Too far around the bend (Part 1/3)
Title: Too far around the bend (Part 1/3)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Johnny/Evan
Word Count: 15,000. I don't evan know how this happened.
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: Evan and Johnny are a domestic, bitchy pair skating team. They want to kill each other and yet they're perfect together on the ice.
A/N: So this was a labor of love and mainly some serious loss of focus from my grad school career for two weeks! I requested this prompt on wintergameskink and then decided to write it myself because I liked the concept a lot. And then all of this happened. It hasn't been betaed so let me know if there's anything insultingly bad.
-----
The rink feels colder today, somehow, and Johnny can feel the ache spread, hot-cold in his legs halfway through training. It's bothersome and it irritates him like everything tends to do in the middle of winter, like Evan's sticky hair product getting on his face does all his life. Johnny is pretty much perpetually irritated.
He ignores the stiffness in his joints and focuses on his timing, the music, the ice, Evan. They're four rounds into their routine and fifty hours from nationals and everything still feels like wet clay, like it needs to be molded and shaved to be anything worthy at all. It would be helpful to Johnny if his partner actually tried. Instead, Evan is frowning like he does when he's sick and he has to take cherry cough syrup, mouth all pursed up and unhappy. Johnny thinks it's probably a feat of facial expression that Evan can do this while spinning, but Evan always goes out of his way to be obnoxious.
"What," Johnny calls grumpily into the space between them, and Evan stops mid-glide, making a slow circle in the ice and ruining their run just like that.
"Your right leg isn't moving," Evan says ridiculously, because all of Johnny is moving and Evan can see that, but Evan also has a strange super power where he can identify the exact muscle Johnny's injured before Johnny realizes it himself.
"My right leg is about to kick you in the face," Johnny inserts anyway. Their music--an etude that Johnny spent several painstaking days selecting and Evan one minute rejecting--tapers off without them.
"Nationals!" Priscilla yells, her voice bouncing shrill over the ice, "What's the problem?"
Johnny's biggest problem is really five years too old, when Priscilla caught Johnny and Evan playing around on the ice during a warm up session, attempting to pull off a semi-amateur pair spin, and her mind birthed what she calls her most brilliant idea to date. A world championship medal is enough for her to boast about it, but Johnny curses the day forever.
For now, though, the joints in his foot hurt with what can only be early-onset arthritis.
"I'm twenty-one and I have arthritis," Johnny complains to the world.
Evan elbows him and skates to the edge of the ice, grabbing a water bottle from the railing. His t-shirt clings to his back with the sweat of two hours of aggressive lifting, throwing, jumping, and spinning. It's their second training session of the day and Evan is killing it. Johnny can at least appreciate his determination.
"I think we're done for the night," Evan tells Priscilla and chugs his entire water bottle because he belongs in a frat house in east Jersey. Priscilla opens her mouth to presumably argue but Johnny beats her to it.
"I understand that you have some primitive desire to control my life, Evan, but I'm an independent woman," Johnny says, flittering his arms, "and this girl can survive another run."
Evan rolls his eyes and Johnny can see the little cogs working in his little brain.
"Well then," Evan says finally and it makes Priscilla laugh like a crazy woman because Evan is a continual failure at intelligent comebacks. He glides back into the middle of the rink and his skates make angry cuts in the ice.
"I'm ready when you're ready, Weir," he says, his regular cue for Johnny, and Johnny beams victoriously and goes to tuck himself around Evan's body. His arm fits just under Evan's shoulder blade in their starting stance, the fingertips of his right hand spread and pressing into the cheap, damp material of Evan's shirt. In the five seconds, silent and suspended between them, it takes for the music to start up, Evan's familiar panting settles Johnny's bones. They skate their best run of the night despite Priscilla screaming "eye contact!" at them.
-
On the drive home, Johnny blasts Kelly Clarkson and cherishes every moment of it. It's rare in the days running up to a competition to have time alone to shake out the stress, so to speak. Johnny literally shakes his hair to "Since You've Been Gone". He gets droplets of water all over his car because he's still shower-wet and he imagines that the song is his autobiography. His life without Evan Lysacek; it's a distant fucking fantasy away. Johnny somehow knows that fifty years from now, they'll still be in this purgatory, doing throws from rocking chairs and yelling at each other.
He met Evan in the figure skating circuit when he was thirteen years old and disliked him immediately. At least that's how Johnny prefers to describe it. It's a lie, because Johnny at the time was into figure skaters and into brunettes and into boys, and so maybe he was a little smitten with Evan. The crush was microscopic, really, insignificant, because it didn't take him long to realize that Evan was an unbelievable robot douche who wore too much black and recited useless, affected drivel that made the USFSA swoon. No matter that he was tall and dreamy.
They were rivals for a few years after that, archrivals, nemeses, until Priscilla stuck her evil claws into the mix and decided that what they could do apart, they would do better together. Johnny wishes every day that she hadn't been right, but he still enjoys strutting around with his gold from world championships and the two from nationals.
He pulls up to his apartment block and shoulders his training bag, checking the parking space right across the way from his own as he clicks his locks shut. His foot isn't bothering him so much anymore, thanks to a hot shower and the pair of comfortable leather sandals he bought from Moscow, and he stretches his toes out a little. He's usually good at fighting off injury anyway, but it's January and it's wet and freezing, the uneasy cold spreads everywhere. Including the apartment, Johnny thinks unhappily as he lets himself in and goes straight for the thermostat.
He forgoes the kitchen to dive into the couch, snuggling his face into the luxurious fabric and spreading his limbs all over it. He whines a little bit, too, because his life is so difficult. It'll be easier once he has his national title and Olympic team spot four days from now. Not really, but Johnny enjoys simple pleasures. The dick he'll be getting from Matthew at nationals will be one of them. He dozes off with a smile at the thought and is jolted awake a little while later by a key turning in the front door and his brutish partner.
"You're such a tired old man," Evan greets as he walks in and surveys Johnny on the couch.
Johnny tries to poke him with the foot that's hanging off the side, but Evan skitters away.
"I brought Thai," he calls, going into the hallway.
"But, darling, you're going to ruin your girlish figure," Johnny responds, affecting sadness, but he makes a beeline for the takeout bags. Of the few things they have in common, greasy Thai is Johnny's most and least favorite all at once. He and Evan let each other indulge too often, brofisting in secrecy that the information will never get to their trainers.
"Oh, baby, we're so bad for each other," Johnny says and stuffs a fried banana roll in his mouth.
Evan walks back in, rubbing a towel into the wintery mix in his hair and, his typical half-smirk of bewildered amusement on his face. He reaches behind Johnny for plates and they spread the food out between them on the kitchen bar. It wouldn't be too bad, Johnny guesses, this living together dealio, if it weren't forced by financial shittiness and bitchy heteronormative sponsors who weren't interested in supporting male-male figure skating pairs. Evan can be nice sometimes, when he isn't maddeningly simple and blunt and a complete mess around the house. And incapable of using chopsticks.
"Lesson number eighty-six," Johnny says, clicking his chopsticks together, "place your thumb over the second chopstick firmly and confidently."
"Okay, that was one time," Evan interjects, apropos his chopstick-handicap, but he stabs his noodles with a fork anyway.
Johnny giggles in delight. "If by one time you mean for two full weeks in Japan, then I fucked Stephane one time."
Evan scowls and calls him a ho, so Johnny steals his green peppers.
"Anyway," Evan says, ignoring the vegetable-loss, "I doubt you were the one doing the fucking."
Johnny swats at Evan's arm, only a little bit scandalized. "You know so little."
