FIC : Tie My Hands (4) : Swim Slash : NC17 (Phelps/Lochte)
Title: Tie My Hands (4/?)
Pair: Phelps/Lochte
Rating: nc17 for the smutty goodness
Summary: Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte? They were the best worst-kept secret of the swimming world. And Michael didn't like it.
THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS
Tie My Hands, Part 1: When Hilary Wants To Throw the Calender Away.
Tie My Hands, Part 2: When Michael Starts Running.
Tie My Hands, Part 3: When Ryan's Stomach Doesn't Cooperate.
Tie My Hands, Part 4: When Michael Runs Into His Past.
There was a small wake that brushed against the side of the pool, made by the movement of their bodies. The UI Natatorium pool was deep, the arena the largest in the United States, so the quiet heartbeat of the water didn't echo.
Ryan was hanging onto the rungs on the block, arched up like he was going to start the backstroke and take Michael with him. Michael's toes gripped the underwater shelf to try to keep them both from going anywhere.
In the perfect chill of the water, Ryan's skin burned against his. One hand held the wall and the other a hip so that he could pull Ryan down against him and into each upward thrust of his hips. Michael sucked the water off of the back of the neck in front of him, wet curls tickling his cheek. He'd told Ryan to cut his hair again, but Ryan never listened to him.
The faster Michael's pace became the louder Ryan got. The moans turned him on but embarrassed him more, and Michael was sure that someone was going to walk out onto the deck and hear them. Maybe they could hear Ryan in the locker room.
He wrapped fingers around Ryan's dick and gave it a few fast, rough pulls, hoping to finish him off even as he hissed at him to be quiet. He could see the corner of a smile and it pissed him off suddenly that Ryan couldn't ever manage to be anybody but Ryan. Couldn't shut up. Couldn't be serious.
Michael thrust too hard, bringing his hips in a rough jerk against Ryan's ass and shoving himself deep. Ryan's whole body was pushed toward the wall with the impact and his forehead hit the edge of the block. The silence was sudden.
"Shit," Michael said as Ryan reached up to press a hand to his head. "Shit!" He should have been concerned but he was still angry and the worry wasn't burning that away. The rhythm was gone, the mood with it; Ryan pulled away from Michael and put his back to the lane line. Blood dripped from under his hand.
But Ryan smiled, his nose crinkling up and disturbing the bright line of red. "Race ya." Keeping one hand on his forehead he started a slow, backward crawl away down the lane.
Why couldn't he be serious? "Come back, shit, Ry, you're bleeding-" Michael tried to go after him but his suit had gotten caught on the edge of the touch panel when he'd turned as Ryan had pulled away from him.
Ryan was still crawling backwards through the water. "We're starting our final descent," he said, "so please take a moment to turn off any electronic equipment that you might have used during the flight and return to your seats."
Michael couldn't get his goddamn suit off the wall and Ryan was getting further away. His gripped the edge of the pool but his fingers slipped on the tile and when he finally got a good enough hold to pull himself up, the water pulled back, thick and gritty and damp. He tumbled back into a pool filled with dark, sinking sand.
Ryan was going to touch the other wall, fifty meters away, gliding through the quicksand and clearly saying, "So we should be on the ground in about fifteen minutes, folks, that's eleven minutes after the hour. The current temperature in Indianapolis is eighty-seven degrees."
Michael stared at the back of the seat in front of him, his heart racing, slamming against his ribcage. Confusion and adrenaline only lasted a moment-he'd been on too many planes lately not to realize exactly where he really was-but the hard-on he was sporting was going to hang around longer than that. He pulled the blanket off the empty seat next to him and dumped it in his lap with a low breath.
It was going to be a long week.
Five days at home hadn't done anything to help him figure out what he was going to do about Ryan. Or if he should do anything at all. Most of the time had been spent with his friend Matt and drunk enough that he didn't have to think about it except when his phone would buzz in his pocket.
Saturday morning after listening to Ryan's voicemail, Debbie got you on lock-down?, Michael had turned off his phone completely. He could tell that Peter had been a little pissed off about having to call his cell, his condo, and then Bob before being able to find Michael at his mother's, but to his credit his agent never actually said a word to him. No, Michael knew he was pissed because Bob explained just how pissed Peter had been in a decibel somewhere right below a bellow.
Michael had said he'd left his phone charger in Florida, but Bob probably knew he'd been lying because he hadn't been yelling back. Sometimes Bob looked at Michael over the rim of his glasses and Michael wanted to take that Child Psych degree and shove it down his throat.
On Sunday Bob had shown up on his mom's doorstep with the heat schedules for Indianapolis and a new charger along with a stern reminder to, "keep this one in Maryland," as he handed it over. Mike had been a little hung over at the time, and that probably contributed to why he felt so shitty about it.
There was no excuse not to turn on his phone once the plane hit the ground in Indianapolis on Monday afternoon. Bob was coming in later with Michael's mom and sister, and Peter was already in the city for a morning meeting with Speedo. If he kept his phone off he'd be crucified-still, he waited until he was walking up the gangway to turn it on and then ignored the buzz of reminders as he shoved it into his pocket and his sunglasses onto his face.
It was pretty fucking bad that all he wanted was a beer. He wasn't hungover (or drunk)-for maybe the first time in a few days-but the dream on the plane had left him apprehensive.
All he had to do was get to the pool. Then he'd be able to put all of the other bullshit aside and focus.
So it was too much to hope for that no one would recognize him; Michael got stopped by the press just outside of the terminal, the vultures who couldn't pass security. He'd gotten used to-if not comfortable with-the flash of cameras, but right now he didn't want to field anything, even new variations of the same old questions.
Michael thought of Bob, and of Peter, and pasted a smile that he didn't feel onto his face as he stopped walking and turned into the small group of waiting press.
He didn't know how he would place, but he wasn't going to underestimate the guys he was swimming against, especially his teammates from Beijing Olympics. He knew what they were capable of.
Yes, he was taking up the backstroke again for this meet, the one and two-hundred. Had to keep things interesting.
UI's pool was one of the best in the country for setting records. He was going to try his hardest.
Someone special? Maybe. Maybe not.
And then a reporter asked if it was true that he'd been training with Ryan Lochte. Coming on the heels of the other question, Michael froze; his heart twisted up into his throat. He tried to swallow it without looking like he was choking down something foul-tasting.
A familiar face appeared at the edge of the crowd and a compact body pushed through the press with a smile. It had been a few months since Michael had seen Erik, and in that moment no one had ever looked better. In the flashes of cameras he took Michael's hand and pulled him into a hug-and it saved Michael from having to answer the question about Ryan and training. From having to think about it, what it meant. What it didn't.
Instead he found himself fixating on the feel of Erik against him. How warm Erik's hand was inside of his, how their hips brushed together.
Michael hoped that his release only felt reluctant.
"You'll have Michael all week," Erik said with a flash of a smile. "Right now he's got a car to catch." And he started walking-all Michael had to do was follow; the circle of press broke apart for them.
"Thanks," he muttered under his breath once a few feet were put between them and the media, who'd stayed to wait for the next catch.
Erik looked up and laughed once, hoisting his duffel a little further up his shoulder. "You always sucked at playing the nice bad guy, Phelps. You're either a sap or an asshole. So you owe me one. Where's Ryan, anyway?"
Michael hooked thumbs into his backpack straps and looked at where they were going instead of at his friend, annoyed that Erik assumed they'd be connected at the hip. "Here. Or in route, I guess."
"You rooming together?"
"Yeah." So there was no way that Michael could just ignore his problem all week, which would have otherwise been his number one plan. A lot could be blamed on the pool, even where Ryan was concerned. "Where are you staying?"
