FIC : Tie My Hands (3) : Swim Slash : PG (Phelps/Lochte)
Title: Tie My Hands (3/?)
Pair: Phelps/Lochte
Rating: pg for language
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.
Nothing good ever comes from Animal Planet.
Ryan is sure of this. He has pretty solid proof.
Like, two years ago he'd gotten so wrapped up in watching Growing up Spotted Leopard that he'd missed his flight to Texas for a Longhorn invitational meet which, all considered, wasn't the end of the world.
Except that it turns out that watching a leopard grow up is not a good enough excuse for missing a drug test.
Then there was the Pet Starz incident with Carter and the skateboard. His dog is totally all thumbs; poor little man spent three weeks in a cast, picking up satellite waves with the dish around his neck.
And also, because being drunk and watching Steve Irwin wrestle gators in a state that actually has gators? Is a bad idea. A really terrible idea, and his brother is never going to let him forget it.
It's a track record. It's like, fucking science, Ryan is sure of it.
So he can't say that he's really surprised when Kyle walks in the door while he's watching Animal Precinct and plants himself right in front of the hot cop with her arms full of abused puppies.
"Uh," Ryan says. "Can't see through you, man." Kyle crosses his arms over his chest and Ryan sighs and drops his head back against the couch. Swear to God, Kyle is such a woman sometimes, caring and sharing. Just, you know, minus the breasts. "Is it that time of the month already?"
"Do you not care that he bailed?"
"Can I have a beer for this?"
Kyle's got a weak spot for beer. Sam Adams Summer Ale; it's like, his kryptonite. The TV is shut off. "Beer, yeah. Did you eat yet?" And food. Really, Kyle's got a weak spot for anything that goes in his mouth.
"No. There's that huge taco salad thing that my mom dropped off." Ryan gives Carter a scratch behind the ears and stands up, stretching and grabbing his phone from the coffee table. No new messages and it's not like he's worried or anything but it's been two days and the last time Mike had been so silent over the line was when he'd been thrown in the drunk-tank at Salisbury County jail.
He types as he walks toward the kitchen-guess i wud have herd if ur plane crashd. or bob killd u by acident-and laughs at the mental of image of a wild-eyed Bob loading Mike down with so many weights that he drowns the kid. He really needs to draw that.
In comparison to the mugginess of the house, standing in front of the fridge feels awesome. Ryan hands the beers and taco salad to Kyle instead of moving out of the way and wants to just keep standing there. Of course, that's pretty much an invitation to get pushed into the fridge, so he doesn't.
"Why are there condoms in the silverware drawer?"
Ryan looks over; Kyle's holding up a row of four squares. Purple. Ryan is totally convinced that they taste like Robatussin instead of anything remotely resembling grapes or even jelly. "Convenience?" He shrugs and grabs two forks. "You're lying to me if you haven't used them, man."
Kyle drops the condoms and closes the drawer. Picks up the beers and bumps the weather-door open with his knee. "I use the ones in the tissue box in the living room. There is something wrong about condoms and knives coexisting. Little too Lorena Bobbitt, if you ask me."
"I forgot about the ones in the tissue box." Ryan's flip-flops smack down the three steps to the pool deck. The lights in the pool are on and for whatever reason, those lights make the water look completely different to him. Usually when Ryan sees a pool he thinks laps and strokes and more or less has to turn into his dad for a few hours.
But pool lights... They remind him of sex. And childhood stuff, but mostly sex. And Mike.
He follows Kyle to the small wrought iron table by the grill and slides the taco salad down, grabbing a plate and a beer from his friend. They settle in. It's muggy, yeah, but it's always sorta muggy in the G-Spot. Aside from that it's a nice night.
He's gotten about half way through his food, a quarter of the way through his beer, and most of the way through their plans for the Fourth of July when Kyle speaks up and totally shifts the subject back where he obviously wants it. "So you're really not pissed?"
"Seriously? No. Dude, he had to leave. Bob wanted him back for business stuff." Kyle looks a little like he bit into a lemon instead of ground beef and guacamole. His mouth puckers up. Ryan leans back and takes a drink. "What?"
"Why didn't you go with?" Kyle sticks his fork back into his salad but really isn't paying attention to his food. "You guys have kinda been swinging on each other's dicks for a while now."
Kyle knows about them. It's not like it's a massive dark secret-at least not within a small circle of their close friends. And not like they are obvious or anything but when you live in people's pockets for long enough shit happens. Condoms aren't flushed, bee-jays are walked in on. Whatever. It's not a big deal.