Which isn't entirely true. Evan consistently noses around in Johnny's sexual life, mainly because he doesn't have one of his own. The last--blessed, beautiful--time Johnny brought a boy home, Evan was barely hesitant about asking about every detail. Johnny's theory is that Evan is a sex-starved voyeur, so Johnny tells him everything so that he can gleefully watch as Evan's balls get bluer.
Later, when the leftovers are put away and the dishes are clean, he nudges past Evan just a bit too slow and close.
"You know, I could top the fuck out of you," Johnny says playfully, voice husky. There's a split second where Evan blinks in surprise and Johnny wants to laugh and laugh, and then Evan's lifting Johnny up by the waist and shoving him against the fridge door. Johnny yelps and his eyes widen. He squirms around but Evan tightens his grip, smirking.
"Are you so sure?" Evan asks.
Johnny flails some more until Evan presses him harder into the fridge and he gives up, beginning to feel Evan's weird coffee bean magnets dig into his back. He shakes his head.
"No," he whispers conspiratorially, "so prove me wrong right now."
Evan rolls his eyes and lets him go, lets Johnny drop down the last few inches to the floor like he normally doesn't on the ice.
"Start packing your shit before you panic about it," he tells Johnny, disappearing down the hallway.
Johnny frowns and yells "bitch!" but he turns to the closet for their suitcases and tries to calm his jumpy little heart.
-
Johnny is angry. He's fuming. He's--he's beyond coining a term to describe what he's experiencing in his life right now as he stares at his partner, two hours from their short program at US Fucking Nationals. Two hours from what will definitively be Johnny's worst nightmare.
"Where the hell did you get all that spray tan?" he asks, horrified. Evan bluntly stares back at him. Not Evan. Three oompa loompas stacked together dressed like Evan stare back at him.
"You're orange," Johnny wails. He turns and paces around the locker room and desperately refrains from tugging out his freshly straight-ironed hair. This is going to be okay, he tries out in his head, he's witnessed worse fashion mishaps from Evan before. They can deal with this. They dealt with the clip-on bowtie.
"I'm sun-kissed?" Evan supplies hopefully and reminds Johnny of the current state of affairs.
"The drink?" Johnny asks. "Because yeah, you're pretty orange soda right now."
"I don't understand this. You told me to "go get myself a tan"," his stupid partner says with stupid air quotes and everything. Even his hands are orange. Priscilla walks in and Johnny remembers he has to breathe to survive life. He takes big gasping breaths.
"Johnny, quit being such a diva. It's really not that bad," Priscilla says and she's completely unconvincing. She has their costumes in big clear plastic bags and goes over to hook them up near a row of lockers. Johnny shakes his head dubiously.
"Our costumes are maroon. He's going to look like an awkward, gangly fireball. He's going to look like the sun," he moans.
"I hate our costumes anyway," Evan strikes as he pulls a towel out of his training bag and Johnny gasps.
"Hold on. Did you hear that? That was the sound of my own heart breaking, Evan Frank Lysacek."
"Johnny," Priscilla snaps, "get over it and get dressed."
Johnny throws his arms up in frustration and tries not to cry as he tugs viciously at the zippers on his bag.
-
"It's not like I'm intentionally trying to sabotage our chances," Evan says as he paces, later, when Johnny's almost done with his make up.
"It's too bad you do it naturally," Johnny says and even he'll admit that he's being a bitch.
Which isn't entirely unwarranted, he asserts to himself. The Olympics are looming over them like a vulture, taunting and terrorizing, and they're both nervous about competing. If they don't place tonight, they more than likely don't go to the Olympics. It's frustratingly simple and scary. Evan's been wandering around the locker room slamming things around, being a general distraction, and putting on his costume three times. Johnny has tried to concentrate all of his attention on getting his make up to look perfect despite the fact that his heart rate is all over the place.
Evan sighs torturedly and plops down on the bench, his leg twitching irregularly against Johnny's.
Johnny brushes a final bit of powder around his eyes before he turns to survey the damage on Evan's face. "Okay," he says, long-suffering, "I think I can work with this."
Evan looks almost relieved.
Johnny motions for him to straddle the bench and then mirrors his partner, hooking their ankles together firmly to calm the fluttering in Evan's limbs. He sticks his make up case between them and pulls out the moisturizer and foundation bottles that he buys specifically for Evan's ruddiness.
"You silly boy," he mumbles and rubs moisturizer between his fingers.
"You tyrant boy," Evan parrots.
Johnny snorts, smoothing the cream over Evan's cheeks and forehead.
"I want everything to be perfect," Johnny says into the quiet room.
Evan gives him a small nod, eyes closed, and Johnny knows he understands because they're both horrible, raging perfectionists. It's what makes things infinitely harder between them, paired with Evan's extreme douchiness, of course. The latter isn't as bad at this moment, though, when Evan's quieter and his eyes have slid shut and Johnny can fix his face. He switches over to the foundation and tries to tame the tangerine burns as best he can.
Despite their flashiness, default due to Johnny's existence on the team, they try to keep the make up light. The costumes this year don't need much more additional flair. They're a beautiful deep maroon and black, accented with shimmery, expensive Swarovski crystals in patterns that mirror the other pair. They're whimsical and fit perfectly, much like Johnny and Evan's skating, but apparently Evan despises them.
"Do you really abhor our--"
"No," Evan interjects, drawling out the word, "I only said that to bug you."
"So thoughtful," Johnny says and pulls out a little container.
"No lipstick," Evan says, trying to tug away.
"It's tint, bitch," Johnny says. He hooks his free hand around the back of Evan's neck to keep him still and runs the tip of his index finger over Evan's bottom lip.
The routine, almost like their routine on the ice, is tried and practiced and it makes Johnny forget where they are for a second. He focuses on lightly coating Evan's mouth, scratching at his scalp a bit. It's still blessedly gel-free so Johnny enjoys the novelty. Evan visibly relents to the touch, his shoulders relaxing, and Johnny takes his time finishing up with some powder. He dusts Evan's nose last.
"There. Perfect, beautiful, so on," Johnny grins.
"Thanks, I know."
"I was talking about my genius work, you narcissist."
Evan winks ridiculously. "Sure."
-
The lights in the rink are devastatingly bright and despite the costumes, the makeup, and the flair, Johnny feels absolutely naked as they go up for their short program.
The audience falls silent when the pair slips into position before their music starts up, amplifying the rushing-pulsing sound of Johnny's blood in his ears. His hand falls into place in the middle of Evan's back and he inhales and holds onto the breath.
Three seconds trickle by slowly, and then, Evan lifts up his chin and they're off.
If nothing else, Johnny knows that he and Evan are perfect together on the ice. They're more than perfect, really; they're breathtaking. The routines aren't typical, even for a same-sex pair. It's the combination of Evan's aggressiveness and Johnny's poise that makes for a stunning show of give and take. The two push and pull from one another with complete blind faith, equally matched in talent and presence.
They glide backwards together in one of their side by side elements and Johnny doesn't have to glance behind him to know that they're completely in sync, tonight. Evan's arm is sure and unwavering around his waist and as they come up around the bend, Johnny swivels and allows the momentum to tug him back, devoted to the fact that Evan will capture his hands at the last possible moment. When it happens, he grins brilliantly across at Evan for a second, unable to contain the thrill that flares up inside him, and then they're moving into their next element.
-
They place first with a personal best score, the thunderous applause from the audience echoing around the arena. Yeah, it means more pressure on them to do well tomorrow night, but Johnny will take it like a drunk slut on prom night.
