I'm normally a sheep, really.
So I've been reading Junot Diaz lately, and I blame him for the style herein.
Is herein a word?
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, light-R. Unbeta'ed.
08.18.2008 (9:17 AM)
"Bernard Ain't Got Nothin' On You"
Mike has been giving him the stink-eye since yesterday.
At least, Ryan thinks so. He thinks he sees it but when he turns to look Phelps is either smiling or lost in his pool-thoughts, depending on what he's doing at the time. It is making Ryan itch between his shoulderblades.
And of course he can't ask Mike. Not Mr Olympian-he is press conference-ing and Bob Costas-ing and Superman-ing while Ryan is done all his shit and just wandering the Olympic Village and feeling the memory of that stink-eye right in the middle of his back.
Bastard. No better way to ruin someone's solo sight-seeing than an imagined (or not) stink-eye.
He skips McDonalds for lunch and instead heads to the cafeteria where Mike takes most of his meals. That's one thing that Ryan never bothers trying to rub off on his friend-he doesn't need Bowman kicking his ass. The man kinda scares him.
Mike-always alone, in his head, eating and thinking-is sitting surrounded by what looks to be most of the US swim team. Men's and Women's, damn it to hell. Ryan pulls up a chair next to Coughlin and laughs when she pinches his cheek.
There it is! The stink-eye! Across the table, even. Ryan turns from Coughlin to confront it...
And Mike is already chuckling over something with Piersol, sliding fingers down his arm and leaning over and what the fuck? Ryan almost gives his own damn stink-eye right back. If that's the way it's gonna be, they can have a stink-eye showdown right here and now. Throw down, Mike. Throw down.
But Mike obviously has no intention to throw down anything but lunch because he is all smiles for the next forty minutes between the hoovering of a chicken salad, pasta salad, a huge club sandwich, more pasta salad, and a impressive number of oreos.
Oh, and a half an ice cream sandwich that he steals off of Piersol and then proceeds to eat in the most sexually deviant way possible while batting his eyelashes at the other swimmer.
Ryan puts his forehead down so he won't Hulk out and throw the table across the cafeteria, rip off Aaron's head, shove Mike to the floor, and lick the ice cream out of his mouth-all the while growling like an ape.
Because. Yeah. He'll get laughed at or tranq'ed, and either way it will make the front cover of whatever magazines those gaggle of photographers over in the corner work for.
Time Magazine, here I come, he thinks with the cool table edge pressing a line into his forehead. SI? Sure-as-shit.
A hand on his back turns his head just enough to see Torres leaning forward a little, worry lines creeping up around her eyes. Ryan likes her, likes her a lot. People talk about Michael like he just sprung from the ass of Sportsmanship Himself, but Ryan thinks that Dara more than any of them has the best attitude.
So it makes him feel guilty when she leans in further and says, Stomach feeling all right?
And since making himself throw up all over the place just to ruin Mike's enjoyment of that ice cream sandwich wouldn't be a nice answer to the question, Ryan sits up and rubs his forehead and smiles. Sure, he tells her. Just wiped out.
Nowadays you say something like that to anyone in the United States (or several other friendly countries-he's sure that France and/or Serbia wouldn't give two farts) and you'd get back something along the lines of, probably not as tired as Michael Phelps. But Dara gets it, the rest of the US swimmers get it: it's always tiring, whether you're running for one medal or eight. They all do what they can.
Mike just swam for eight because he's a beast and beasts can do that shit.
So she smiles and leans back again, tilting her head to hear what it is that Vanderkaay #2 is saying on her other side because she gets it. They're all tired enough to put their heads down on the lunch table.
...Though just two days ago between races number 14 and 15, Mike had enough energy to shove Ryan up against his bathroom door and suck his brains out through his dick. But whatever.
He stands and catches the way Mike's gaze jumps up at his movement. Probably waiting for him to turn before blasting him with the stink-eye again. Then he'll lean into Piersol-his new backstroke buddy-and giggle.
Wow. Funny, how quick he can turn into a fourteen year-old girl. Testicles gone-just like that. Mike has some weird ability to make him insanely stupid. Ryan rubs a hand through his hair and then puts it up over his head as Soni and Jones call out a goodbye.