Ryan swallows another mouthful and shakes his head. "Already made Fourth of July plans here."
"You could have gone."
Ryan shakes his head again. "No way, man. I made plans with you guys." Kyle should feel that; he gets touchy where his friends are involved. If Ryan had up and left him for the Fourth it's a safe bet that Kyle would have given Mike the stinkeye for a good month. "Besides, my plane for Nationals is out of Jackonsville."
Kyle just kind of gives him a look that makes him feel like he was born yesterday. "And where's Mike's out of?"
There is an actual moment of thought before Ryan kicks his friend under the table. "Lighten up." Kyle kicks him back; the pain sharp and short-Kyle has sneakers on, son of a bitch. "What is up with you?" Ryan says, leaning down to rub his shin.
"Mike is up with me." Kyle puts his fork down and looks at Ryan, but it's hard to see his eyes with just the dim lights bordering the backyard on.
"Because he left and I didn't go with?"
"No, man. Because something is going on with him. And you-" Kyle stops.
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Me what?" But now Kyle is sucking on a big fat lemon again and even in the dark Ryan can see that he wants to take back his words. "Me what, dude?"
There is a small shrug, like a flip of Kyle's shoulders. "It's fine if you're in love with him, I just think you should talk to him. Or something."
There's a moment of silence before Ryan bursts into laughter. He rocks back in his chair, howling, holding his stomach. Holy shit, in love with Mike? "Oh my God," he gasps, trying to talk and laugh at the same time-it's hard and he actually snorts a bit-"you are so full of shit." He rubs tears out of his eyes and gulps a few breaths before finishing his beer and standing up.
"Ryan."
The tone in Kyle's voice is waved away; Ryan's still chuckling. "Nice try. I'm gonna go play some video games."
"So you wouldn't say Mike's your boyfriend?"
Ryan looks up; Kyle has his arms folded across his chest. He does look serious. Ryan smiles. "He's a boy. And he's my friend." But Kyle doesn't smile back at the joke and something small worms around in Ryan's gut. It's an unpleasant sensation.
He shrugs and fuck it, but it's a little awkward. "I don't know." Right? It isn't like he and Mike discuss it. "It's not like we talk about it. We're good together. That's all. We swim, we fuck. Whatever."
"Whatever," Kyle repeats. "I'm just saying maybe you should know." He picks his fork back up and starts eating again and Ryan's just left standing there staring. Unsure of how to feel. He would have laughed right away but Kyle's still not smiling.
Ryan picks up his plate and fork, his empty bottle. He flip-flops back across the deck and up the three stairs into the house. The weather door wheezes slowly closed behind him as he dumps his stuff into the sink; Carter pushes up around his legs.
His phone is still sitting on the counter where he'd put it down to open the fridge earlier and Ryan feeds Carter some of the uneaten ground beef from his plate as he looks at it. There are two messages and he wipes his fingers on a dishtowel and picks the phone up. Feeling relieved is just a little stupid. Of course Mike is gonna call.
The first is from Devon, asking how the vet visit went. Instead of replying to his brother, Ryan skips right to the next message.
It's not Mike. It's Dustin.
Dude, like, fuck it. What the hell is he worried about? This is Mike he's talking about. Mike who fucks like he swims, Mike who's the biggest goober in the universe, Mike who's the most dependable fucking guy Ryan knows.
Kyle's been Ryan's best friend, like, forever. But Mike fills all the other spaces. It just sorta worked out that way.
Boyfriends, right. That's pretty funny. Actually, the whole thing's pretty funny. Why the hell does Kyle think that he's in love with Mike? They're not, like. Gay. Well, okay, maybe they're a little gay. But he doesn't want to be the next Mrs Michael Phelps or anything. He can see the headlines: 'Swimming Gets More Queer.'
He laughs at himself and grabs the phone and then another beer. Mike's speeddial number after Beijing is eight, of course; Ryan presses it as he heads toward the living room with Carter on his heels. It rings in his ear as he drinks and thinks of more headlines: 'Hugging Not Cool' and, like, 'Love in Lane 5' or something.
Mike's voicemail picks up. Ryan flops back onto the couch to wait for the beep; turns on the TV. Carter jumps up next to him and resumes licking his fingers. "Hey, playa. Does Debbie got you on lockdown or what?" The television says that it's not quite eight and despite Bob probably wanting him to be, even Mike wouldn't be asleep that early. "Or are you still in the pool? Because you know, that's like, abuse." He wants to laugh but it doesn't quite come. He feels like he has something stuck in his throat. Taco salad or something. "So, dude, call me. Peace."