To celebrate, he goes out for a late dinner at an obnoxiously gourmet restaurant with Matthew, who flirts and fawns adoringly over him the entire time and offers to share his two slivers of white truffle. Johnny enjoys every minute, of course, but after dessert he has to turn down Matthew's offer for sex. It's less of an official offer and more a handshake between Johnny's shin and Matthew's toes, and Johnny politely pulls his ankle away.
"Come on, we haven't seen each other in months and you deserve to celebrate," Matthew grins.
"I know, sweet cheeks," Johnny drawls, checking on his cuticles, "but we have a training session first thing and you know these tired feet of mine need their beauty-rest." He's slightly fibbing for some inexplicable reason; he decides that it's to keep things interesting. To keep Matthew reeled in. Johnny throws him a suggestive smile. Matthew's brows knit together.
"You've never let that stop you before."
"This is the Olympics that's at stake here," Johnny explains with contrived patience, already bored with the argument, "now more than ever I need to stay focused."
Matthew apparently can't come up with a feasible excuse to counter Johnny's because he says, "tomorrow night, then, you're all mine."
"You know it," Johnny smiles and Matthew looks appeased.
He lets Matthew pay for dinner and then he even lets Matthew kiss him good night in the deserted hallway of the hotel. It's a thorough more-than-kiss, good like it always is between them, and Johnny finds himself opening up under Matthew's quick, talented tongue. He wraps his arms around Matthew's neck and slumps back, pulling them into the wall as the kiss grows needier, and moans a little bit because he's totally been malnourished in the orgasm department recently. Just as he's really starting to get into it, relenting and maybe beginning to reconsider his decision to forgo the sex, the hotel door swings open.
"Oh," Evan's voice pipes up from behind them, high and fake-cheery, "I thought I heard you out here."
Johnny drags himself away from Matthew's mouth and glowers at Evan, but Evan just crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame. One of his pairs of disgustingly old pajama pants is hanging off his hips and he has this weird, jittery smile on his face.
"Hello, Matthew," he greets.
"Evan," Matthew nods. Johnny stares between the two of them for several long, awkward seconds. Neither makes a move to speak.
"Well, okay," Johnny blurts pleasantly and glances at Matthew. "I guess I'll be going! See you tomorrow, lover," he tells him, rubbing his palms over Matthew's shoulders and primly kissing both of his cheeks before he pulls away. Matthew smiles charmingly and wishes him a good night, and Johnny turns back to Evan.
He makes sure to sneak him a swift elbow to the stomach before he hurries into the warm hotel room. Yeah, he's annoyed at the interruption, but he'll admit that he's eager to strip off this super-trendy but super-tight Versace henley and get in bed. From behind him, Johnny hears Matthew sardonically comment "nice tan" to Evan, and he can't help it, he practically suffocates himself laughing with the shirt still stuck around his neck.
"Well," Evan says after he's scowled and shut the door right in Matthew's face, "that was rude."
Johnny bounces onto the bed that he claimed yesterday, closer to the wall because he absolutely hates it when Evan wakes up at sunrise and insists on parting the curtains. "That is so rich," Johnny says, "coming from you. And also, thank you ever so dearly for the outrageous cockblock just there."
Evan doesn't even honor Johnny with a response, just shuffles back in the room and silently climbs into his unmade bed.
Johnny yawns and rolls onto his side because he wants to continue this, enjoys digging his finely manicured claws into this type of argument with Evan, into every kind of argument with Evan, truthfully, but all he gets is a look of unwarranted irritation from Evan.
"You could try being nicer to people," Johnny offers.
"I don't need lessons on social interaction from you of all people. Go to sleep," Evan grouches, turning his back to Johnny.
"You need to get your head out of your vagina," Johnny says to Evan's back and Evan yanks the sheets over his head, blocking out the conversation in a show of supreme maturity.
Well then, Johnny glares for a few moments, unsatisfied with the lack of response. He gets up to start his nighttime pre-competition beauty regimen. If Evan wants to be a drama queen about every single time Johnny has an actual ounce of fun in his life, he can frankly suck it. It eases Johnny's nerves, to be able to go out with his friends and family and forget about figure skating for one tiny second. He's not going to let this giant human-shaped wet blanket drag him down.
He takes his time showering under the warm, wet spray of the hotel shower and then stands in front of the supersized bathroom mirror, surveying his skin. Johnny refuses to allow himself to think about the following day's momentous events. Instead, he concentrates on rubbing his luxurious new peppermint cleanser into his skin and the blossoming tingling sensation that spreads through his pores. He splashes icy water on his cheeks and shivers delightedly.
When he settles under the covers of the bed, the warmth of his bare skin contrasting the cool satiny sheets deliciously, it's entirely too quiet in the room. It means that Evan is still awake, for whatever silly reason, because of course Johnny is unwillingly all too familiar with the Breathing Patterns of Evan Lysacek including all phases of his sleep. Under normal circumstances, Johnny might tease him about needing a lullaby or warm milk or something equally as cheesy, but he's getting Anxious Evan tonight and it wouldn't be worthwhile. So instead he curls around his down comforter and dreams of being home in his own, blessedly single room.
-
The next night, the energy in the arena is nervous in anticipation for the long program routines. Johnny and Evan sit with Priscilla in the warm-up area behind the ice before they're due to skate and listen to the audience hush, gasp, and cheer in repeating cycles.
The tension is nearly palpable and Johnny loves it this way, feeds off of it, thinks it's these moments that make the sport. When he used to skate individually, the same type of pressure had a tendency to trip him up. It would block his mind and he wouldn't know how to deal with it other than to force himself on the ice and force the routine. As a pair he feels startlingly clear from start to end. There's one simple focus: not the pressure or the audience or the gold/silver/bronze that needs to be around his neck by the end of it, but his partner and what Johnny needs to give him.
They run through their routine once on the ground and Evan's silent and intensely focused like he usually is before a big skate. Johnny lets him be, falling into the calming synchronicity of their bodies working together despite their brains being on opposite sides of the spectrum, on opposite planets, probably. When Johnny woke up this morning, Evan was up and around and back to normal and they've been relatively tolerant toward each other all day. Johnny's mother was completely thrilled during lunch when Johnny amiably passed Evan the salt and didn't even mention Evan's impending high blood pressure. Patti adores Evan for some unfathomable reason.
"Three," Evan says, counting into their section transitions, and Johnny launches himself into the air.
Their free skate is the second last of the night and it isn't entirely flawless but it earns them a third national title and Johnny knows it as soon as his skates stop on the ice. Evan does too because he manhandles Johnny as they hug and Johnny laughs hysterically and maybe cries a little bit. They bow and blow kisses and the audience is ear-damaging but Johnny doesn't give a shit, he'll wear a hearing aid like he wears his fucking gold medal.
"We're going to the goddamn Olympics," Evan says into Johnny's shoulder after the medal ceremony, like he's just realizing it, like he doubted it, and Johnny knows. He goes to squeeze the life out of Priscilla, whose eyes are suspiciously bright, and his mom, whose proud smile might as well break her face. He grins and kisses her cheeks.
They have to do interviews afterwards and Johnny finds himself searching the backstage crowd for his partner, even as he's giving cheeky responses to some frazzled reporter. He spots Evan across the room, flogged by reporters, undoubtedly reciting something practiced and pretentious to the cameras. Johnny excuses himself and makes his way through the crowd. He bounces onto Evan's back, arms around his neck, and yells, "National Champion!" into his ear and Evan laughs deep and clear. The camera shutters go off like crazy.