His shoulderblades itch and he hopes that Mike chokes on his oreos.
He gets no such easy luck, because two hours later there's a stink-eye thrown across the lobby of the hotel from where Mike looks up over Bowman's shoulder and catches him coming from the front desk.
Okay, to hell with this.
Ryan fields that shit and chucks it right back across the white marble floor. Take that; pow. Payback's a bitch.
So how is it that Mike suddenly looks like Ryan just punted his dog out of his 7th floor hotel room? Ryan looks over his shoulder, a surreptitious glance to make sure Herman really isn't back there being kicked or something.
Nope. Those hurt brown eyes are all for Ryan. There is no universe in which that is fair.
Bowman being toe-to-toe with Mike is the only thing stopping Ryan from doing things that would probably be bad for his career and worse for Mike's-half include one kind of inappropriate physical contact and the other half includes another kind of inappropriate physical contact.
Ryan walks away as he's trying to figure out how to manage both at once without being hauled away by the police.
He's still mulling it over (he's got more muscles but the police are probably faster, and is it really true that the Chinese are born knowing how to do kung-fu?) when he slides his key through the reader on his door. The light flashes to green and Ryan turns the handle before getting reverse clothes-lined through the door. He loses his thoughts with his breath and spins, ready to do a little kung-fu himself.
But it's Mike standing there against the reclosed door, looking a little pissed and a lot hangdog.
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look anything at all.
Mike's silent.
Ryan's silent.
Mike rubs the back of his neck.
Ryan flexes his arms.
Mike sighs.
What? Ryan asks. Has your tongue turned to gold, too?
It's mean. He knows it. But a day of the stink-eye will make a guy mean. If there's any blame to be assigned here then, blame, thy name is Michael Phelps.
Mike makes a ch noise in the back of his throat but otherwise lets the comment pass. He's pretty chill like that, beast or not, and it tanks Ryan's bad mood out of the water like he just had his battleship sunk. One thing he's learned over the years: it's really hard to hate Mike. Those guys talking trash haven't met him, haven't heard his laugh or met his eyes. If they had then they wouldn't be saying shit like Mike losing would be good for the sport.
Sorry, he sighs. But man, you've been giving me stink-eye for twelve hours. My nerves are fried.
Mike looks away and chews on his lower lip.
You gotta give me something to work with, Ryan insists to the silence.
Vyatchanin, he finally says.
Arkady?
Yeah, that Vyatchanin. And you bet your bottom fucking dollar there is a little bit of a growl in that. It makes two things on Ryan stand up straight-one is the hair on the back of his neck. You can probably guess the other.
Understanding is a slow thing. After all, the biggest parts of the relationship between he and Mike consist of A) phone calls and text messages, B) hugs across lane lines, and C) rushed blow jobs.
A) Nuance is lost over phone lines.
B) Lane lines are public property.
C) No time to be jealous when you're trying to beat your personal best time on your knees.
Ryan chucks a pair of (clean) socks, close at hand on the end table, at Mike's head and tells him that he might be the fastest guy in the pool but that doesn't mean he isn't slow as shit. Vyatchanin? Really?
Really, Mike says with a shrug. The ball of socks hits the corner of the wall-which is exactly why Ryan swims instead of plays basketball and gets a fanboy chubby every time he comes within a mile of Kobe Bryant.
Ryan lets Mike know that he is an amazing asshole, which is right around the time Mike starts smiling and steps forward; dropping his head just an inch is enough to let him lick Ryan's earlobe as he whispers, You think I'm amazing? with a little laugh.
It's disgraceful how fast Ryan's knees turn to Jell-O.
Vyatchanin? Ryan asks again, only this time the name sounds sort of forgotten and strangled because Mike's walking them back toward the couch and sucking on Ryan's neck at the same time.
He was all over you, Mike insists. On the medal stand, during the pictures. I thought...
You're an amazing asshole, he just repeats. It seems to settle the discussion and Mike pushes them both down onto the wide cushions.
But you better believe, Ryan adds before he forgets how to use his brain, which is always the case, that tomorrow I'm kicking Piersol's ass.