Erik yawned, his jaw cracking. "Somewhere near campus. Probably better digs than you swimmers." Michael must have made a face because Erik laughed and said, "Is that look jealousy or are you just constipated?"
"Don't flatter yourself." Michael shoved Erik a step to the right using his bag.
"That I made you constipated? I'll try not to. But that's kinda putting the cart before the horse, isn't it?" Mike glanced over; there was a little leer on Erik's face and it was hard not to remember the way his friend looked all fucked out. But then Erik asked, "How are you and Ryan?"
Michael's train of thought derailed completely. "Who says there's even a me and Ryan?" It was peevish. He glared at Erik, who held up his hands, palms-forward, and laughed.
What, were they the best worst-kept secret in the swimming world? They never talked about their relationship-whatever it was-to anyone and yet everyone seemed to know. Michael had worked hard to keep his personal life under wraps; he was a swimmer first.
The last year had gone so quickly, though. And when Michael thought back on those months there was more Ryan than there was pool to remember. Michael had thought after Beijing he needed something different, a change of pace and Bob had trusted Gregg Troy from way back. It had seemed like a good way to keep himself fresh but maybe it had just been a mistake.
"I don't know," Erik said. "I heard you love birds were going to fly away to Canada and get hitched."
And even though it was an obvious joke, even though Michael could hear the laugh under Erik's voice, it hit a nerve-one that had been getting steadily more raw as Nationals drew closer. And love was just... That was ridiculous. Michael loved his mom, he loved his sisters. To him, love implied putting someone else first. It implied a massive commitment. He frowned, the expression tightening his mouth. He might fool around with Ryan, but love was out of the question. Totally out of the question.
But his heart was beating weirdly, high and fast. He swallowed the sensation and wiped sweating palms on his jeans. "Maybe you should shut the fuck up about shit like that," he snapped, lengthening his stride.
He heard Erik jogging to catch up but didn't slow, didn't look up when he felt more than saw the shorter man pull elbow to elbow with him again. "Way to be fucking touchy," Erik muttered, mostly under his breath. "Lemme give you a hint here, Phelps. If you don't want people to know you're together, you shouldn't take so much offense. It was a joke."
"Jokes spread rumors; you should know that." Michael didn't slow his pace. "And I told you, we're not together. Not like that."
Erik shrugged, keeping up. "You know me. I don't care. Unless you're paying me I'm not your therapist." Which about summed up the extent of the Phelps-Vendt relationship. The only depth they had was in the pool.
"So I thought you were retired," Michael said after a minute of silence between them. It was hard to stay pissed when he knew that Erik didn't honestly care about Ryan or Michael's problems with him.
Erik smiled. "Doesn't mean I can't show up and scream with the rest of the fourteen year-olds. I've been working on getting that perfect, eardrum-bleeding pitch."
Michael snorted.
"I'm just saying," Erik said, "that there's going to be a lot of chicks creaming their pants every time you walk out onto the deck in your little speedo, MP, and they won't all be underage. And since you're clearly a single man..."
Michael's shoulders tightened at the obvious dig. As broad as they were, it was a hard thing to miss. And the hand on his backpack strap wrapped into a fist.
"Jesus, Phelps," Erik breathed out, rolling his eyes. He glanced around and then veered toward a handicapped bathroom. Slouching, Michael followed.
The bathroom was single-occupancy, just one sink and one toilet and a thick metal bar running the length of the back wall. Erik put down his bag and shut the door behind Michael, flipping the lock. "Out with it. I might have all day but I know that you don't. What the hell has your panties in such a fucking wad?"
Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "I just wish you'd leave it the hell alone."
Erik's eyebrows struggled toward each other. "You and Ryan? Fine. But you know you jump like a fly-stung horse any time his name comes up, right? Or even when it doesn't, as a matter of fact."
"Then maybe you should just stop talking to me, if it bothers you so much." When Erik's lips twitched into a smile, Michael added, "And fuck you."
"You did," Erik said. "And now you're fucking Lochte."
Michael felt his heart bumping against the bottom of his throat again, like he'd pushed himself too hard down the last twenty-five. "Erik." He heard the hard note of warning in his own voice. This issue needed to be put down before Erik's big mouth did damage.
Erik laughed, he laughed, and Michael's bag fell off his arm as he grabbed Erik's shoulders and shoved him back against the wall. Erik was smart, but he also had a tendency to talk when he should have shut up. When he was lucky the two cancelled each other out-but Michael didn't believe in betting on luck.
"Man," Erik said, as calmly as if he weren't pinned to a wall by a man who topped him by half a foot, "first of all, you have the most obvious phone sex ever."
Whatever Michael had been hoping for, that wasn't it. His heart beat up once more into his throat and got stuck. "Leave it alone," he growled. "You and I had phone sex, too. It never meant we were anything."
Erik attempted a shrug, Michael felt it, but his own hands kept him from seeing it. "I'm not stupid, Mike. You might be wrapped up cozy in your own little world, but I notice shit that goes on around me. You hug everybody some of time, but you hug Ryan all of the time."
"My mom-"
Erik made a face. "Spare me the 'raised by a single mother' bullshit, okay? It's not the hugging. It's who, and when. And when you're out on deck zoning, you'll pop your earphones out for him."
"He's my friend-"
"Right. And have you ever done that for me?" Erik asked. "Or Vanderkaay? Or Crocker?"
Michael cut in. "Maybe you're not stupid enough to interrupt me."
There was another small shrug of shoulders. "And maybe you're right. But what would you do if we were?"
Michael thought about it. "I'd take out my earphones." But he knew it was a lie the second it slid off his tongue, and so did Erik. There was a moment of silence and neither of them looked at the other.
"Okay," Erik said. "Of course you would. I'm just trying to make a point here." He looked up, his tone sobering. "As a friend, Mike. If you're not with Ryan? Then you need to make some changes. Because it looks like what it looks like, and I'm not the only one looking."
The room felt too warm. It was a little hard to breathe; Erik was just staring up at him and suddenly Michael felt like he had something to prove. He ducked his head and heard the quiet inhale from Erik as he hesitated, just for a second.
Just long enough to realize that he was hesitating at all.
Michael's mouth hit Erik's a little too hard; teeth clacked and lips got caught. There was a stutter, a moment of not matching up, before he felt Erik turn his face up, turn his mouth into the rough kiss and his tongue was wet against Michael's. Fingers moved to his chest and then caught at his collar, tugging him closer.
His backpack hit the floor with a shrug of shoulders and Michael used his entire body to pin Erik against the wall. It felt awkward and unfamiliar; Erik was short, his motions quick and almost sharp, the snap of hips and curl of fingers. Michael's hands released broad shoulders and pushed between them; he didn't plan for this to take long enough for him to be able to dwell on what was possibly wrong with it.
Erik's slacks and boxers were shoved down over strong thighs, hanging up on the spread of legs. Michael yanked his own belt open as he sucked on Erik's mouth. They parted and there were a few loud breaths before Erik said, "do you have-"
Michael bit Erik's bottom lip to shut him up. "Of course I do," he breathed out against the spit-slick mouth. He pulled his wallet out of his khakis and the square of blue foil from the billfold before tossing the rest into the sink. "Turn around."
The sound of the condom opening was lost under Erik's shuffle. Michael crumpled the wrapper and chucked it into the sink, too. For a few heartbeats he froze, latex oily under his fingertips, the opaque film unrolled just enough to cover the head of his dick.
Don't know why we even bother using condoms.
Michael breathed against the back of Erik's neck, hot and fast. The other man smelled like soap; no cologne, no sweat, no hair gel.
"Need some help there?" Erik asked, blue eyes looking back over his shoulder. Michael noticed that they weren't the right shade of blue-too dark, like murky water-before jerking the condom down, irritated with himself for wasting time with the thought.