Their dynamic changes when they win because their victory is something that they can only really share with each other. It's almost like their own little religion, Johnny thinks. Every practice is a ritual and every challenge is a rite of passage. It's ceremonial and they've both been there every step, forging some indelible link that apparently makes it supremely dissatisfying to celebrate with anyone but the other.
"Winner!" Evan exclaims in a strange valley girl accent that Johnny will store in his Teasing Evan manual forever. For now he just steals another hug after Evan tugs him around so that they can face each other. His body absorbs Evan's energy like it instinctually does and he lets himself feel the victory.
-
Three days later, Johnny's back to wanting to kill Evan.
"I can't even begin to understand why you still haven't unpacked," Johnny says, surveying the suitcase on the floor and the clothes that are leaking from it. They're rumpled and all over the place and the whole thing is making him want to kill himself. Evan doesn't even seem to give a shit that one of them might die tonight. He's sprawled over his bed, typing something on his fancy new phone and dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants that have probably been on him for at least two of the past three days. Johnny's disgusted and he doesn't like having to see more of Evan's tramp stamp than he needs to.
"I can't understand why you're nosing around in my room," Evan says absently, his monotone outrageous in this moment. Johnny is certainly not nosing. It's just that the rest of the apartment is officially spotless and dust-free and it's hurting Johnny's obsessive-compulsive mind that Evan's room is a complete dump.
"My room is hardly a dump," Evan responds to Johnny, who is apparently incapable of keeping anything in his brain. Evan tosses his phone aside and folds his arms behind his head. "You cleaned it before we left."
"One entire week ago," Johnny asserts, "seven whole days ago. One hundred--"
"Okay," Evan interrupts, "you can unpack my suitcase."
Johnny is more excited than he rationally should be so he complains the whole time about needing an Olympic medal so that they can finally get their own places.
-
They're back in the swing of things pretty soon afterwards because Torino is less than a month away and they have to go nonstop until then. Priscilla's added an hour to both the morning and the afternoon training sessions so that by the end of the day, all Johnny wants to do is lay on the couch and watch mindless television. And eat. And groan about his failing body. Today, his tailbone is bothering him because for some reason, him and Evan couldn't follow through on one of their lifts and it left Johnny on his ass countless times. He digs his fingertips into his lower back and moans tormentedly.
"Your bitching is blocking out the TV," Evan complains from the other end of the giant couch.
Johnny wants to tell Evan that if it wasn't for his flimsy lifting skills, this never would have happened. Unfortunately, years ago they came to a mutual decision that they would never blame anything skating-related on one another; the ice was Switzerland, so to speak. It was Johnny's idea actually. He'd wanted to increase the positive energy and good vibes between them.
"Fuck my clueless teenage self," he says. Evan gives him a look of complete bemusement.
"What?" he asks and Johnny flutters his arm dismissively in response. He rolls onto his stomach, no longer interested in whichever deranged serial killer Fontana and Green end up prosecuting this week, and wiggles his ass to try to loosen the stiffness. His feet fall against Evan's thighs but Evan doesn't say anything, probably too wrapped up in the show's climax. Johnny thinks that Evan must have been a detective or a cop or an axe murderer in his past life, because they constantly have to have some sort of crime drama playing on their TV. Evan might as well be hooked up to an IV transferring Law & Order into his blood stream.
"Ow," Johnny mumbles into the cushion as his back creaks, not making any attempt to keep his voice down. He startles when he feels Evan's hand encircling his bare ankle.
"Come here," Evan says, squeezing a bit, and Johnny sits up in triumph.
Truthfully, he bided his time for this moment, just hoping that he wouldn't have to do the asking. He's been needing a massage, and Evan knows Johnny's body well enough that he can give Johnny the best fucking massage in the known universe without a single word of guidance. All Johnny has to do is position himself where he wants to be. Right now it's Evan's lap. Yes, he has just mounted Evan without a second thought, his thighs caging Evan's. At least this way they can both still see the TV.
Their physical closeness might be considered strange by some (Johnny's mother) but Johnny figures that it's natural to be well-attuned to someone after you've spent five years glued to their skin and riding their shoulders, despite how much you hate their ass. He smiles blissfully when Evan fences his fingers around his hips and rubs his thumbs into Johnny's lower back.
"How is it that you're never injured?" Johnny asks as he settles heavily into him.
"I'm more youthful and have greater strength of the mind and body," Evan intones distractedly.
"Bull. Shit," Johnny laughs, "holyshit," he chokes when Evan's fingers slide under the fabric of his t-shirt and dig into his bare skin. The sneaky little bastard. Evan strokes his fingers right over Johnny's tailbone and it's bitterly good. The combination of the solid, painful pressure and subsiding tension is making Johnny's body cry with happiness. He leans forward and rests his palms on Evan's knees. He just knows that he's giving Evan a perfect view of his butt but he can't care less. Evan's eyes are probably on the TV anyway. His hands, though, are doing beautiful, wonderful things. They glide up Johnny's back, firm and warm, and rub into every individual knot gloriously.
"Oh," Johnny moans, way too indecently, when Evan inches his fingers back down and practically molests the top of Johnny's asscrack.
"This is where it's bothering you, right?" Evan asks, "I think you need ice for this. It's an impact bruise."
"Just keep fucking doing what you're doing or I'll slit your throat with my skates," Johnny says, maybe a little too influenced by the violence that he's been exposed to this past hour. Whatever. Johnny's just susceptible.
Evan snorts, "it seems that you still don't understand how critical I am to your life. Who would you take to Torino then?"
"Paris," Johnny responds immediately and under him he can feel Evan's body shake with laughter before Evan strokes his fingers maddeningly slowly over the base of Johnny's spine.
"Oh, right, so Paris can give you this?" Evan asks, fake-casually.
Johnny bites into his bottom lip and tries not to be so blatant about it. "I could teach him," he manages, trying to focus his eyes on the Ford truck ad and failing.
"That unskillful imbecile can't learn anything."
Johnny is terribly offended, really, but he's already heard it from Evan three thousand times before and also, he feels so liquidy right now. So he says, "Oh, baby. SAT words," and squeezes Evan's thighs a bit with his own. The movement makes him slide backwards and his ass ends up pressed against Evan's crotch. Evan's very apparently interested crotch. Well then, Johnny giggles as Evan tenses up underneath him and his breath hitches.
"How nice," Johnny says, "that we're both enjoying this."
Evan tries to push him away but Johnny holds his ground, digging his fingers into Evan's knees, liking this position of power he's got over Evan's dick.
"Get off. Massage is officially over," Evan shoves at Johnny's back with a hint of desperation.
"I was just getting the party started," Johnny complains, "don't you want me to take care of it?" he asks playfully, rubbing his ass against Evan's dick. He gets a hint of how warm and hard Evan really is before he's thrown to the other side of the couch. Johnny looks up at Evan with mock innocence, hair mussed from the maltreatment.
"You're a dick," Evan says, a frown painting his features as he stands up. He snatches his phone from the coffee table and disappears in the direction of his room without a second glance at Johnny. Johnny blinks and sits up, a little bit taken-aback. Yeah, he's never gone quite that far with the teasing, but Evan learned to deal with it a long time ago. Played along sometimes even. Johnny's torn between calling after Evan with an apology and calling after Evan with cattiness. He settles for neither, if only because he's too tired to deal with the continual bullshit. So he was a bit obnoxious. He's Johnny fucking Weir and he can be as big a jerk as Evan is. He sits back, only a little bit assuaged.
