Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Povídky



Sweet Lady Samba
~by Estriel~

Du bist so heiß wie ein Vulkan
und heut’ verbrenn’ ich mich daran
Jedermann nennt dich Sweet Lady Samba
Jeder sieht, dass du kein Kind mehr bist
Die bunten Lichter drehn sich wie Feuer
wenn du die Welt rings umher vergisst.

Tanze Samba mit mir,
Samba, Samba die ganze Nacht.
Tanze Samba mit mir,
Weil die Samba uns glücklich macht.
Liebe, Liebe, Liebelei,
Morgen ist sie vielleicht vorbei.
Tanze Samba mit mir,
Samba, Samba die ganze Nacht.
~ Toni Holiday – Tanze Samba mit mir ~

Johnny was tired. Not tired enough, however, to watch Stéphane Lambiel give Kristoffer Berntsson dance lessons and simply ignore it. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes were drawn to the two figures, swaying a little from time to time, grasping each other for support whenever the alcohol they’d drank made the floor tilt a little under their feet.

He was not drunk. He wasn’t sober enough, though, to resist the temptation to get up and head towards the dancefloor. It was unadvisable, of course, as Johnny was sure he would do something that would cause trouble for him later. This was the official ISU banquet, after all, and the USFSA officials were keeping a close eye on him. Just in case. He might have redeemed himself a little with all the political correctness from last season and the two Grand Prix golds from this one, but he was still considered a black sheep. Well, screw them, Johnny thought as he shrugged out of his jacket and vest and stood up to go join the action on the dancefloor. They would give him a lecture, but forgive him, in the end, especially if he was a good boy when cameras were around and if he continued to win. And he planned on doing that, anyway, the latter at least.

Johnny drew nearer and observed Kristoffer’s pitiful attempts at coordinating his feet with his arms and the rest of his body. The poor lad was drunk, too drunk to dance. Stéphane seemed to have had quite a bit to drink as well, maybe even more than Kristoffer, but, apparently, his coordination hadn’t suffered. It must have been the Portuguese in him, Johnny figured – South Europeans had perfected the skill to dance while drunk; it was generations and generations of wine-loving Portuguese that preserved Stéphane from tumbling into an ungraceful heap on the floor.

The band finished the traditional-sounding song they were playing and switched rhythms, the new one familiar to Johnny’s ears. Paris had decided to start dance classes a few weeks ago and – for lack of a better partner to practice with at home – he’d made Johnny be his “lady”.

Johnny stepped forward. “Excuse me,” he smiled at Kristoffer, his best fake smile. “May I?”

Kristoffer stared at him for a second or two, as if he didn’t quite know what was going on, then beamed and shrugged, letting go of Stéphane’s shoulder.

And then Stéphane’s eyes were on him, dark like chocolate and glazed over with the wine he’d had to drink; they ran down his body, then returned to his face. He stretched out his hand, inviting, and Johnny took it, let Stéphane draw him into his arms.

He let Stéphane lead, not only because he only knew how to dance the girl’s part, but also because... there was something in those eyes that made him want to fall right in, to let them light a fire in him like they had done back in China when Stéphane had flirted with him throughout the entire banquet, but then suddenly disappeared before Johnny could even decide whether he wanted anything from Stéphane.

By now, Johnny was sure that he did, indeed, want something from him.

He closed his eyes and let the music pervade him until nothing else mattered, nothing but the rhythm of samba, seductive and fluent, intoxicating. Stéphane’s arm felt warm and steady around his waist, comfortable but firm, and Johnny marveled at the confidence with which Stéphane – drunk as he was – navigated them across the dancefloor without a single stumble, always in sync with the music.

“Open your eyes,” Johnny heard Stéphane whisper, felt his fingers twitch a little where they held his hand. He complied and met Stéphane’s gaze. The heat of his look seared into Johnny’s body, filled his mind with images that made him blush. Stéphane pulled him closer then, so close their hips touched with every move and Stéphane’s thigh slid between his with every other step.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jeff drag Joannie towards the dancefloor – god bless him – so he and Stéphane wouldn’t be the only ones dancing. It wouldn’t be enough, Johnny knew, to distract from the fact that there were two men dancing, he and Stéphane would still draw looks, but he appreciated the effort.

They danced, the world a blur around them – one of light and sound and color, all so pure and intense it made Johnny’s head spin a little. His heart was a drum in his chest, tum-tum, tum-tum, and he felt alive, aglow with music and passion.

Stéphane led him into a turn, a spin, lifted his arm and hand up delicately so Johnny could dance through. One, two turns, and then he was falling, falling back against Stéphane’s arm. He leaned against it, arched his spine, his head thrown back – the room turned upside down –, his hips glued to Stéphane’s.

He heard the bustle in the room, but it seemed so distant, so unreal. There were a few claps, voices echoing in the silence the music left behind when it ended. He heard it all but it didn’t matter, not at all. What mattered was the way Stéphane breathed so close to him, quick shallow gasps for air, and the way he stared at Johnny when he pulled him back upright, with lust and yearning so acute Johnny thought they might set him on fire.

“Je veux t’embrasser,” Stéphane said and Johnny wouldn’t have needed to know French to understand, the way Stéphane’s look flickered from his eyes to his mouth clearer than words.

“Non,” he replied and almost burst out in laughter when Stéphane’s eyes widened in shock. “Pas ici,” he added with a wink. He slipped out of Stéphane’s arms and turned to leave, certain Stéphane would follow.



~fin~


* Je veux t’embrasser. = I want to kiss you.
* Non. Pas ici. = No. Not here.

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