Michael grabbed Erik's ass, his thumb sliding into the damp crack and pressing against the ring of tight muscle, in up to his first knuckle. He fisted himself roughly as Erik tensed and held his breath. Michael scraped his teeth against a soft earlobe and Erik exhaled loudly, his body relaxing with a jerk like a spring uncoiling. He pushed back against Michael's thumb with a quiet sound.
They had always both fucked the same way-fast. There had never been any more foreplay than necessary, and afterward there was only pulling out and pulling away. But now Michael found himself waiting, wanting to draw it out, sucking on the corner of Erik's jaw. He had gotten used to a slow build; more the rolling break of an ocean than the slick speed of a pool.
The frustration that began to edge Erik's movements was obvious, a taught sort of retreat that Michael didn't expect. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" Erik panted against the wall under his face. His fingers were spread across it, bracing.
"Nothing," Michael told Erik. Told himself. Nothing.
His thumb slid free to make way for his dick and the consideration was gone. Michael shoved his way into Erik with fast, rocking thrusts, a half an inch at a time until Erik had relaxed enough to take all of him. The tile under Erik's mouth was damp from his rough breath, his body bullied completely against the wall by Michael.
They were both quiet, conscious of where they were. There was the low slap of flesh on flesh and every few seconds Erik choked on a groan. Michael put his face down onto Erik's shoulder and held his breath as he thrust. He let Erik take care of himself and the other man did without complaint-the quick motion of his forearm was a flutter in the periphery of Michael's vision.
There was no drawing it out. There was no teasing, no laughing, no time taken-nothing but the fast slap of flesh and their mutual orgasms, Michael's on the heels of Erik's. He'd only been still for a moment, but Erik was already shouldering him away and pulling off his dick.
Michael opened his mouth and closed it again. Let Erik go and used his empty hands to pull the condom off himself and throw it into the toilet. Flushing, he zipped his pants up-Erik was already put together, shirt tucked, and washing his hands. Michael's wallet was propped behind the faucet.
Just like old times. Over two years had passed since the last time but it could have been two days. There was no touching after, no roll-over, no ambiguity.
Michael breathed it in, let it settle into his bones.
Tried to make it feel familiar.
Erik moved out of the way of the sink, offering it to Michael as he grabbed a paper towel. "So that was different."
Hands froze under hot water; Michael looked up into the mirror to find Erik's face. "What do you mean?"
Erik grabbed his duffel off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, leaning back against the door. "You being affectionate during sex. Wasn't ever exactly your M.O."
Michael set his jaw and shut the water off, grabbing paper towel and his wallet in the same motion, uncaring if his pants got a little wet in the process. He didn't know if he was annoyed at Erik for bringing it up or at himself for hearing the truth in it.
He felt Erik's eyes on his back as he picked up his backpack in one damp hand and his duffel in the other, and sure enough Erik was blocking the way when he turned to the door, looking at him. "Move," Michael said.
Erik didn't. "Remember what I said about you being touchy? This is what I'm talking about. What happened with Ryan?"
"You're going to let me fuck you and then ask that question?" Michael sniped.
Erik shrugged. "Looks like it. You feeling guilty now?"
Michael put a big hand on Erik's shoulder and shoved him out of the way. Not expecting the force behind the push, the smaller man stumbled a few steps, knocking his other shoulder into the corner. Michael unlocked the door and yanked it open, letting himself out without looking back.
In the hotel room he paced back and forth, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his arm for a few minutes before the phone buzzing against his pocket interrupted the rhythm. It was an automatic alert. Ryan's flight had taken off on time.
Michael cleared his throat and scrolled through his contacts to his agent's number.
"Nice to hear your voice, Michael." Peter's sentiment was only a little dry; Michael figured that he deserved that from his agent, that and probably more. "The Speedo details for the meet look good. You in Indianapolis?"
Michael looked at the city slipping by below his window. It didn't seem like anything had changed in the two years between Nationals. Or if something had changed, it wasn't the city. "Yeah. I've got a favor to ask." Time to throw some weight around. He didn't do it often.
"What's that?"
"Can you get in touch with the pool staff and see if they'll let me in?"
There was silence on the other end of the line that said as much as Peter wanted to help, Michael knew procedures. The Natatorium was already closed, getting a full once-over before Nationals started tomorrow. "I know there's a pool in the hotel."
Michael closed his eyes and put his forehead against the window. "I don't want to doggie-paddle around ten-meters with a family or two, Peter. I want to swim." There was an edge in his voice and he didn't try to hide it. His nerves felt a little fucked.
His agent's sigh was audible over the line. "I'll see who I can get a hold of, Michael. But I'm not making any promises. You might have to settle for wading with the kiddies."
"Thanks." Michael hung up the phone and grabbed his pooldeck duffle and his room key, put on his sunglasses and tugged the bill of his hat down. He'd get a cab.
There were a lot of reasons why Michael had hired Peter. The man didn't coddle, he didn't make promises, he took Michael's money with a smile when they played poker. But he always looked out for Michael's best interests and he always came through.
And twenty minutes later Michael was being let into the silent Natatorium by a middle-aged woman in a blue polo and khaki pants. There were a few others in the same uniform, combing the stands and straightening lane flags. Michael took a deep breath of the chlorine-saturated air.
"You'll only be able to use the warm down pool," the woman told him. She was pink-cheeked and polite, but didn't seem the type to be bowled-over by a fourteen-time gold medalist.
"That's fine." Michael pointed to the locker room. "Can I?" He really wanted in the water, but needed to take a shower first-it was less about pool cleanliness and more about wanting to turn the water as hot as it would go. He'd been in and out of the hotel so fast that he hadn't even thought about it.
His momentary tour guide nodded. "Of course. Just the main pool's off limits, other than that, go wild. Well." She grinned. "Not too wild."
Michael offered her a smile that he would have given his mom and couldn't help but think about the rules Ryan would already be planning to break. "Nope. Thank you." He headed across the familiar deck toward the far door.
The locker room hadn't changed. The tiles were still blue, the lockers still navy. White benches in each row. But now it was perfectly quiet save for the drip of water from a faucet further in-worlds different than the mash of sounds and voices that tomorrow he'd block out with earphones and rap.
He hadn't started listening to music on deck for the songs, and he still didn't. He knew the lyrics too well. The idea of the song was there, but when he put his earphones in what he was really doing was drowning out everyone else except for Michael.
Only right then there was nothing to drown out; the locker room was still. Halfway through rummaging in his duffel Michael left it on the bench, goggles wrapped around his hand, and settled his forehead against the cool metal of a locker.
The off-season had been long and standing at the mouth of Nationals, Michael was suddenly nervous. His training splits weren't what he knew they could have been. He could have done better. He should have been more focused on the water.
Really, right then Michael was the problem and he wouldn't have minded something to distract him. He couldn't keep from thinking about what Erik had said, from wondering if he'd gotten so wrapped up that he couldn't even see it clearly. If people could see what he and Ryan were, how distracted had he been?
He rubbed his mouth, a ghost of the pressure Erik had kissed him with still lingering. There was nothing to feel guilty about. Whatever he and Ryan had grown into... Michael hadn't intended it.
So he didn't feel guilty.
His goggles cracked with an audible pop as he slammed his fist against a locker. The bang of metal made a stiff echo. His knuckles stung.
Untangling the strap from his palm, the goggles were dumped back into his bag. Michael grabbed the first pair of swim-briefs that his fingers touched and, disgorging himself of phone, shoes, and hoodie, headed to the showers.
Turning one on, Michael changed while waiting for the water to heat up. It was almost too hot when he stepped under the spray, but he only closed his eyes and turned his face up.