-
Part 2
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Johnny/Evan
Word Count: 15,000. I don't evan know how this happened.
Disclaimer: Lies.
Summary: Evan and Johnny are a domestic, bitchy pair skating team. They want to kill each other and yet they're perfect together on the ice.
A/N: So this was a labor of love and mainly some serious loss of focus from my grad school career for two weeks! I requested this prompt on wintergameskink and then decided to write it myself because I liked the concept a lot. And then all of this happened. It hasn't been betaed so let me know if there's anything insultingly bad.
-----
The rink feels colder today, somehow, and Johnny can feel the ache spread, hot-cold in his legs halfway through training. It's bothersome and it irritates him like everything tends to do in the middle of winter, like Evan's sticky hair product getting on his face does all his life. Johnny is pretty much perpetually irritated.
He ignores the stiffness in his joints and focuses on his timing, the music, the ice, Evan. They're four rounds into their routine and fifty hours from nationals and everything still feels like wet clay, like it needs to be molded and shaved to be anything worthy at all. It would be helpful to Johnny if his partner actually tried. Instead, Evan is frowning like he does when he's sick and he has to take cherry cough syrup, mouth all pursed up and unhappy. Johnny thinks it's probably a feat of facial expression that Evan can do this while spinning, but Evan always goes out of his way to be obnoxious.
"What," Johnny calls grumpily into the space between them, and Evan stops mid-glide, making a slow circle in the ice and ruining their run just like that.
"Your right leg isn't moving," Evan says ridiculously, because all of Johnny is moving and Evan can see that, but Evan also has a strange super power where he can identify the exact muscle Johnny's injured before Johnny realizes it himself.
"My right leg is about to kick you in the face," Johnny inserts anyway. Their music--an etude that Johnny spent several painstaking days selecting and Evan one minute rejecting--tapers off without them.
"Nationals!" Priscilla yells, her voice bouncing shrill over the ice, "What's the problem?"
Johnny's biggest problem is really five years too old, when Priscilla caught Johnny and Evan playing around on the ice during a warm up session, attempting to pull off a semi-amateur pair spin, and her mind birthed what she calls her most brilliant idea to date. A world championship medal is enough for her to boast about it, but Johnny curses the day forever.
For now, though, the joints in his foot hurt with what can only be early-onset arthritis.
"I'm twenty-one and I have arthritis," Johnny complains to the world.
Evan elbows him and skates to the edge of the ice, grabbing a water bottle from the railing. His t-shirt clings to his back with the sweat of two hours of aggressive lifting, throwing, jumping, and spinning. It's their second training session of the day and Evan is killing it. Johnny can at least appreciate his determination.
"I think we're done for the night," Evan tells Priscilla and chugs his entire water bottle because he belongs in a frat house in east Jersey. Priscilla opens her mouth to presumably argue but Johnny beats her to it.
"I understand that you have some primitive desire to control my life, Evan, but I'm an independent woman," Johnny says, flittering his arms, "and this girl can survive another run."
Evan rolls his eyes and Johnny can see the little cogs working in his little brain.
"Well then," Evan says finally and it makes Priscilla laugh like a crazy woman because Evan is a continual failure at intelligent comebacks. He glides back into the middle of the rink and his skates make angry cuts in the ice.
"I'm ready when you're ready, Weir," he says, his regular cue for Johnny, and Johnny beams victoriously and goes to tuck himself around Evan's body. His arm fits just under Evan's shoulder blade in their starting stance, the fingertips of his right hand spread and pressing into the cheap, damp material of Evan's shirt. In the five seconds, silent and suspended between them, it takes for the music to start up, Evan's familiar panting settles Johnny's bones. They skate their best run of the night despite Priscilla screaming "eye contact!" at them.
-
On the drive home, Johnny blasts Kelly Clarkson and cherishes every moment of it. It's rare in the days running up to a competition to have time alone to shake out the stress, so to speak. Johnny literally shakes his hair to "Since You've Been Gone". He gets droplets of water all over his car because he's still shower-wet and he imagines that the song is his autobiography. His life without Evan Lysacek; it's a distant fucking fantasy away. Johnny somehow knows that fifty years from now, they'll still be in this purgatory, doing throws from rocking chairs and yelling at each other.
He met Evan in the figure skating circuit when he was thirteen years old and disliked him immediately. At least that's how Johnny prefers to describe it. It's a lie, because Johnny at the time was into figure skaters and into brunettes and into boys, and so maybe he was a little smitten with Evan. The crush was microscopic, really, insignificant, because it didn't take him long to realize that Evan was an unbelievable robot douche who wore too much black and recited useless, affected drivel that made the USFSA swoon. No matter that he was tall and dreamy.
They were rivals for a few years after that, archrivals, nemeses, until Priscilla stuck her evil claws into the mix and decided that what they could do apart, they would do better together. Johnny wishes every day that she hadn't been right, but he still enjoys strutting around with his gold from world championships and the two from nationals.
He pulls up to his apartment block and shoulders his training bag, checking the parking space right across the way from his own as he clicks his locks shut. His foot isn't bothering him so much anymore, thanks to a hot shower and the pair of comfortable leather sandals he bought from Moscow, and he stretches his toes out a little. He's usually good at fighting off injury anyway, but it's January and it's wet and freezing, the uneasy cold spreads everywhere. Including the apartment, Johnny thinks unhappily as he lets himself in and goes straight for the thermostat.
He forgoes the kitchen to dive into the couch, snuggling his face into the luxurious fabric and spreading his limbs all over it. He whines a little bit, too, because his life is so difficult. It'll be easier once he has his national title and Olympic team spot four days from now. Not really, but Johnny enjoys simple pleasures. The dick he'll be getting from Matthew at nationals will be one of them. He dozes off with a smile at the thought and is jolted awake a little while later by a key turning in the front door and his brutish partner.
"You're such a tired old man," Evan greets as he walks in and surveys Johnny on the couch.
Johnny tries to poke him with the foot that's hanging off the side, but Evan skitters away.
"I brought Thai," he calls, going into the hallway.
"But, darling, you're going to ruin your girlish figure," Johnny responds, affecting sadness, but he makes a beeline for the takeout bags. Of the few things they have in common, greasy Thai is Johnny's most and least favorite all at once. He and Evan let each other indulge too often, brofisting in secrecy that the information will never get to their trainers.
"Oh, baby, we're so bad for each other," Johnny says and stuffs a fried banana roll in his mouth.
Evan walks back in, rubbing a towel into the wintery mix in his hair and, his typical half-smirk of bewildered amusement on his face. He reaches behind Johnny for plates and they spread the food out between them on the kitchen bar. It wouldn't be too bad, Johnny guesses, this living together dealio, if it weren't forced by financial shittiness and bitchy heteronormative sponsors who weren't interested in supporting male-male figure skating pairs. Evan can be nice sometimes, when he isn't maddeningly simple and blunt and a complete mess around the house. And incapable of using chopsticks.
"Lesson number eighty-six," Johnny says, clicking his chopsticks together, "place your thumb over the second chopstick firmly and confidently."
"Okay, that was one time," Evan interjects, apropos his chopstick-handicap, but he stabs his noodles with a fork anyway.
Johnny giggles in delight. "If by one time you mean for two full weeks in Japan, then I fucked Stephane one time."
Evan scowls and calls him a ho, so Johnny steals his green peppers.
"Anyway," Evan says, ignoring the vegetable-loss, "I doubt you were the one doing the fucking."
Johnny swats at Evan's arm, only a little bit scandalized. "You know so little."
