyes on his face. He chuckles and gives the waistband of his pants an upward tug – not that they’ll stay up, but hey, nobody can say that he’s not trying to be decent. “I hurt too much to get properly dressed. Sorry,” he shrugs nonchalantly. Somehow, Johnny gets the impression that Eliot doesn’t really mind.

He sits down on the bed, then inches backwards until his back is rested against the heap of pillows by the headboard.

“What hurts?” Eliot asks and hovers by the end of the bed uncertainly. Then he laughs when he realizes what he just said. “I mean, I know that everything does, right. But you know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Johnny nods. “My back.” Then, suddenly, he remembers why Eliot is here in the first place. “Are you going to let it all melt?” he asks, eyeing the bowl in Eliot’s hands pointedly.

“Oh. Right,” Eliot mumbles, but doesn’t quite move. “Can I – “ And he blushes.

Johnny rolls his eyes and pats the spot beside him.

Eliot shucks off his sneakers and climbs on the bed. He settles beside Johnny and pulls a spoon out of the pocket of his jeans. It’s a proper stainless steel one, not one of those nasty plastic spoons they give you at the cheap ice cream places. Johnny appreciates the lengths to which Eliot has obviously gone to get him a dessert.

He leans back against the pillows and lets his mouth fall open, his eyes shut. It takes Eliot a moment, a rather long one, but Johnny forgives him for being slow – one, he’s not much better tonight, and two, Eliot is just a kid, after all. Finally, Johnny feels the cool slick steel of the spoon as Eliot slips it into his mouth and then –

“Mmmhm.” He didn’t plan on that – moaning in the company of minors is not something Johnny does on a regular basis. The delighted sound found its way out all unexpected and without warning. But damn, it is yummy. It’s been way too long since he’s had ice cream.

“Good stuff,” he praises and smacks his lips in appreciation. He opens his eyes to find Eliot staring at him, part wonder, part child-like excitement, part something else that Johnny assumes should not be on the face of an innocent, seventeen-year-old –

He doesn’t finish that thought because Eliot feeds him another spoonful. The ice cream melts on his tongue, sweet and tingly-cold and perfect. He swallows and when Eliot gives him another of his ear-to-ear smiles, he can’t help but return it.

“Can I get the strawberry now?” he requests and then, because Eliot has been so nice and good to him, he adds: “Please?” and bats his eyelashes a little.

“Sure,” Eliot nods and averts his eyes, his cheeks tinged scarlet. He pretends to focus on his hands as he picks up the fruit by the stem and holds it up so Johnny can bite into it.

The strawberry is almost as lovely as the ice cream, he decides, juicy and sweet and maybe he should indulge in berries more often? They don’t have that many calories, after all. He takes his time to chew and relish the taste of the strawberry before he swallows it.

They continue like that for a few more minutes, Eliot feeding and watching Johnny, giggling and gasping quietly whenever Johnny’s eyes flutter closed in delight and one of those treacherous little sounds escape his throat. Johnny doesn’t understand what makes Eliot so excited – well, sure, he knows that he can sometimes look sensual and appealing, but tonight is definitely not one of those days.

“That was perfect,” he admits when the last bit of ice cream is gone and Eliot has set the bowl on the bedside table. “Thank you,” he says and lightly pets Eliot’s hand, smiling when the brief brush of skin against skin makes Eliot shiver. So young, Johnny realizes, and tries to remember what it felt like to get all thrilled by something so minor.

He closes his eyes and stretches his arms out above his head luxuriously – ouch! bad idea! He winces at the spikes of pain that rake through his back.

“Hey.” Eliot’s hand is on his shoulder almost immediately, warm and careful, and Eliot’s voice is all soft and serious and caring when he asks: “Do you want me to get you some painkillers?”

What is this boy? Johnny wonders while he nods in silence and directs Eliot to the right pocket of his handbag. Maybe God was so pleased by that short plea Johnny sent up before the short program that He sent down an angel to help him deal with the crappy side of being a figure skater? But no, it can’t be – angels don’t usually offer to get you drugs or stare at your ass when you turn your back at them. It’s not that Johnny really cares much; all that matters is the glass of water and the two more Advil pellets that Eliot presses into his hands. Johnny couldn’t be more grateful.

“Want me to give you a massage?” Eliot offers and Johnny nearly sputters the water all over himself.

“Fuck no!” he shakes his head when he gulps the drink down. “I’ve been getting therapy all week,” he explains when Eliot stares at him, taken aback and apparently a little hurt.

“Oh,” Eliot says, then his face lights up: “You mean those massages that hurt like hell, but then make it better afterwards?” he asks and Johnny’s not sure what could possibly be so great about therapy to make him glow like a fucking Christmas tree.

“Yeah,” he murmurs darkly.

“I didn’t offer to give you one of those,” Eliot explains and rubs at Johnny’s shoulder a little. “My massage will feel good during and after.” There it is again, the tinge of dirty that Johnny thinks shouldn’t be there, a tease far too tempting for a boy this young.

But Eliot’s fingers feel rather pleasant on his skin, kneading at his shoulder... and it’s not like they’re doing anything immoral. Not yet, anyway, and Johnny’s positive that not even the additional two pills could make him drugged enough to let it come to that.