Being here, now... it was like fine-grade sandpaper against his skin.
Michael put his head against the tiles and let the water beat down on the back of his neck and shoulders. It was too easy to stand there and remember when he had stood there before. Two years had passed since he'd been here, but Michael could almost feel the touch of fingers on his elbow.
His arm had twitched away, even with such light pressure. Every one else had stayed clear but there was Ryan, sticking his nose in, getting close. He missed the signs or he didn't care and Michael could never tell when it was one and when it was the other.
"Hey."
Michael remembered twisting his head against tile far enough to see Ryan. And his smile. There had been a white towel twisted low on his friend's tanned hips, his hair-for once-short. After almost three years of telling Ryan to shave it for big meets, Michael hadn't been able to admit out loud that he missed the insane curls that Ryan had loped off. Missed the way they looked when Ryan woke up, bleary-eyed and half-hard. Missed the way they felt against his palms.
"What?" he said, low.
The aura that managed to keep everyone including Bob away from him after he dragged out a third-place 3.47.13 in the 400 free didn't even knock the corners off Ryan's smile. "What? Dude, you're totally pouting."
Michael pushed up off the wall; standing straight he was taller than Ryan. Ryan just tipped his head back a bit. "I'm really not in the mood for this." He turned off the water.
"Of course you're not," Ryan said, crossing his arms over his chest, "because you're focusing all your energy on pouting. That's some bad fucking chi, Mike." Michael grabbed a towel and rubbed his face, ignoring Ryan-a moment later it was pulled down and Ryan was there, inches away. "You took third, congratulations. That means you beat out, like, more than a hundred other people."
The towel was yanked out of Ryan's hands with enough force that it snapped against the floor. The locker room had gotten quiet; Michael noticed people noticing. Crocker was sitting on a bench nearby staring. A few guys from Wolverine were doing a bad job of keeping their own string of conversation going while trying to listen, with Erik standing at the side of the group and watching.
Michael bristled, shot his club mates a look that turned their eyes away, and stalked toward the locker he'd been using. The low hum of chatter started again, building slowly once he was out of direct eyeline.
He'd managed to get his suit off and his underwear on before Ryan appeared again. "It's really okay," Ryan said, tossing himself down on the bench.
"I know I could have done better," Michael said through his teeth, leaning over to shove his caps and goggles deep into his bag. He didn't want to talk about it; he wanted to hit something, he wanted to yell at someone. He'd lost races and felt good about them-this wasn't one of those. He'd lost because he'd fallen short of his personal mark, not because the field had been deep.
Ryan's shoulders rose and fell. "So do better on the next one."
Michael turned his gaze up from his bag to Ryan, and Ryan was serious. There was no smile then, just honest blue eyes. "I should have done better today," Michael repeated. He hung onto it, determined, because he was feeling exhausted and edgy.
A single hand came up and water-soft fingers settled against the back of his neck. Ryan smiled, the expression gentle and triumphant all at the same time. Michael could have never managed that kind of smile.
"Maybe," Ryan allowed. "But now there's just the next one."
Michael opened his mouth and then closed it to swallow his heart. His skin felt hot where Ryan's fingers sat against it and in the sudden, hollow absence of anger or disappointment his chest was lighter. The only other people who would stay in his face when he had a chip on his shoulder, the only other people who could smile like that and help pull him out of his own head, were his family and his coach. They knew him-the good, the bad, the ugly. And they stuck with him anyway.
And then there was Ryan, sliding his hand away to punch Michael lightly in the shoulder, smiling. Like Michael hadn't just snapped at him and tried to blow him off.
His chest constricted, like someone was squeezing him too hard.
"So what are you waiting for?" Ryan asked.
Michael straightened, rubbing his sternum, and shook his head. "What?"
"Your mom's buying me dinner." Ryan opened his own locker and hauled his duffel out of it, liberating a Speedo pullover and tugging it on against damp skin. "I guess you're probably invited, too," he added as an afterthought once his head had popped free. A wide grin pushed his cheeks up, red from his swims and the damp heat of the locker room.
Michael wrapped his fingers around his jeans instead tracing the line of that flush, or the indentations of goggle-straps at Ryan's temples.
But later that night after telling Bob good night, after lights-out, he'd pushed back his bedsheets and put bare feet on the carpet. The curtains in the hotel were drawn and thick; Michael had been lying awake for almost an hour and he could see enough to find a tshirt and a pair of shorts without making enough noise to bother his roommate.
In a hallway with a curfew, Michael remembered how loud even his bare feet had sounded. He hadn't had to knock on Ryan's door; they'd been swapping extra keys for months by that point and he just let himself into the room as quietly as he could.
For a minute he stood against the door, letting his eyes readjust and listening to the way his heart pulsed against his eardrums. Two beds resolved slowly out of the dark of the room; one had a lump that snored like Kyle.
Michael carefully skirted luggage and shoes and found Ryan in the far bed lying on his back with his arms linked under his head. When Michael's shins hit the edge of the mattress Ryan's head turned to look at him, like he'd just been waiting.
The bed dipped under Michael's weight without a sound. The sheets were cool.
When he pushed his fingers down into the back of Ryan's boxers to get them off, he was stopped. Ryan put Michael onto his back and in the dark of the room the first brush of a mouth against his collarbone was soft, and damp. The second started a low buzz in his nerves.
The short fuzz of Ryan's hair tickled under his chin and he brushed his hand over it, pressing blunt fingertips down against a warm scalp. Michael liked that Ryan was always warm, as if he'd soaked up so much sun during his life that he was storing it. He liked that he just had to be close to him in the water to be able to feel a difference in temperature. He liked falling asleep with warm feet pressed against his calves.
It might have been dark enough to nearly lose sight of each other, but when Michael slowed down and felt the warm skin under his hands he had found there was no mistaking it. When he slid his hands down Ryan's back there was anticipation for the way he knew it would dip at the bottom, trenching down into his spine. Without his eyes Michael could count the fingers of muscles that wrapped around eight of Ryan's ribs. He pressed his mouth to a shallow navel and expected the rasp of short hairs against his tongue before he felt them; even the arch of Ryan's instep was familiar.
And when Michael paid attention, when he took his time, he recognized the way Ryan's stomach tightened when he enjoyed something. Michael spread a hand flat over those lean muscles and felt them jump as he scraped teeth against the smooth skin under Ryan's arm. He couldn't see, but he felt the raise of tattooed circles under his lips and traced them with his tongue.
In the end, Michael remembered Ryan's eyes. He couldn't see the blue but he knew when they were open, and watched how they closed as he held Ryan's knee up and pushed slowly into him.
Ryan became enough to make Michael forget about racing, or winning. At the time that hadn't scared him, that loss of focus-he was too busy memorizing how Ryan's hips fit into his hands, or how the hollow at the bottom of his throat tasted like salt when they were having sex.
When they were together, Michael forgot to think about numbers, or seconds, or strokes. The only breaths that he counted were Ryan's.
And standing under the hot spray of the locker room shower two years later, Michael could still hear the way that breath had stuttered and stopped when Ryan came. He could almost feel the pressure of arms around his shoulders.
He raised his face into the spray and tried to drown the sound, to wash away the feeling.
He couldn't separate himself from Ryan anymore. Michael had the pool, he had a career that he'd fought for-given everything for. Beijing had proven to the world what determination could do, what he could do, and it wasn't something that Michael was willing to throw away for anyone.
Fingers wrapped around the shower handle and jammed it down, cutting off the water, the sound, the feel.
Swimming was who Michael was. He needed to start thinking in numbers again, in seconds, in strokes. He didn't need to slow down, or find a new focus.
He didn't need Ryan.
Tie My Hands, Part 5: When Ryan Realizes Kyle Might Be Onto Something.