Which isn't entirely true. Evan consistently noses around in Johnny's sexual life, mainly because he doesn't have one of his own. The last--blessed, beautiful--time Johnny brought a boy home, Evan was barely hesitant about asking about every detail. Johnny's theory is that Evan is a sex-starved voyeur, so Johnny tells him everything so that he can gleefully watch as Evan's balls get bluer.
Later, when the leftovers are put away and the dishes are clean, he nudges past Evan just a bit too slow and close.
"You know, I could top the fuck out of you," Johnny says playfully, voice husky. There's a split second where Evan blinks in surprise and Johnny wants to laugh and laugh, and then Evan's lifting Johnny up by the waist and shoving him against the fridge door. Johnny yelps and his eyes widen. He squirms around but Evan tightens his grip, smirking.
"Are you so sure?" Evan asks.
Johnny flails some more until Evan presses him harder into the fridge and he gives up, beginning to feel Evan's weird coffee bean magnets dig into his back. He shakes his head.
"No," he whispers conspiratorially, "so prove me wrong right now."
Evan rolls his eyes and lets him go, lets Johnny drop down the last few inches to the floor like he normally doesn't on the ice.
"Start packing your shit before you panic about it," he tells Johnny, disappearing down the hallway.
Johnny frowns and yells "bitch!" but he turns to the closet for their suitcases and tries to calm his jumpy little heart.
-
Johnny is angry. He's fuming. He's--he's beyond coining a term to describe what he's experiencing in his life right now as he stares at his partner, two hours from their short program at US Fucking Nationals. Two hours from what will definitively be Johnny's worst nightmare.
"Where the hell did you get all that spray tan?" he asks, horrified. Evan bluntly stares back at him. Not Evan. Three oompa loompas stacked together dressed like Evan stare back at him.
"You're orange," Johnny wails. He turns and paces around the locker room and desperately refrains from tugging out his freshly straight-ironed hair. This is going to be okay, he tries out in his head, he's witnessed worse fashion mishaps from Evan before. They can deal with this. They dealt with the clip-on bowtie.
"I'm sun-kissed?" Evan supplies hopefully and reminds Johnny of the current state of affairs.
"The drink?" Johnny asks. "Because yeah, you're pretty orange soda right now."
"I don't understand this. You told me to "go get myself a tan"," his stupid partner says with stupid air quotes and everything. Even his hands are orange. Priscilla walks in and Johnny remembers he has to breathe to survive life. He takes big gasping breaths.
"Johnny, quit being such a diva. It's really not that bad," Priscilla says and she's completely unconvincing. She has their costumes in big clear plastic bags and goes over to hook them up near a row of lockers. Johnny shakes his head dubiously.
"Our costumes are maroon. He's going to look like an awkward, gangly fireball. He's going to look like the sun," he moans.
"I hate our costumes anyway," Evan strikes as he pulls a towel out of his training bag and Johnny gasps.
"Hold on. Did you hear that? That was the sound of my own heart breaking, Evan Frank Lysacek."
"Johnny," Priscilla snaps, "get over it and get dressed."
Johnny throws his arms up in frustration and tries not to cry as he tugs viciously at the zippers on his bag.
-
"It's not like I'm intentionally trying to sabotage our chances," Evan says as he paces, later, when Johnny's almost done with his make up.
"It's too bad you do it naturally," Johnny says and even he'll admit that he's being a bitch.
Which isn't entirely unwarranted, he asserts to himself. The Olympics are looming over them like a vulture, taunting and terrorizing, and they're both nervous about competing. If they don't place tonight, they more than likely don't go to the Olympics. It's frustratingly simple and scary. Evan's been wandering around the locker room slamming things around, being a general distraction, and putting on his costume three times. Johnny has tried to concentrate all of his attention on getting his make up to look perfect despite the fact that his heart rate is all over the place.
Evan sighs torturedly and plops down on the bench, his leg twitching irregularly against Johnny's.
Johnny brushes a final bit of powder around his eyes before he turns to survey the damage on Evan's face. "Okay," he says, long-suffering, "I think I can work with this."
Evan looks almost relieved.
Johnny motions for him to straddle the bench and then mirrors his partner, hooking their ankles together firmly to calm the fluttering in Evan's limbs. He sticks his make up case between them and pulls out the moisturizer and foundation bottles that he buys specifically for Evan's ruddiness.
"You silly boy," he mumbles and rubs moisturizer between his fingers.
"You tyrant boy," Evan parrots.
Johnny snorts, smoothing the cream over Evan's cheeks and forehead.
"I want everything to be perfect," Johnny says into the quiet room.
Evan gives him a small nod, eyes closed, and Johnny knows he understands because they're both horrible, raging perfectionists. It's what makes things infinitely harder between them, paired with Evan's extreme douchiness, of course. The latter isn't as bad at this moment, though, when Evan's quieter and his eyes have slid shut and Johnny can fix his face. He switches over to the foundation and tries to tame the tangerine burns as best he can.
Despite their flashiness, default due to Johnny's existence on the team, they try to keep the make up light. The costumes this year don't need much more additional flair. They're a beautiful deep maroon and black, accented with shimmery, expensive Swarovski crystals in patterns that mirror the other pair. They're whimsical and fit perfectly, much like Johnny and Evan's skating, but apparently Evan despises them.
"Do you really abhor our--"
"No," Evan interjects, drawling out the word, "I only said that to bug you."
"So thoughtful," Johnny says and pulls out a little container.
"No lipstick," Evan says, trying to tug away.
"It's tint, bitch," Johnny says. He hooks his free hand around the back of Evan's neck to keep him still and runs the tip of his index finger over Evan's bottom lip.
The routine, almost like their routine on the ice, is tried and practiced and it makes Johnny forget where they are for a second. He focuses on lightly coating Evan's mouth, scratching at his scalp a bit. It's still blessedly gel-free so Johnny enjoys the novelty. Evan visibly relents to the touch, his shoulders relaxing, and Johnny takes his time finishing up with some powder. He dusts Evan's nose last.
"There. Perfect, beautiful, so on," Johnny grins.
"Thanks, I know."
"I was talking about my genius work, you narcissist."
Evan winks ridiculously. "Sure."
-
The lights in the rink are devastatingly bright and despite the costumes, the makeup, and the flair, Johnny feels absolutely naked as they go up for their short program.
The audience falls silent when the pair slips into position before their music starts up, amplifying the rushing-pulsing sound of Johnny's blood in his ears. His hand falls into place in the middle of Evan's back and he inhales and holds onto the breath.
Three seconds trickle by slowly, and then, Evan lifts up his chin and they're off.
If nothing else, Johnny knows that he and Evan are perfect together on the ice. They're more than perfect, really; they're breathtaking. The routines aren't typical, even for a same-sex pair. It's the combination of Evan's aggressiveness and Johnny's poise that makes for a stunning show of give and take. The two push and pull from one another with complete blind faith, equally matched in talent and presence.
They glide backwards together in one of their side by side elements and Johnny doesn't have to glance behind him to know that they're completely in sync, tonight. Evan's arm is sure and unwavering around his waist and as they come up around the bend, Johnny swivels and allows the momentum to tug him back, devoted to the fact that Evan will capture his hands at the last possible moment. When it happens, he grins brilliantly across at Evan for a second, unable to contain the thrill that flares up inside him, and then they're moving into their next element.
-
They place first with a personal best score, the thunderous applause from the audience echoing around the arena. Yeah, it means more pressure on them to do well tomorrow night, but Johnny will take it like a drunk slut on prom night.
