Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Drabbles

~by Estriel~

Jen tak pro informaci: The Great Straight Hope - Velká Heterosexuální Naděje, tak přezdil Evana Lysaceka jeden americký internetový žurnalista. Už mu to zůstalo.


Sometimes, Johnny opens the little case he keeps in the bottom-most drawer in his bedroom at home in Newark. Usually, he does so when his door is locked, when he’s safely shielded from intruders. He doesn’t want them to see, doesn’t want them to know, because he knows what would follow if they found him with the box open, touching the ring inside with his fingertips. They’d tell him to let it go, to move on, would repeat that it wasn’t right for him and that he deserves better, anyway. He doesn’t want that. Sometimes, he just wants to sit there on his bed and slip the ring back onto his pinkie finger where it had been for almost three years. He wants to wallow in pity, he wants to cry and drop the whole I am strong façade for just a while.

Sometimes, he feels particularly reckless – or masochist – and he takes the phone, his fingers flying over the keys on their own accord, remembering the number he tried so hard to forget. He lets the phone ring – one, two, three times – and then he listens, biting his lip, to the voice that says “hello? who is it?” at the other end of the line. He never speaks, he just listens. It’s often minutes – sometimes, they are filled with nothing but quiet breathing, sometimes there is a monologue.
“Is this you?” Hopeful – does he really sound hopeful or is Johnny’s mind playing cruel tricks on him?
“I think it is you.”
“Why won’t you just let it go?”
“Can’t you see you’re making it harder for both of us?”
“It hurts, Johnny.”
He never says anything, doesn’t make a single sound, not even when the tears start rolling down his cheeks, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t take a deep sobbing breath.

This time, however, it’s just a few seconds, filled with several reprises of “hello? who is this?” Then he hears a voice in the background, a voice he recognizes, the voice of his replacement, a more suitable one, one that is presentable in the press on the side of the Great Straight Hope.
“I don’t know, somebody with a wrong number, I guess,” he hears and imagines the accompanying shrug. There is a click, followed by the annoying too-too-too.

“Fuck you,” Johnny whispers into the deaf receiver. “Fuck you, you pretentious, title-stealing liar.”
With that, Johnny pulls the ring off his finger again, slams the little box shut after throwing it inside. And then he goes to the rink and trains, trains, trains until his whole body is screaming in pain.
It feels good. It feels great. It feels like revenge.
He might not get him back – and he’s not sure he wants to – but he’s getting his title back.


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