He hits END and tosses the phone on the couch. Carter puts his head down on Ryan's thigh and Ryan scratches absently behind his ears.
His stomach is a litte upset so the beer gets put on the coffee table and Ryan turns on the Playstation. He hopes that the taco salad wasn't going bad; it had only been in the fridge for like, two days, but maybe his mom had intended for them to eat it the day she brought it over.
Part of him sort of expects to find Mike on his friendlist but next to his name it says Offline. Last online 3 days ago. Which had been from Ryan's house; they'd played a team game of Call of Duty and jacked up these other kids pretty good.
He stares at the screen and kinda thinks about the way Mike crosses and uncrosses his toes when he's really focused on a video game. When Kyle sits down next to him the couch dips that way and Ryan blinks, looking over.
"Call of Duty?" Kyle asks.
Ryan grins. "Yeah, dude. Sign in, come on." He stretches out, puts his feet on the coffee table and Carter climbs over him to sit between them, ears pricked toward the TV.
Kyle is better at Halo then he is at Call of Duty since the dude can't make a headshot to save his ass. Literally. And it doesn't take long to get Ryan laughing, which feels good. He forgets about his stomache, or it goes away, and he finishes his beer and goes to get another for the both of them.
Eventually there's a collection of empty bottles on the coffee table and they're both laughing so hard they're fucking crying. The more Kyle drinks the worse he gets at the game and it doesn't help that Ryan's stopped following the rules and started stalking him down just to kill him over and over. They finally get booted out of a game and don't bother signing back in.
When Ryan flips back to the TV, it's some infomerical on about the world's best spagetti pot. Kyle slumps down and lays his head on Carter. Ryan picks up his phone to check the time and through the buzz he's working he's a little surprised to find that it's after twelve.
Mike hasn't called.
He shouldn't be worried, but he sorta is, and it sucks.
He goes to say something to Kyle, but Kyle's definitely starting to snore. So Ryan leaves him there with the dog and the TV and heads for the stairs. He calls Mike again because either the guy's dead or... the guy's dead. Because he always calls back.
The ringing drops into a loud bit of radio silence, all music and talking and no hello. After a minute Ryan says, "Mike?"
"Um, no." It's a girl, and if she's not killer-drunk then Ryan's a duck. "This is," she's not really slurring, but it's more the giggling that makes him certain, "Mr Phelps' answering service."
He can barely hear her over the pounding beat in the background and the noise of other people, but he laughs as he drops onto his bed. "You're doing a bang-up job. Can I talk to my man?"
She laughs again and says something to somebody that he can't really hear. And then into the phone, "No. He's doing body shots and he needs to focus." And she seriously shushes him over the phone.
The smile slips a little from Ryan's face, from his tone. Not like it matters that Mike's at a party. Even though he could have partied in Florida. He's holding the phone a little bit away from his ear, it's so loud. "So I can't talk to him?" he finally asks.
"He's got a lime in his mouth," she tells him. "Can I-" But then she's yelling something to someone other than him and the line cuts into silence a moment later. Ryan puts the phone on the bed. Mike'll call back. He always calls back.
He kicks his flops off into the closet and pulls off his shirt, hanging it over the back of his chair. For a moment he looks at the desk, thinking that something is wrong with it, he just can't put a finger on it. There's a couple of drawings and his colored pencils aren't put away, but that's not it. He takes a swim cap from the corner and tosses it on the dresser, but that's not it either.
Ryan sits down and gathers up the pencils, leaning back to stuff them one by one into their box. He frowns as he realizes what it is. Mike's purple hoodie isn't over the back of the chair; Ryan has been using it for a backrest for like, three months.
The colored pencils are left half-boxed. Ryan gets up and pulls open his closest all of the way; Mike's pair of sneakers are missing. His shirts-Baltimore Ravens, the ugly white polo with thin green lines, a few others-not hanging up. The pairs of jammers Mike keeps in Florida aren't folded up in the drawer with the rest of Ryan's swim gear. There are no flip-flops under the bed. There is no second toothbrush in the yellow mug on his sink.
That feeling from earlier is back suddenly, the small and unpleasant one that Ryan doesn't know what to do with. He rubs his stomach and looks at his quiet phone. NO NEW MESSAGES.