To celebrate, he goes out for a late dinner at an obnoxiously gourmet restaurant with Matthew, who flirts and fawns adoringly over him the entire time and offers to share his two slivers of white truffle. Johnny enjoys every minute, of course, but after dessert he has to turn down Matthew's offer for sex. It's less of an official offer and more a handshake between Johnny's shin and Matthew's toes, and Johnny politely pulls his ankle away.
"Come on, we haven't seen each other in months and you deserve to celebrate," Matthew grins.
"I know, sweet cheeks," Johnny drawls, checking on his cuticles, "but we have a training session first thing and you know these tired feet of mine need their beauty-rest." He's slightly fibbing for some inexplicable reason; he decides that it's to keep things interesting. To keep Matthew reeled in. Johnny throws him a suggestive smile. Matthew's brows knit together.
"You've never let that stop you before."
"This is the Olympics that's at stake here," Johnny explains with contrived patience, already bored with the argument, "now more than ever I need to stay focused."
Matthew apparently can't come up with a feasible excuse to counter Johnny's because he says, "tomorrow night, then, you're all mine."
"You know it," Johnny smiles and Matthew looks appeased.
He lets Matthew pay for dinner and then he even lets Matthew kiss him good night in the deserted hallway of the hotel. It's a thorough more-than-kiss, good like it always is between them, and Johnny finds himself opening up under Matthew's quick, talented tongue. He wraps his arms around Matthew's neck and slumps back, pulling them into the wall as the kiss grows needier, and moans a little bit because he's totally been malnourished in the orgasm department recently. Just as he's really starting to get into it, relenting and maybe beginning to reconsider his decision to forgo the sex, the hotel door swings open.
"Oh," Evan's voice pipes up from behind them, high and fake-cheery, "I thought I heard you out here."
Johnny drags himself away from Matthew's mouth and glowers at Evan, but Evan just crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame. One of his pairs of disgustingly old pajama pants is hanging off his hips and he has this weird, jittery smile on his face.
"Hello, Matthew," he greets.
"Evan," Matthew nods. Johnny stares between the two of them for several long, awkward seconds. Neither makes a move to speak.
"Well, okay," Johnny blurts pleasantly and glances at Matthew. "I guess I'll be going! See you tomorrow, lover," he tells him, rubbing his palms over Matthew's shoulders and primly kissing both of his cheeks before he pulls away. Matthew smiles charmingly and wishes him a good night, and Johnny turns back to Evan.
He makes sure to sneak him a swift elbow to the stomach before he hurries into the warm hotel room. Yeah, he's annoyed at the interruption, but he'll admit that he's eager to strip off this super-trendy but super-tight Versace henley and get in bed. From behind him, Johnny hears Matthew sardonically comment "nice tan" to Evan, and he can't help it, he practically suffocates himself laughing with the shirt still stuck around his neck.
"Well," Evan says after he's scowled and shut the door right in Matthew's face, "that was rude."
Johnny bounces onto the bed that he claimed yesterday, closer to the wall because he absolutely hates it when Evan wakes up at sunrise and insists on parting the curtains. "That is so rich," Johnny says, "coming from you. And also, thank you ever so dearly for the outrageous cockblock just there."
Evan doesn't even honor Johnny with a response, just shuffles back in the room and silently climbs into his unmade bed.
Johnny yawns and rolls onto his side because he wants to continue this, enjoys digging his finely manicured claws into this type of argument with Evan, into every kind of argument with Evan, truthfully, but all he gets is a look of unwarranted irritation from Evan.
"You could try being nicer to people," Johnny offers.
"I don't need lessons on social interaction from you of all people. Go to sleep," Evan grouches, turning his back to Johnny.
"You need to get your head out of your vagina," Johnny says to Evan's back and Evan yanks the sheets over his head, blocking out the conversation in a show of supreme maturity.
Well then, Johnny glares for a few moments, unsatisfied with the lack of response. He gets up to start his nighttime pre-competition beauty regimen. If Evan wants to be a drama queen about every single time Johnny has an actual ounce of fun in his life, he can frankly suck it. It eases Johnny's nerves, to be able to go out with his friends and family and forget about figure skating for one tiny second. He's not going to let this giant human-shaped wet blanket drag him down.
He takes his time showering under the warm, wet spray of the hotel shower and then stands in front of the supersized bathroom mirror, surveying his skin. Johnny refuses to allow himself to think about the following day's momentous events. Instead, he concentrates on rubbing his luxurious new peppermint cleanser into his skin and the blossoming tingling sensation that spreads through his pores. He splashes icy water on his cheeks and shivers delightedly.
When he settles under the covers of the bed, the warmth of his bare skin contrasting the cool satiny sheets deliciously, it's entirely too quiet in the room. It means that Evan is still awake, for whatever silly reason, because of course Johnny is unwillingly all too familiar with the Breathing Patterns of Evan Lysacek including all phases of his sleep. Under normal circumstances, Johnny might tease him about needing a lullaby or warm milk or something equally as cheesy, but he's getting Anxious Evan tonight and it wouldn't be worthwhile. So instead he curls around his down comforter and dreams of being home in his own, blessedly single room.
-
The next night, the energy in the arena is nervous in anticipation for the long program routines. Johnny and Evan sit with Priscilla in the warm-up area behind the ice before they're due to skate and listen to the audience hush, gasp, and cheer in repeating cycles.
The tension is nearly palpable and Johnny loves it this way, feeds off of it, thinks it's these moments that make the sport. When he used to skate individually, the same type of pressure had a tendency to trip him up. It would block his mind and he wouldn't know how to deal with it other than to force himself on the ice and force the routine. As a pair he feels startlingly clear from start to end. There's one simple focus: not the pressure or the audience or the gold/silver/bronze that needs to be around his neck by the end of it, but his partner and what Johnny needs to give him.
They run through their routine once on the ground and Evan's silent and intensely focused like he usually is before a big skate. Johnny lets him be, falling into the calming synchronicity of their bodies working together despite their brains being on opposite sides of the spectrum, on opposite planets, probably. When Johnny woke up this morning, Evan was up and around and back to normal and they've been relatively tolerant toward each other all day. Johnny's mother was completely thrilled during lunch when Johnny amiably passed Evan the salt and didn't even mention Evan's impending high blood pressure. Patti adores Evan for some unfathomable reason.
"Three," Evan says, counting into their section transitions, and Johnny launches himself into the air.
Their free skate is the second last of the night and it isn't entirely flawless but it earns them a third national title and Johnny knows it as soon as his skates stop on the ice. Evan does too because he manhandles Johnny as they hug and Johnny laughs hysterically and maybe cries a little bit. They bow and blow kisses and the audience is ear-damaging but Johnny doesn't give a shit, he'll wear a hearing aid like he wears his fucking gold medal.
"We're going to the goddamn Olympics," Evan says into Johnny's shoulder after the medal ceremony, like he's just realizing it, like he doubted it, and Johnny knows. He goes to squeeze the life out of Priscilla, whose eyes are suspiciously bright, and his mom, whose proud smile might as well break her face. He grins and kisses her cheeks.
They have to do interviews afterwards and Johnny finds himself searching the backstage crowd for his partner, even as he's giving cheeky responses to some frazzled reporter. He spots Evan across the room, flogged by reporters, undoubtedly reciting something practiced and pretentious to the cameras. Johnny excuses himself and makes his way through the crowd. He bounces onto Evan's back, arms around his neck, and yells, "National Champion!" into his ear and Evan laughs deep and clear. The camera shutters go off like crazy.