Pair: Phelps/Lochte
Rating: nc17 for the smutty goodness
Summary: Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte? They were the best worst-kept secret of the swimming world. And Michael didn't like it.
THIS IS A WORK IN PROGRESS
Tie My Hands, Part 1: When Hilary Wants To Throw the Calender Away.
Tie My Hands, Part 2: When Michael Starts Running.
Tie My Hands, Part 3: When Ryan's Stomach Doesn't Cooperate.
Tie My Hands, Part 4: When Michael Runs Into His Past.
There was a small wake that brushed against the side of the pool, made by the movement of their bodies. The UI Natatorium pool was deep, the arena the largest in the United States, so the quiet heartbeat of the water didn't echo.
Ryan was hanging onto the rungs on the block, arched up like he was going to start the backstroke and take Michael with him. Michael's toes gripped the underwater shelf to try to keep them both from going anywhere.
In the perfect chill of the water, Ryan's skin burned against his. One hand held the wall and the other a hip so that he could pull Ryan down against him and into each upward thrust of his hips. Michael sucked the water off of the back of the neck in front of him, wet curls tickling his cheek. He'd told Ryan to cut his hair again, but Ryan never listened to him.
The faster Michael's pace became the louder Ryan got. The moans turned him on but embarrassed him more, and Michael was sure that someone was going to walk out onto the deck and hear them. Maybe they could hear Ryan in the locker room.
He wrapped fingers around Ryan's dick and gave it a few fast, rough pulls, hoping to finish him off even as he hissed at him to be quiet. He could see the corner of a smile and it pissed him off suddenly that Ryan couldn't ever manage to be anybody but Ryan. Couldn't shut up. Couldn't be serious.
Michael thrust too hard, bringing his hips in a rough jerk against Ryan's ass and shoving himself deep. Ryan's whole body was pushed toward the wall with the impact and his forehead hit the edge of the block. The silence was sudden.
"Shit," Michael said as Ryan reached up to press a hand to his head. "Shit!" He should have been concerned but he was still angry and the worry wasn't burning that away. The rhythm was gone, the mood with it; Ryan pulled away from Michael and put his back to the lane line. Blood dripped from under his hand.
But Ryan smiled, his nose crinkling up and disturbing the bright line of red. "Race ya." Keeping one hand on his forehead he started a slow, backward crawl away down the lane.
Why couldn't he be serious? "Come back, shit, Ry, you're bleeding-" Michael tried to go after him but his suit had gotten caught on the edge of the touch panel when he'd turned as Ryan had pulled away from him.
Ryan was still crawling backwards through the water. "We're starting our final descent," he said, "so please take a moment to turn off any electronic equipment that you might have used during the flight and return to your seats."
Michael couldn't get his goddamn suit off the wall and Ryan was getting further away. His gripped the edge of the pool but his fingers slipped on the tile and when he finally got a good enough hold to pull himself up, the water pulled back, thick and gritty and damp. He tumbled back into a pool filled with dark, sinking sand.
Ryan was going to touch the other wall, fifty meters away, gliding through the quicksand and clearly saying, "So we should be on the ground in about fifteen minutes, folks, that's eleven minutes after the hour. The current temperature in Indianapolis is eighty-seven degrees."
Michael stared at the back of the seat in front of him, his heart racing, slamming against his ribcage. Confusion and adrenaline only lasted a moment-he'd been on too many planes lately not to realize exactly where he really was-but the hard-on he was sporting was going to hang around longer than that. He pulled the blanket off the empty seat next to him and dumped it in his lap with a low breath.
It was going to be a long week.
Five days at home hadn't done anything to help him figure out what he was going to do about Ryan. Or if he should do anything at all. Most of the time had been spent with his friend Matt and drunk enough that he didn't have to think about it except when his phone would buzz in his pocket.
Saturday morning after listening to Ryan's voicemail, Debbie got you on lock-down?, Michael had turned off his phone completely. He could tell that Peter had been a little pissed off about having to call his cell, his condo, and then Bob before being able to find Michael at his mother's, but to his credit his agent never actually said a word to him. No, Michael knew he was pissed because Bob explained just how pissed Peter had been in a decibel somewhere right below a bellow.
Michael had said he'd left his phone charger in Florida, but Bob probably knew he'd been lying because he hadn't been yelling back. Sometimes Bob looked at Michael over the rim of his glasses and Michael wanted to take that Child Psych degree and shove it down his throat.
On Sunday Bob had shown up on his mom's doorstep with the heat schedules for Indianapolis and a new charger along with a stern reminder to, "keep this one in Maryland," as he handed it over. Mike had been a little hung over at the time, and that probably contributed to why he felt so shitty about it.
There was no excuse not to turn on his phone once the plane hit the ground in Indianapolis on Monday afternoon. Bob was coming in later with Michael's mom and sister, and Peter was already in the city for a morning meeting with Speedo. If he kept his phone off he'd be crucified-still, he waited until he was walking up the gangway to turn it on and then ignored the buzz of reminders as he shoved it into his pocket and his sunglasses onto his face.
It was pretty fucking bad that all he wanted was a beer. He wasn't hungover (or drunk)-for maybe the first time in a few days-but the dream on the plane had left him apprehensive.
All he had to do was get to the pool. Then he'd be able to put all of the other bullshit aside and focus.
So it was too much to hope for that no one would recognize him; Michael got stopped by the press just outside of the terminal, the vultures who couldn't pass security. He'd gotten used to-if not comfortable with-the flash of cameras, but right now he didn't want to field anything, even new variations of the same old questions.
Michael thought of Bob, and of Peter, and pasted a smile that he didn't feel onto his face as he stopped walking and turned into the small group of waiting press.
He didn't know how he would place, but he wasn't going to underestimate the guys he was swimming against, especially his teammates from Beijing Olympics. He knew what they were capable of.
Yes, he was taking up the backstroke again for this meet, the one and two-hundred. Had to keep things interesting.
UI's pool was one of the best in the country for setting records. He was going to try his hardest.
Someone special? Maybe. Maybe not.
And then a reporter asked if it was true that he'd been training with Ryan Lochte. Coming on the heels of the other question, Michael froze; his heart twisted up into his throat. He tried to swallow it without looking like he was choking down something foul-tasting.
A familiar face appeared at the edge of the crowd and a compact body pushed through the press with a smile. It had been a few months since Michael had seen Erik, and in that moment no one had ever looked better. In the flashes of cameras he took Michael's hand and pulled him into a hug-and it saved Michael from having to answer the question about Ryan and training. From having to think about it, what it meant. What it didn't.
Instead he found himself fixating on the feel of Erik against him. How warm Erik's hand was inside of his, how their hips brushed together.
Michael hoped that his release only felt reluctant.
"You'll have Michael all week," Erik said with a flash of a smile. "Right now he's got a car to catch." And he started walking-all Michael had to do was follow; the circle of press broke apart for them.
"Thanks," he muttered under his breath once a few feet were put between them and the media, who'd stayed to wait for the next catch.
Erik looked up and laughed once, hoisting his duffel a little further up his shoulder. "You always sucked at playing the nice bad guy, Phelps. You're either a sap or an asshole. So you owe me one. Where's Ryan, anyway?"
Michael hooked thumbs into his backpack straps and looked at where they were going instead of at his friend, annoyed that Erik assumed they'd be connected at the hip. "Here. Or in route, I guess."
"You rooming together?"
"Yeah." So there was no way that Michael could just ignore his problem all week, which would have otherwise been his number one plan. A lot could be blamed on the pool, even where Ryan was concerned. "Where are you staying?"
Erik yawned, his jaw cracking. "Somewhere near campus. Probably better digs than you swimmers." Michael must have made a face because Erik laughed and said, "Is that look jealousy or are you just constipated?"