Tie My Hands, Part 4: When Michael Runs Into His Past.
Pair: Phelps/Lochte
Rating: pg for language
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.
Nothing good ever comes from Animal Planet.
Ryan is sure of this. He has pretty solid proof.
Like, two years ago he'd gotten so wrapped up in watching Growing up Spotted Leopard that he'd missed his flight to Texas for a Longhorn invitational meet which, all considered, wasn't the end of the world.
Except that it turns out that watching a leopard grow up is not a good enough excuse for missing a drug test.
Then there was the Pet Starz incident with Carter and the skateboard. His dog is totally all thumbs; poor little man spent three weeks in a cast, picking up satellite waves with the dish around his neck.
And also, because being drunk and watching Steve Irwin wrestle gators in a state that actually has gators? Is a bad idea. A really terrible idea, and his brother is never going to let him forget it.
It's a track record. It's like, fucking science, Ryan is sure of it.
So he can't say that he's really surprised when Kyle walks in the door while he's watching Animal Precinct and plants himself right in front of the hot cop with her arms full of abused puppies.
"Uh," Ryan says. "Can't see through you, man." Kyle crosses his arms over his chest and Ryan sighs and drops his head back against the couch. Swear to God, Kyle is such a woman sometimes, caring and sharing. Just, you know, minus the breasts. "Is it that time of the month already?"
"Do you not care that he bailed?"
"Can I have a beer for this?"
Kyle's got a weak spot for beer. Sam Adams Summer Ale; it's like, his kryptonite. The TV is shut off. "Beer, yeah. Did you eat yet?" And food. Really, Kyle's got a weak spot for anything that goes in his mouth.
"No. There's that huge taco salad thing that my mom dropped off." Ryan gives Carter a scratch behind the ears and stands up, stretching and grabbing his phone from the coffee table. No new messages and it's not like he's worried or anything but it's been two days and the last time Mike had been so silent over the line was when he'd been thrown in the drunk-tank at Salisbury County jail.
He types as he walks toward the kitchen-guess i wud have herd if ur plane crashd. or bob killd u by acident-and laughs at the mental of image of a wild-eyed Bob loading Mike down with so many weights that he drowns the kid. He really needs to draw that.
In comparison to the mugginess of the house, standing in front of the fridge feels awesome. Ryan hands the beers and taco salad to Kyle instead of moving out of the way and wants to just keep standing there. Of course, that's pretty much an invitation to get pushed into the fridge, so he doesn't.
"Why are there condoms in the silverware drawer?"
Ryan looks over; Kyle's holding up a row of four squares. Purple. Ryan is totally convinced that they taste like Robatussin instead of anything remotely resembling grapes or even jelly. "Convenience?" He shrugs and grabs two forks. "You're lying to me if you haven't used them, man."
Kyle drops the condoms and closes the drawer. Picks up the beers and bumps the weather-door open with his knee. "I use the ones in the tissue box in the living room. There is something wrong about condoms and knives coexisting. Little too Lorena Bobbitt, if you ask me."
"I forgot about the ones in the tissue box." Ryan's flip-flops smack down the three steps to the pool deck. The lights in the pool are on and for whatever reason, those lights make the water look completely different to him. Usually when Ryan sees a pool he thinks laps and strokes and more or less has to turn into his dad for a few hours.
But pool lights... They remind him of sex. And childhood stuff, but mostly sex. And Mike.
He follows Kyle to the small wrought iron table by the grill and slides the taco salad down, grabbing a plate and a beer from his friend. They settle in. It's muggy, yeah, but it's always sorta muggy in the G-Spot. Aside from that it's a nice night.
He's gotten about half way through his food, a quarter of the way through his beer, and most of the way through their plans for the Fourth of July when Kyle speaks up and totally shifts the subject back where he obviously wants it. "So you're really not pissed?"
"Seriously? No. Dude, he had to leave. Bob wanted him back for business stuff." Kyle looks a little like he bit into a lemon instead of ground beef and guacamole. His mouth puckers up. Ryan leans back and takes a drink. "What?"
"Why didn't you go with?" Kyle sticks his fork back into his salad but really isn't paying attention to his food. "You guys have kinda been swinging on each other's dicks for a while now."
Kyle knows about them. It's not like it's a massive dark secret-at least not within a small circle of their close friends. And not like they are obvious or anything but when you live in people's pockets for long enough shit happens. Condoms aren't flushed, bee-jays are walked in on. Whatever. It's not a big deal.
