Fan Fiction - Krasobruslení - Povídkové cykly
There are several things about Stéphane Lambiel that are common knowledge. Aside from the infamous ladybug-obsession, it is widely known that Stéphane is a nice, slightly shy guy – it’s not a misconception, but it’s not always the truth, either. Like tonight, for example.
Stéphane is definitely not planning to be nice and shy and cute tonight, the night of the final exhibition, the final night of Calgary. A two-time Worlds-champion doesn’t need to be nice. Also – and this is another well-known fact about Stéphane – he hates to wait. And he’s been waiting for five fucking years to get into the pants of one Johnny Weir. He’s not going to wait any longer. Tonight, Stéphane muses, he’s going to fuck Weir and nobody – not even his little bodyguard – is gonna stop him. He has the RIGHT to do it.
The very same night, Johnny wants nothing more than to crawl into bed, drug himself with painkillers, and sleep. He didn’t want to be here, in Calgary, and he doesn’t want to be here, at the final post-exhibition party, either. But he knows that there is practically no escape, the party is obligatory, it always is – or at least if you don’t fancy being a complete outsider for the rest of your career. Johnny assumes that not even he can dare to skip The Party. So he stands in a quiet corner, slowly sipping his martini, hoping it will be over soon. He’s pondering for how much longer he’ll have to stay before making an inconspicuous exit… In that moment, somebody clasps their hand onto Johnny’s stomach from behind. A firm body presses against his back, the hand moves south from its position on Johnny’s belly, and a hot breath tickles his right ear.
“Bonsoir, petit cygne,” he hears the whisper and turns around to look into a pair of dark brown eyes.
“Hello, Zebra,” he greets Stéphane wearily, feeling his dreams of an early retreat to his own bed shatter. There’s no way he could possibly say no to the World Champ. Two-time, even. Johnny sighs and lets Stéphane pull him closer for a rough kiss.
Evan wanted to win. There’s nothing curious about that; they all want to win, don’t they? What’s curious are the reasons behind his desire for gold. Sure, there are the usual things like personal satisfaction and national pride. But right now, as he sits nursing a bottle of cold beer, staring to the opposite corner, one reason overshadows all his ambitions as a sportsman, as well as America’s pride. He wanted to win to be in Stéphane Lambiel’s place. He wanted to win to protect Johnny from the Swiss, he wanted to take him home – maybe not to fuck his brains out (though Evan wouldn’t mind doing that, either), but just to make sure Stéphane doesn’t get to touch him. But he can’t do anything about it now, he can’t save Johnny from Lambiel again, can’t use the ‘curfew’ as an excuse to drag Johnny away. Lambiel is the champ and the champ gets to choose his prize. Last year at Worlds, Johnny had been too busy practicing his Russian and Lambiel too distracted by Joubert. But this year, Evan fears, there’s no escape for Johnny.
He takes a swig from his bottle and, clenching his fists, he watches Stéphane’s hands grope Johnny’s slender body.
Stéphane isn’t quite sure why he’s been wanting Johnny all this time. Fucking Johnny Weir had become one of the top items on his to-do-list after Johnny had won gold at Junior Worlds in 2001, and after he’d been pushed away from the boy by his ‘bodyguard’.
It was probably just the fact that he couldn’t have him that had made Johnny ultra-desirable in his eyes for all these years, Stéphane concludes. Because really, there’s nothing that special about the American. Pretty, yes. Talented, yes. But there are many pretty boys around, and skating talent doesn’t really make a difference in bed.
Afterwards, Stéphane politely asks Johnny to leave, because he needs to get some sleep and prefers not to share his bed. Johnny merely nods, gets up, holding his lower back, and leaves quietly, having slipped on his clothes in record time. Stéphane sets his ladybug-shaped alarm clock on 9:30, switches off the light, and falls asleep a few minutes later.
Johnny doesn’t mind having sex with Stéphane. He’s quite cute, after all, and has a decent ass. He just wishes Stéphane would have chosen another time for this. Or at least another position. One that wouldn’t turn his back into a flaming inferno of pain. But obviously, Stéphane is rather ignorant and lacks the typical Swiss tact and subtlety. Johnny’s not too surprised when Stéphane more or less tells him to sod off a few moments after shooting his load. He gets up and leaves, not even bothering to say good bye, let alone give Stéphane a good-night kiss. All he wants is to get to bed as soon as possible.
Evan hears a door open, then close. He hears footsteps in the darkened hallway, sees the lights flicker into life automatically as a figure moves down the corridor. He squeezes himself deeper into the shallow niche, hoping not to be discovered. However, he scratches his plan to remain unseen when he hears a silent cry of pain, a curse, a low thud. Without thinking, he steps out of his hiding place to find Johnny kneeling on the floor, clutching at his back, face twisted in pain.
“I’m going to kill the bastard,” he swears under his breath, then hurries to Johnny.
“C’mon, swan,” he whispers softly, helping Johnny stand up. “It’s time to get some rest.”
“Why are you doing this, Evan?” Johnny asks weakly, trying to smile, but failing horribly.
“Because… You’re American, too. And we have to stick together, remember?” Evan replies with the same old lie, giving Johnny a sad smile. He wonders whether he'll ever find the courage to admit the truth…
Thanks for beta-reading, Reet.
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