"Don't flatter yourself." Michael shoved Erik a step to the right using his bag.
"That I made you constipated? I'll try not to. But that's kinda putting the cart before the horse, isn't it?" Mike glanced over; there was a little leer on Erik's face and it was hard not to remember the way his friend looked all fucked out. But then Erik asked, "How are you and Ryan?"
Michael's train of thought derailed completely. "Who says there's even a me and Ryan?" It was peevish. He glared at Erik, who held up his hands, palms-forward, and laughed.
What, were they the best worst-kept secret in the swimming world? They never talked about their relationship-whatever it was-to anyone and yet everyone seemed to know. Michael had worked hard to keep his personal life under wraps; he was a swimmer first.
The last year had gone so quickly, though. And when Michael thought back on those months there was more Ryan than there was pool to remember. Michael had thought after Beijing he needed something different, a change of pace and Bob had trusted Gregg Troy from way back. It had seemed like a good way to keep himself fresh but maybe it had just been a mistake.
"I don't know," Erik said. "I heard you love birds were going to fly away to Canada and get hitched."
And even though it was an obvious joke, even though Michael could hear the laugh under Erik's voice, it hit a nerve-one that had been getting steadily more raw as Nationals drew closer. And love was just... That was ridiculous. Michael loved his mom, he loved his sisters. To him, love implied putting someone else first. It implied a massive commitment. He frowned, the expression tightening his mouth. He might fool around with Ryan, but love was out of the question. Totally out of the question.
But his heart was beating weirdly, high and fast. He swallowed the sensation and wiped sweating palms on his jeans. "Maybe you should shut the fuck up about shit like that," he snapped, lengthening his stride.
He heard Erik jogging to catch up but didn't slow, didn't look up when he felt more than saw the shorter man pull elbow to elbow with him again. "Way to be fucking touchy," Erik muttered, mostly under his breath. "Lemme give you a hint here, Phelps. If you don't want people to know you're together, you shouldn't take so much offense. It was a joke."
"Jokes spread rumors; you should know that." Michael didn't slow his pace. "And I told you, we're not together. Not like that."
Erik shrugged, keeping up. "You know me. I don't care. Unless you're paying me I'm not your therapist." Which about summed up the extent of the Phelps-Vendt relationship. The only depth they had was in the pool.
"So I thought you were retired," Michael said after a minute of silence between them. It was hard to stay pissed when he knew that Erik didn't honestly care about Ryan or Michael's problems with him.
Erik smiled. "Doesn't mean I can't show up and scream with the rest of the fourteen year-olds. I've been working on getting that perfect, eardrum-bleeding pitch."
Michael snorted.
"I'm just saying," Erik said, "that there's going to be a lot of chicks creaming their pants every time you walk out onto the deck in your little speedo, MP, and they won't all be underage. And since you're clearly a single man..."
Michael's shoulders tightened at the obvious dig. As broad as they were, it was a hard thing to miss. And the hand on his backpack strap wrapped into a fist.
"Jesus, Phelps," Erik breathed out, rolling his eyes. He glanced around and then veered toward a handicapped bathroom. Slouching, Michael followed.
The bathroom was single-occupancy, just one sink and one toilet and a thick metal bar running the length of the back wall. Erik put down his bag and shut the door behind Michael, flipping the lock. "Out with it. I might have all day but I know that you don't. What the hell has your panties in such a fucking wad?"
Michael crossed his arms over his chest. "I just wish you'd leave it the hell alone."
Erik's eyebrows struggled toward each other. "You and Ryan? Fine. But you know you jump like a fly-stung horse any time his name comes up, right? Or even when it doesn't, as a matter of fact."
"Then maybe you should just stop talking to me, if it bothers you so much." When Erik's lips twitched into a smile, Michael added, "And fuck you."
"You did," Erik said. "And now you're fucking Lochte."
Michael felt his heart bumping against the bottom of his throat again, like he'd pushed himself too hard down the last twenty-five. "Erik." He heard the hard note of warning in his own voice. This issue needed to be put down before Erik's big mouth did damage.
Erik laughed, he laughed, and Michael's bag fell off his arm as he grabbed Erik's shoulders and shoved him back against the wall. Erik was smart, but he also had a tendency to talk when he should have shut up. When he was lucky the two cancelled each other out-but Michael didn't believe in betting on luck.
"Man," Erik said, as calmly as if he weren't pinned to a wall by a man who topped him by half a foot, "first of all, you have the most obvious phone sex ever."
Whatever Michael had been hoping for, that wasn't it. His heart beat up once more into his throat and got stuck. "Leave it alone," he growled. "You and I had phone sex, too. It never meant we were anything."
Erik attempted a shrug, Michael felt it, but his own hands kept him from seeing it. "I'm not stupid, Mike. You might be wrapped up cozy in your own little world, but I notice shit that goes on around me. You hug everybody some of time, but you hug Ryan all of the time."
"My mom-"
Erik made a face. "Spare me the 'raised by a single mother' bullshit, okay? It's not the hugging. It's who, and when. And when you're out on deck zoning, you'll pop your earphones out for him."
"He's my friend-"
"Right. And have you ever done that for me?" Erik asked. "Or Vanderkaay? Or Crocker?"
Michael cut in. "Maybe you're not stupid enough to interrupt me."
There was another small shrug of shoulders. "And maybe you're right. But what would you do if we were?"
Michael thought about it. "I'd take out my earphones." But he knew it was a lie the second it slid off his tongue, and so did Erik. There was a moment of silence and neither of them looked at the other.
"Okay," Erik said. "Of course you would. I'm just trying to make a point here." He looked up, his tone sobering. "As a friend, Mike. If you're not with Ryan? Then you need to make some changes. Because it looks like what it looks like, and I'm not the only one looking."
The room felt too warm. It was a little hard to breathe; Erik was just staring up at him and suddenly Michael felt like he had something to prove. He ducked his head and heard the quiet inhale from Erik as he hesitated, just for a second.
Just long enough to realize that he was hesitating at all.
Michael's mouth hit Erik's a little too hard; teeth clacked and lips got caught. There was a stutter, a moment of not matching up, before he felt Erik turn his face up, turn his mouth into the rough kiss and his tongue was wet against Michael's. Fingers moved to his chest and then caught at his collar, tugging him closer.
His backpack hit the floor with a shrug of shoulders and Michael used his entire body to pin Erik against the wall. It felt awkward and unfamiliar; Erik was short, his motions quick and almost sharp, the snap of hips and curl of fingers. Michael's hands released broad shoulders and pushed between them; he didn't plan for this to take long enough for him to be able to dwell on what was possibly wrong with it.
Erik's slacks and boxers were shoved down over strong thighs, hanging up on the spread of legs. Michael yanked his own belt open as he sucked on Erik's mouth. They parted and there were a few loud breaths before Erik said, "do you have-"
Michael bit Erik's bottom lip to shut him up. "Of course I do," he breathed out against the spit-slick mouth. He pulled his wallet out of his khakis and the square of blue foil from the billfold before tossing the rest into the sink. "Turn around."
The sound of the condom opening was lost under Erik's shuffle. Michael crumpled the wrapper and chucked it into the sink, too. For a few heartbeats he froze, latex oily under his fingertips, the opaque film unrolled just enough to cover the head of his dick.
Don't know why we even bother using condoms.
Michael breathed against the back of Erik's neck, hot and fast. The other man smelled like soap; no cologne, no sweat, no hair gel.
"Need some help there?" Erik asked, blue eyes looking back over his shoulder. Michael noticed that they weren't the right shade of blue-too dark, like murky water-before jerking the condom down, irritated with himself for wasting time with the thought.