So he slowly lowers himself onto his stomach, trying to get as comfortable as possible.
“Don’t sit on me,” he warns when Eliot kneels astride his hips.

“Don’t worry,” Eliot promises and Johnny can hear the grin in his voice.

A few minutes later, Johnny concedes that Eliot wasn’t lying about the massage. The gentle touches do feel good.

“My back often hurts, too,” Eliot is saying, tapping his way down Johnny’s spine. “It’s the Biellmann.”

“It’s pretty,” Johnny breathes into the mattress his cheek is pressed against. He has to admit that there are some good things about St. Paul, like the fact that the official hotel actually has nice quality, non-scratchy sheets for once. Usually, at competitions, the hotel sheets suck and always force Johnny to give up on his plan to find someone to spend the night with, simply because his knees and/or his front would end up all burned and yucky if he got fucked on them. Too bad he’s in no condition – and in no company! – for sex tonight.

“Yeah,” Eliot agrees, breaking through Johnny’s train of thought. “But it hurts. But then, I guess all the good things in life come with a certain amount of pain, don’t they,” he says and Johnny wonders what’s going through his head and if he’s still talking to him at all, or just musing ahead to himself.

Then the touch on his back softens, becomes almost feathery, warm, like honey spilling over his skin, and Johnny realizes that that’s not Eliot’s fingers caressing his nape.

Eliot’s breath is a little ragged as he covers his shoulders with tentative kisses; he’s probably all excited and nervous and uncertain. Johnny marvels at the guts Eliot has displayed all along, from coming to his room to... this.

The gentle attention sends shivery sparks through Johnny’s body, ones that numb the pain quite effectively and make it seem bearable; almost bearable enough to make Johnny seriously consider what Eliot has clearly come for.

It would be nice, no doubt, like the ice cream and the massage and the warm lips on his back. But it’s almost too much of the nice for one night and Johnny knows how that ends – just like glorious, huge sundaes make you feel fat afterwards, and new Louis Vuitton purses make you squirm with guilt once you lay your eyes on the credit card bill at the end of the month.

So he pushes through the haze of painkiller overdose and forces himself to act like the rational and responsible new Johnny Weir, the one who does what’s right rather than what’s simply fun.

“Eliot,” he whispers. And then, louder: “Stop.”

Eliot does and pulls away rather abruptly. “Why?” he breathes, his boyish voice raspy, and Johnny can almost see the part-sulky, part-hurt pout on his face.

“Because I’m indisposed,” he says calmly. “And because I could later say that you took advantage of it.”

“You wouldn’t!” Eliot gasps in shock and swings his leg over, sitting on his heels beside Johnny.

“No,” Johnny pushes himself upright and the protesting sting in his back is more subdued this time. “And even if I did, nobody would believe me,” he adds, entertained. Johnny Weir – raped. By a 17-year-old. Sure. They’d throw him in prison or even ban him from the sport.

“So – “ Eliot begins, but Johnny doesn’t let him even start with that streak of argumentation.

“Would you want it like that?” he asks. “Think with your head,” he advises because he remembers perfectly well what body part he tended to think with back when he was seventeen.

Eliot doesn’t even need to think for long. “No,” he shrugs.

Johnny smiles. Smart kid. “Thanks for... all this,” he says and strokes Eliot’s jaw with the back of his hand. “It’s a shame you didn’t get any of the ice cream, it was delicious.”

Eliot’s eyes shimmer with mischief. “Give me a taste?” he grins.

Johnny stares at him blankly for a second – damn the Advil! – and then laughs when it hits him.

“Clever,” he says. “But no.”

Eliot’s smile fades a little. He gets up from the bed and puts on his shoes.

Johnny suddenly feels almost guilty and really, really ungrateful. “Eliot,” he stops him, also because he remembers how he hated this – to get a no without getting a chance first, how he still hates it when people reject without knowing what they’re rejecting. “Don’t you think that the good things in life don’t only require pain, but also patience?” he says and looks at Eliot from under his eyelashes. He probably still looks like a zombie, but Eliot seems to be a little deluded, so why not try for the sensual & appealing.

The resulting grin on Eliot’s face is so bright it’s almost blinding. Johnny wonders if maybe he should wear shades around this boy from now on.

“I do,” Eliot nods giddily and for a moment, Johnny’s worried that he’s going to launch himself at him in an outburst of teenage affection. Or lust, certainly just hormone-driven lust. But Eliot takes one single step closer, so he’s standing right by the bed again, and reaches for Johnny’s hand.

“You know,” he begins, almost shy again. He lifts Johnny’s hand, splaying his fingers against his chest so Johnny can feel the steady thump of his heart under his shirt. “I wasn’t really thinking with my head,” he says and, with a last smile and a wink, he lets go of Johnny’s hand and turns to leave. “Good night,” he whispers just before he slips out of the door.

Johnny sits on the bed, cursing himself. This... was not how things were supposed to go. And he thought Eliot was smart. Fuck.

If only it had been Galina knocking at his door.

~fin~


Thanks for beta-reading, Cel!


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