Is herein a word?
:: Michael Phelps/Ryan Lochte, US Men's Swimming, light-R. Unbeta'ed.
08.18.2008 (9:17 AM)
"Bernard Ain't Got Nothin' On You"
Mike has been giving him the stink-eye since yesterday.
At least, Ryan thinks so. He thinks he sees it but when he turns to look Phelps is either smiling or lost in his pool-thoughts, depending on what he's doing at the time. It is making Ryan itch between his shoulderblades.
And of course he can't ask Mike. Not Mr Olympian-he is press conference-ing and Bob Costas-ing and Superman-ing while Ryan is done all his shit and just wandering the Olympic Village and feeling the memory of that stink-eye right in the middle of his back.
Bastard. No better way to ruin someone's solo sight-seeing than an imagined (or not) stink-eye.
He skips McDonalds for lunch and instead heads to the cafeteria where Mike takes most of his meals. That's one thing that Ryan never bothers trying to rub off on his friend-he doesn't need Bowman kicking his ass. The man kinda scares him.
Mike-always alone, in his head, eating and thinking-is sitting surrounded by what looks to be most of the US swim team. Men's and Women's, damn it to hell. Ryan pulls up a chair next to Coughlin and laughs when she pinches his cheek.
There it is! The stink-eye! Across the table, even. Ryan turns from Coughlin to confront it...
And Mike is already chuckling over something with Piersol, sliding fingers down his arm and leaning over and what the fuck? Ryan almost gives his own damn stink-eye right back. If that's the way it's gonna be, they can have a stink-eye showdown right here and now. Throw down, Mike. Throw down.
But Mike obviously has no intention to throw down anything but lunch because he is all smiles for the next forty minutes between the hoovering of a chicken salad, pasta salad, a huge club sandwich, more pasta salad, and a impressive number of oreos.
Oh, and a half an ice cream sandwich that he steals off of Piersol and then proceeds to eat in the most sexually deviant way possible while batting his eyelashes at the other swimmer.
Ryan puts his forehead down so he won't Hulk out and throw the table across the cafeteria, rip off Aaron's head, shove Mike to the floor, and lick the ice cream out of his mouth-all the while growling like an ape.
Because. Yeah. He'll get laughed at or tranq'ed, and either way it will make the front cover of whatever magazines those gaggle of photographers over in the corner work for.
Time Magazine, here I come, he thinks with the cool table edge pressing a line into his forehead. SI? Sure-as-shit.
A hand on his back turns his head just enough to see Torres leaning forward a little, worry lines creeping up around her eyes. Ryan likes her, likes her a lot. People talk about Michael like he just sprung from the ass of Sportsmanship Himself, but Ryan thinks that Dara more than any of them has the best attitude.
So it makes him feel guilty when she leans in further and says, Stomach feeling all right?
And since making himself throw up all over the place just to ruin Mike's enjoyment of that ice cream sandwich wouldn't be a nice answer to the question, Ryan sits up and rubs his forehead and smiles. Sure, he tells her. Just wiped out.
Nowadays you say something like that to anyone in the United States (or several other friendly countries-he's sure that France and/or Serbia wouldn't give two farts) and you'd get back something along the lines of, probably not as tired as Michael Phelps. But Dara gets it, the rest of the US swimmers get it: it's always tiring, whether you're running for one medal or eight. They all do what they can.
Mike just swam for eight because he's a beast and beasts can do that shit.
So she smiles and leans back again, tilting her head to hear what it is that Vanderkaay #2 is saying on her other side because she gets it. They're all tired enough to put their heads down on the lunch table.
...Though just two days ago between races number 14 and 15, Mike had enough energy to shove Ryan up against his bathroom door and suck his brains out through his dick. But whatever.
He stands and catches the way Mike's gaze jumps up at his movement. Probably waiting for him to turn before blasting him with the stink-eye again. Then he'll lean into Piersol-his new backstroke buddy-and giggle.
Wow. Funny, how quick he can turn into a fourteen year-old girl. Testicles gone-just like that. Mike has some weird ability to make him insanely stupid. Ryan rubs a hand through his hair and then puts it up over his head as Soni and Jones call out a goodbye.