Michael grabbed Erik's ass, his thumb sliding into the damp crack and pressing against the ring of tight muscle, in up to his first knuckle. He fisted himself roughly as Erik tensed and held his breath. Michael scraped his teeth against a soft earlobe and Erik exhaled loudly, his body relaxing with a jerk like a spring uncoiling. He pushed back against Michael's thumb with a quiet sound.
They had always both fucked the same way-fast. There had never been any more foreplay than necessary, and afterward there was only pulling out and pulling away. But now Michael found himself waiting, wanting to draw it out, sucking on the corner of Erik's jaw. He had gotten used to a slow build; more the rolling break of an ocean than the slick speed of a pool.
The frustration that began to edge Erik's movements was obvious, a taught sort of retreat that Michael didn't expect. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" Erik panted against the wall under his face. His fingers were spread across it, bracing.
"Nothing," Michael told Erik. Told himself. Nothing.
His thumb slid free to make way for his dick and the consideration was gone. Michael shoved his way into Erik with fast, rocking thrusts, a half an inch at a time until Erik had relaxed enough to take all of him. The tile under Erik's mouth was damp from his rough breath, his body bullied completely against the wall by Michael.
They were both quiet, conscious of where they were. There was the low slap of flesh on flesh and every few seconds Erik choked on a groan. Michael put his face down onto Erik's shoulder and held his breath as he thrust. He let Erik take care of himself and the other man did without complaint-the quick motion of his forearm was a flutter in the periphery of Michael's vision.
There was no drawing it out. There was no teasing, no laughing, no time taken-nothing but the fast slap of flesh and their mutual orgasms, Michael's on the heels of Erik's. He'd only been still for a moment, but Erik was already shouldering him away and pulling off his dick.
Michael opened his mouth and closed it again. Let Erik go and used his empty hands to pull the condom off himself and throw it into the toilet. Flushing, he zipped his pants up-Erik was already put together, shirt tucked, and washing his hands. Michael's wallet was propped behind the faucet.
Just like old times. Over two years had passed since the last time but it could have been two days. There was no touching after, no roll-over, no ambiguity.
Michael breathed it in, let it settle into his bones.
Tried to make it feel familiar.
Erik moved out of the way of the sink, offering it to Michael as he grabbed a paper towel. "So that was different."
Hands froze under hot water; Michael looked up into the mirror to find Erik's face. "What do you mean?"
Erik grabbed his duffel off the floor and slung it over his shoulder, leaning back against the door. "You being affectionate during sex. Wasn't ever exactly your M.O."
Michael set his jaw and shut the water off, grabbing paper towel and his wallet in the same motion, uncaring if his pants got a little wet in the process. He didn't know if he was annoyed at Erik for bringing it up or at himself for hearing the truth in it.
He felt Erik's eyes on his back as he picked up his backpack in one damp hand and his duffel in the other, and sure enough Erik was blocking the way when he turned to the door, looking at him. "Move," Michael said.
Erik didn't. "Remember what I said about you being touchy? This is what I'm talking about. What happened with Ryan?"
"You're going to let me fuck you and then ask that question?" Michael sniped.
Erik shrugged. "Looks like it. You feeling guilty now?"
Michael put a big hand on Erik's shoulder and shoved him out of the way. Not expecting the force behind the push, the smaller man stumbled a few steps, knocking his other shoulder into the corner. Michael unlocked the door and yanked it open, letting himself out without looking back.
In the hotel room he paced back and forth, arms crossed and fingers tapping against his arm for a few minutes before the phone buzzing against his pocket interrupted the rhythm. It was an automatic alert. Ryan's flight had taken off on time.
Michael cleared his throat and scrolled through his contacts to his agent's number.
"Nice to hear your voice, Michael." Peter's sentiment was only a little dry; Michael figured that he deserved that from his agent, that and probably more. "The Speedo details for the meet look good. You in Indianapolis?"
Michael looked at the city slipping by below his window. It didn't seem like anything had changed in the two years between Nationals. Or if something had changed, it wasn't the city. "Yeah. I've got a favor to ask." Time to throw some weight around. He didn't do it often.
"What's that?"
"Can you get in touch with the pool staff and see if they'll let me in?"
There was silence on the other end of the line that said as much as Peter wanted to help, Michael knew procedures. The Natatorium was already closed, getting a full once-over before Nationals started tomorrow. "I know there's a pool in the hotel."
Michael closed his eyes and put his forehead against the window. "I don't want to doggie-paddle around ten-meters with a family or two, Peter. I want to swim." There was an edge in his voice and he didn't try to hide it. His nerves felt a little fucked.
His agent's sigh was audible over the line. "I'll see who I can get a hold of, Michael. But I'm not making any promises. You might have to settle for wading with the kiddies."
"Thanks." Michael hung up the phone and grabbed his pooldeck duffle and his room key, put on his sunglasses and tugged the bill of his hat down. He'd get a cab.
There were a lot of reasons why Michael had hired Peter. The man didn't coddle, he didn't make promises, he took Michael's money with a smile when they played poker. But he always looked out for Michael's best interests and he always came through.
And twenty minutes later Michael was being let into the silent Natatorium by a middle-aged woman in a blue polo and khaki pants. There were a few others in the same uniform, combing the stands and straightening lane flags. Michael took a deep breath of the chlorine-saturated air.
"You'll only be able to use the warm down pool," the woman told him. She was pink-cheeked and polite, but didn't seem the type to be bowled-over by a fourteen-time gold medalist.
"That's fine." Michael pointed to the locker room. "Can I?" He really wanted in the water, but needed to take a shower first-it was less about pool cleanliness and more about wanting to turn the water as hot as it would go. He'd been in and out of the hotel so fast that he hadn't even thought about it.
His momentary tour guide nodded. "Of course. Just the main pool's off limits, other than that, go wild. Well." She grinned. "Not too wild."
Michael offered her a smile that he would have given his mom and couldn't help but think about the rules Ryan would already be planning to break. "Nope. Thank you." He headed across the familiar deck toward the far door.
The locker room hadn't changed. The tiles were still blue, the lockers still navy. White benches in each row. But now it was perfectly quiet save for the drip of water from a faucet further in-worlds different than the mash of sounds and voices that tomorrow he'd block out with earphones and rap.
He hadn't started listening to music on deck for the songs, and he still didn't. He knew the lyrics too well. The idea of the song was there, but when he put his earphones in what he was really doing was drowning out everyone else except for Michael.
Only right then there was nothing to drown out; the locker room was still. Halfway through rummaging in his duffel Michael left it on the bench, goggles wrapped around his hand, and settled his forehead against the cool metal of a locker.
The off-season had been long and standing at the mouth of Nationals, Michael was suddenly nervous. His training splits weren't what he knew they could have been. He could have done better. He should have been more focused on the water.
Really, right then Michael was the problem and he wouldn't have minded something to distract him. He couldn't keep from thinking about what Erik had said, from wondering if he'd gotten so wrapped up that he couldn't even see it clearly. If people could see what he and Ryan were, how distracted had he been?
He rubbed his mouth, a ghost of the pressure Erik had kissed him with still lingering. There was nothing to feel guilty about. Whatever he and Ryan had grown into... Michael hadn't intended it.
So he didn't feel guilty.
His goggles cracked with an audible pop as he slammed his fist against a locker. The bang of metal made a stiff echo. His knuckles stung.
Untangling the strap from his palm, the goggles were dumped back into his bag. Michael grabbed the first pair of swim-briefs that his fingers touched and, disgorging himself of phone, shoes, and hoodie, headed to the showers.
Turning one on, Michael changed while waiting for the water to heat up. It was almost too hot when he stepped under the spray, but he only closed his eyes and turned his face up.