Their dynamic changes when they win because their victory is something that they can only really share with each other. It's almost like their own little religion, Johnny thinks. Every practice is a ritual and every challenge is a rite of passage. It's ceremonial and they've both been there every step, forging some indelible link that apparently makes it supremely dissatisfying to celebrate with anyone but the other.
"Winner!" Evan exclaims in a strange valley girl accent that Johnny will store in his Teasing Evan manual forever. For now he just steals another hug after Evan tugs him around so that they can face each other. His body absorbs Evan's energy like it instinctually does and he lets himself feel the victory.
-
Three days later, Johnny's back to wanting to kill Evan.
"I can't even begin to understand why you still haven't unpacked," Johnny says, surveying the suitcase on the floor and the clothes that are leaking from it. They're rumpled and all over the place and the whole thing is making him want to kill himself. Evan doesn't even seem to give a shit that one of them might die tonight. He's sprawled over his bed, typing something on his fancy new phone and dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants that have probably been on him for at least two of the past three days. Johnny's disgusted and he doesn't like having to see more of Evan's tramp stamp than he needs to.
"I can't understand why you're nosing around in my room," Evan says absently, his monotone outrageous in this moment. Johnny is certainly not nosing. It's just that the rest of the apartment is officially spotless and dust-free and it's hurting Johnny's obsessive-compulsive mind that Evan's room is a complete dump.
"My room is hardly a dump," Evan responds to Johnny, who is apparently incapable of keeping anything in his brain. Evan tosses his phone aside and folds his arms behind his head. "You cleaned it before we left."
"One entire week ago," Johnny asserts, "seven whole days ago. One hundred--"
"Okay," Evan interrupts, "you can unpack my suitcase."
Johnny is more excited than he rationally should be so he complains the whole time about needing an Olympic medal so that they can finally get their own places.
-
They're back in the swing of things pretty soon afterwards because Torino is less than a month away and they have to go nonstop until then. Priscilla's added an hour to both the morning and the afternoon training sessions so that by the end of the day, all Johnny wants to do is lay on the couch and watch mindless television. And eat. And groan about his failing body. Today, his tailbone is bothering him because for some reason, him and Evan couldn't follow through on one of their lifts and it left Johnny on his ass countless times. He digs his fingertips into his lower back and moans tormentedly.
"Your bitching is blocking out the TV," Evan complains from the other end of the giant couch.
Johnny wants to tell Evan that if it wasn't for his flimsy lifting skills, this never would have happened. Unfortunately, years ago they came to a mutual decision that they would never blame anything skating-related on one another; the ice was Switzerland, so to speak. It was Johnny's idea actually. He'd wanted to increase the positive energy and good vibes between them.
"Fuck my clueless teenage self," he says. Evan gives him a look of complete bemusement.
"What?" he asks and Johnny flutters his arm dismissively in response. He rolls onto his stomach, no longer interested in whichever deranged serial killer Fontana and Green end up prosecuting this week, and wiggles his ass to try to loosen the stiffness. His feet fall against Evan's thighs but Evan doesn't say anything, probably too wrapped up in the show's climax. Johnny thinks that Evan must have been a detective or a cop or an axe murderer in his past life, because they constantly have to have some sort of crime drama playing on their TV. Evan might as well be hooked up to an IV transferring Law & Order into his blood stream.
"Ow," Johnny mumbles into the cushion as his back creaks, not making any attempt to keep his voice down. He startles when he feels Evan's hand encircling his bare ankle.
"Come here," Evan says, squeezing a bit, and Johnny sits up in triumph.
Truthfully, he bided his time for this moment, just hoping that he wouldn't have to do the asking. He's been needing a massage, and Evan knows Johnny's body well enough that he can give Johnny the best fucking massage in the known universe without a single word of guidance. All Johnny has to do is position himself where he wants to be. Right now it's Evan's lap. Yes, he has just mounted Evan without a second thought, his thighs caging Evan's. At least this way they can both still see the TV.
Their physical closeness might be considered strange by some (Johnny's mother) but Johnny figures that it's natural to be well-attuned to someone after you've spent five years glued to their skin and riding their shoulders, despite how much you hate their ass. He smiles blissfully when Evan fences his fingers around his hips and rubs his thumbs into Johnny's lower back.
"How is it that you're never injured?" Johnny asks as he settles heavily into him.
"I'm more youthful and have greater strength of the mind and body," Evan intones distractedly.
"Bull. Shit," Johnny laughs, "holyshit," he chokes when Evan's fingers slide under the fabric of his t-shirt and dig into his bare skin. The sneaky little bastard. Evan strokes his fingers right over Johnny's tailbone and it's bitterly good. The combination of the solid, painful pressure and subsiding tension is making Johnny's body cry with happiness. He leans forward and rests his palms on Evan's knees. He just knows that he's giving Evan a perfect view of his butt but he can't care less. Evan's eyes are probably on the TV anyway. His hands, though, are doing beautiful, wonderful things. They glide up Johnny's back, firm and warm, and rub into every individual knot gloriously.
"Oh," Johnny moans, way too indecently, when Evan inches his fingers back down and practically molests the top of Johnny's asscrack.
"This is where it's bothering you, right?" Evan asks, "I think you need ice for this. It's an impact bruise."
"Just keep fucking doing what you're doing or I'll slit your throat with my skates," Johnny says, maybe a little too influenced by the violence that he's been exposed to this past hour. Whatever. Johnny's just susceptible.
Evan snorts, "it seems that you still don't understand how critical I am to your life. Who would you take to Torino then?"
"Paris," Johnny responds immediately and under him he can feel Evan's body shake with laughter before Evan strokes his fingers maddeningly slowly over the base of Johnny's spine.
"Oh, right, so Paris can give you this?" Evan asks, fake-casually.
Johnny bites into his bottom lip and tries not to be so blatant about it. "I could teach him," he manages, trying to focus his eyes on the Ford truck ad and failing.
"That unskillful imbecile can't learn anything."
Johnny is terribly offended, really, but he's already heard it from Evan three thousand times before and also, he feels so liquidy right now. So he says, "Oh, baby. SAT words," and squeezes Evan's thighs a bit with his own. The movement makes him slide backwards and his ass ends up pressed against Evan's crotch. Evan's very apparently interested crotch. Well then, Johnny giggles as Evan tenses up underneath him and his breath hitches.
"How nice," Johnny says, "that we're both enjoying this."
Evan tries to push him away but Johnny holds his ground, digging his fingers into Evan's knees, liking this position of power he's got over Evan's dick.
"Get off. Massage is officially over," Evan shoves at Johnny's back with a hint of desperation.
"I was just getting the party started," Johnny complains, "don't you want me to take care of it?" he asks playfully, rubbing his ass against Evan's dick. He gets a hint of how warm and hard Evan really is before he's thrown to the other side of the couch. Johnny looks up at Evan with mock innocence, hair mussed from the maltreatment.
"You're a dick," Evan says, a frown painting his features as he stands up. He snatches his phone from the coffee table and disappears in the direction of his room without a second glance at Johnny. Johnny blinks and sits up, a little bit taken-aback. Yeah, he's never gone quite that far with the teasing, but Evan learned to deal with it a long time ago. Played along sometimes even. Johnny's torn between calling after Evan with an apology and calling after Evan with cattiness. He settles for neither, if only because he's too tired to deal with the continual bullshit. So he was a bit obnoxious. He's Johnny fucking Weir and he can be as big a jerk as Evan is. He sits back, only a little bit assuaged.
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Part 2