His shoulderblades itch and he hopes that Mike chokes on his oreos.
He gets no such easy luck, because two hours later there's a stink-eye thrown across the lobby of the hotel from where Mike looks up over Bowman's shoulder and catches him coming from the front desk.
Okay, to hell with this.
Ryan fields that shit and chucks it right back across the white marble floor. Take that; pow. Payback's a bitch.
So how is it that Mike suddenly looks like Ryan just punted his dog out of his 7th floor hotel room? Ryan looks over his shoulder, a surreptitious glance to make sure Herman really isn't back there being kicked or something.
Nope. Those hurt brown eyes are all for Ryan. There is no universe in which that is fair.
Bowman being toe-to-toe with Mike is the only thing stopping Ryan from doing things that would probably be bad for his career and worse for Mike's-half include one kind of inappropriate physical contact and the other half includes another kind of inappropriate physical contact.
Ryan walks away as he's trying to figure out how to manage both at once without being hauled away by the police.
He's still mulling it over (he's got more muscles but the police are probably faster, and is it really true that the Chinese are born knowing how to do kung-fu?) when he slides his key through the reader on his door. The light flashes to green and Ryan turns the handle before getting reverse clothes-lined through the door. He loses his thoughts with his breath and spins, ready to do a little kung-fu himself.
But it's Mike standing there against the reclosed door, looking a little pissed and a lot hangdog.
Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and refuses to look anything at all.
Mike's silent.
Ryan's silent.
Mike rubs the back of his neck.
Ryan flexes his arms.
Mike sighs.
What? Ryan asks. Has your tongue turned to gold, too?
It's mean. He knows it. But a day of the stink-eye will make a guy mean. If there's any blame to be assigned here then, blame, thy name is Michael Phelps.
Mike makes a ch noise in the back of his throat but otherwise lets the comment pass. He's pretty chill like that, beast or not, and it tanks Ryan's bad mood out of the water like he just had his battleship sunk. One thing he's learned over the years: it's really hard to hate Mike. Those guys talking trash haven't met him, haven't heard his laugh or met his eyes. If they had then they wouldn't be saying shit like Mike losing would be good for the sport.
Sorry, he sighs. But man, you've been giving me stink-eye for twelve hours. My nerves are fried.
Mike looks away and chews on his lower lip.
You gotta give me something to work with, Ryan insists to the silence.
Vyatchanin, he finally says.
Arkady?
Yeah, that Vyatchanin. And you bet your bottom fucking dollar there is a little bit of a growl in that. It makes two things on Ryan stand up straight-one is the hair on the back of his neck. You can probably guess the other.
Understanding is a slow thing. After all, the biggest parts of the relationship between he and Mike consist of A) phone calls and text messages, B) hugs across lane lines, and C) rushed blow jobs.
A) Nuance is lost over phone lines.
B) Lane lines are public property.
C) No time to be jealous when you're trying to beat your personal best time on your knees.
Ryan chucks a pair of (clean) socks, close at hand on the end table, at Mike's head and tells him that he might be the fastest guy in the pool but that doesn't mean he isn't slow as shit. Vyatchanin? Really?
Really, Mike says with a shrug. The ball of socks hits the corner of the wall-which is exactly why Ryan swims instead of plays basketball and gets a fanboy chubby every time he comes within a mile of Kobe Bryant.
Ryan lets Mike know that he is an amazing asshole, which is right around the time Mike starts smiling and steps forward; dropping his head just an inch is enough to let him lick Ryan's earlobe as he whispers, You think I'm amazing? with a little laugh.
It's disgraceful how fast Ryan's knees turn to Jell-O.
Vyatchanin? Ryan asks again, only this time the name sounds sort of forgotten and strangled because Mike's walking them back toward the couch and sucking on Ryan's neck at the same time.
He was all over you, Mike insists. On the medal stand, during the pictures. I thought...
You're an amazing asshole, he just repeats. It seems to settle the discussion and Mike pushes them both down onto the wide cushions.
But you better believe, Ryan adds before he forgets how to use his brain, which is always the case, that tomorrow I'm kicking Piersol's ass.