Being here, now... it was like fine-grade sandpaper against his skin.
Michael put his head against the tiles and let the water beat down on the back of his neck and shoulders. It was too easy to stand there and remember when he had stood there before. Two years had passed since he'd been here, but Michael could almost feel the touch of fingers on his elbow.
His arm had twitched away, even with such light pressure. Every one else had stayed clear but there was Ryan, sticking his nose in, getting close. He missed the signs or he didn't care and Michael could never tell when it was one and when it was the other.
"Hey."
Michael remembered twisting his head against tile far enough to see Ryan. And his smile. There had been a white towel twisted low on his friend's tanned hips, his hair-for once-short. After almost three years of telling Ryan to shave it for big meets, Michael hadn't been able to admit out loud that he missed the insane curls that Ryan had loped off. Missed the way they looked when Ryan woke up, bleary-eyed and half-hard. Missed the way they felt against his palms.
"What?" he said, low.
The aura that managed to keep everyone including Bob away from him after he dragged out a third-place 3.47.13 in the 400 free didn't even knock the corners off Ryan's smile. "What? Dude, you're totally pouting."
Michael pushed up off the wall; standing straight he was taller than Ryan. Ryan just tipped his head back a bit. "I'm really not in the mood for this." He turned off the water.
"Of course you're not," Ryan said, crossing his arms over his chest, "because you're focusing all your energy on pouting. That's some bad fucking chi, Mike." Michael grabbed a towel and rubbed his face, ignoring Ryan-a moment later it was pulled down and Ryan was there, inches away. "You took third, congratulations. That means you beat out, like, more than a hundred other people."
The towel was yanked out of Ryan's hands with enough force that it snapped against the floor. The locker room had gotten quiet; Michael noticed people noticing. Crocker was sitting on a bench nearby staring. A few guys from Wolverine were doing a bad job of keeping their own string of conversation going while trying to listen, with Erik standing at the side of the group and watching.
Michael bristled, shot his club mates a look that turned their eyes away, and stalked toward the locker he'd been using. The low hum of chatter started again, building slowly once he was out of direct eyeline.
He'd managed to get his suit off and his underwear on before Ryan appeared again. "It's really okay," Ryan said, tossing himself down on the bench.
"I know I could have done better," Michael said through his teeth, leaning over to shove his caps and goggles deep into his bag. He didn't want to talk about it; he wanted to hit something, he wanted to yell at someone. He'd lost races and felt good about them-this wasn't one of those. He'd lost because he'd fallen short of his personal mark, not because the field had been deep.
Ryan's shoulders rose and fell. "So do better on the next one."
Michael turned his gaze up from his bag to Ryan, and Ryan was serious. There was no smile then, just honest blue eyes. "I should have done better today," Michael repeated. He hung onto it, determined, because he was feeling exhausted and edgy.
A single hand came up and water-soft fingers settled against the back of his neck. Ryan smiled, the expression gentle and triumphant all at the same time. Michael could have never managed that kind of smile.
"Maybe," Ryan allowed. "But now there's just the next one."
Michael opened his mouth and then closed it to swallow his heart. His skin felt hot where Ryan's fingers sat against it and in the sudden, hollow absence of anger or disappointment his chest was lighter. The only other people who would stay in his face when he had a chip on his shoulder, the only other people who could smile like that and help pull him out of his own head, were his family and his coach. They knew him-the good, the bad, the ugly. And they stuck with him anyway.
And then there was Ryan, sliding his hand away to punch Michael lightly in the shoulder, smiling. Like Michael hadn't just snapped at him and tried to blow him off.
His chest constricted, like someone was squeezing him too hard.
"So what are you waiting for?" Ryan asked.
Michael straightened, rubbing his sternum, and shook his head. "What?"
"Your mom's buying me dinner." Ryan opened his own locker and hauled his duffel out of it, liberating a Speedo pullover and tugging it on against damp skin. "I guess you're probably invited, too," he added as an afterthought once his head had popped free. A wide grin pushed his cheeks up, red from his swims and the damp heat of the locker room.
Michael wrapped his fingers around his jeans instead tracing the line of that flush, or the indentations of goggle-straps at Ryan's temples.
But later that night after telling Bob good night, after lights-out, he'd pushed back his bedsheets and put bare feet on the carpet. The curtains in the hotel were drawn and thick; Michael had been lying awake for almost an hour and he could see enough to find a tshirt and a pair of shorts without making enough noise to bother his roommate.
In a hallway with a curfew, Michael remembered how loud even his bare feet had sounded. He hadn't had to knock on Ryan's door; they'd been swapping extra keys for months by that point and he just let himself into the room as quietly as he could.
For a minute he stood against the door, letting his eyes readjust and listening to the way his heart pulsed against his eardrums. Two beds resolved slowly out of the dark of the room; one had a lump that snored like Kyle.
Michael carefully skirted luggage and shoes and found Ryan in the far bed lying on his back with his arms linked under his head. When Michael's shins hit the edge of the mattress Ryan's head turned to look at him, like he'd just been waiting.
The bed dipped under Michael's weight without a sound. The sheets were cool.
When he pushed his fingers down into the back of Ryan's boxers to get them off, he was stopped. Ryan put Michael onto his back and in the dark of the room the first brush of a mouth against his collarbone was soft, and damp. The second started a low buzz in his nerves.
The short fuzz of Ryan's hair tickled under his chin and he brushed his hand over it, pressing blunt fingertips down against a warm scalp. Michael liked that Ryan was always warm, as if he'd soaked up so much sun during his life that he was storing it. He liked that he just had to be close to him in the water to be able to feel a difference in temperature. He liked falling asleep with warm feet pressed against his calves.
It might have been dark enough to nearly lose sight of each other, but when Michael slowed down and felt the warm skin under his hands he had found there was no mistaking it. When he slid his hands down Ryan's back there was anticipation for the way he knew it would dip at the bottom, trenching down into his spine. Without his eyes Michael could count the fingers of muscles that wrapped around eight of Ryan's ribs. He pressed his mouth to a shallow navel and expected the rasp of short hairs against his tongue before he felt them; even the arch of Ryan's instep was familiar.
And when Michael paid attention, when he took his time, he recognized the way Ryan's stomach tightened when he enjoyed something. Michael spread a hand flat over those lean muscles and felt them jump as he scraped teeth against the smooth skin under Ryan's arm. He couldn't see, but he felt the raise of tattooed circles under his lips and traced them with his tongue.
In the end, Michael remembered Ryan's eyes. He couldn't see the blue but he knew when they were open, and watched how they closed as he held Ryan's knee up and pushed slowly into him.
Ryan became enough to make Michael forget about racing, or winning. At the time that hadn't scared him, that loss of focus-he was too busy memorizing how Ryan's hips fit into his hands, or how the hollow at the bottom of his throat tasted like salt when they were having sex.
When they were together, Michael forgot to think about numbers, or seconds, or strokes. The only breaths that he counted were Ryan's.
And standing under the hot spray of the locker room shower two years later, Michael could still hear the way that breath had stuttered and stopped when Ryan came. He could almost feel the pressure of arms around his shoulders.
He raised his face into the spray and tried to drown the sound, to wash away the feeling.
He couldn't separate himself from Ryan anymore. Michael had the pool, he had a career that he'd fought for-given everything for. Beijing had proven to the world what determination could do, what he could do, and it wasn't something that Michael was willing to throw away for anyone.
Fingers wrapped around the shower handle and jammed it down, cutting off the water, the sound, the feel.
Swimming was who Michael was. He needed to start thinking in numbers again, in seconds, in strokes. He didn't need to slow down, or find a new focus.
He didn't need Ryan.
Tie My Hands, Part 5: When Ryan Realizes Kyle Might Be Onto Something.