Ryan swallows another mouthful and shakes his head. "Already made Fourth of July plans here."
"You could have gone."
Ryan shakes his head again. "No way, man. I made plans with you guys." Kyle should feel that; he gets touchy where his friends are involved. If Ryan had up and left him for the Fourth it's a safe bet that Kyle would have given Mike the stinkeye for a good month. "Besides, my plane for Nationals is out of Jackonsville."
Kyle just kind of gives him a look that makes him feel like he was born yesterday. "And where's Mike's out of?"
There is an actual moment of thought before Ryan kicks his friend under the table. "Lighten up." Kyle kicks him back; the pain sharp and short-Kyle has sneakers on, son of a bitch. "What is up with you?" Ryan says, leaning down to rub his shin.
"Mike is up with me." Kyle puts his fork down and looks at Ryan, but it's hard to see his eyes with just the dim lights bordering the backyard on.
"Because he left and I didn't go with?"
"No, man. Because something is going on with him. And you-" Kyle stops.
Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Me what?" But now Kyle is sucking on a big fat lemon again and even in the dark Ryan can see that he wants to take back his words. "Me what, dude?"
There is a small shrug, like a flip of Kyle's shoulders. "It's fine if you're in love with him, I just think you should talk to him. Or something."
There's a moment of silence before Ryan bursts into laughter. He rocks back in his chair, howling, holding his stomach. Holy shit, in love with Mike? "Oh my God," he gasps, trying to talk and laugh at the same time-it's hard and he actually snorts a bit-"you are so full of shit." He rubs tears out of his eyes and gulps a few breaths before finishing his beer and standing up.
"Ryan."
The tone in Kyle's voice is waved away; Ryan's still chuckling. "Nice try. I'm gonna go play some video games."
"So you wouldn't say Mike's your boyfriend?"
Ryan looks up; Kyle has his arms folded across his chest. He does look serious. Ryan smiles. "He's a boy. And he's my friend." But Kyle doesn't smile back at the joke and something small worms around in Ryan's gut. It's an unpleasant sensation.
He shrugs and fuck it, but it's a little awkward. "I don't know." Right? It isn't like he and Mike discuss it. "It's not like we talk about it. We're good together. That's all. We swim, we fuck. Whatever."
"Whatever," Kyle repeats. "I'm just saying maybe you should know." He picks his fork back up and starts eating again and Ryan's just left standing there staring. Unsure of how to feel. He would have laughed right away but Kyle's still not smiling.
Ryan picks up his plate and fork, his empty bottle. He flip-flops back across the deck and up the three stairs into the house. The weather door wheezes slowly closed behind him as he dumps his stuff into the sink; Carter pushes up around his legs.
His phone is still sitting on the counter where he'd put it down to open the fridge earlier and Ryan feeds Carter some of the uneaten ground beef from his plate as he looks at it. There are two messages and he wipes his fingers on a dishtowel and picks the phone up. Feeling relieved is just a little stupid. Of course Mike is gonna call.
The first is from Devon, asking how the vet visit went. Instead of replying to his brother, Ryan skips right to the next message.
It's not Mike. It's Dustin.
Dude, like, fuck it. What the hell is he worried about? This is Mike he's talking about. Mike who fucks like he swims, Mike who's the biggest goober in the universe, Mike who's the most dependable fucking guy Ryan knows.
Kyle's been Ryan's best friend, like, forever. But Mike fills all the other spaces. It just sorta worked out that way.
Boyfriends, right. That's pretty funny. Actually, the whole thing's pretty funny. Why the hell does Kyle think that he's in love with Mike? They're not, like. Gay. Well, okay, maybe they're a little gay. But he doesn't want to be the next Mrs Michael Phelps or anything. He can see the headlines: 'Swimming Gets More Queer.'
He laughs at himself and grabs the phone and then another beer. Mike's speeddial number after Beijing is eight, of course; Ryan presses it as he heads toward the living room with Carter on his heels. It rings in his ear as he drinks and thinks of more headlines: 'Hugging Not Cool' and, like, 'Love in Lane 5' or something.
Mike's voicemail picks up. Ryan flops back onto the couch to wait for the beep; turns on the TV. Carter jumps up next to him and resumes licking his fingers. "Hey, playa. Does Debbie got you on lockdown or what?" The television says that it's not quite eight and despite Bob probably wanting him to be, even Mike wouldn't be asleep that early. "Or are you still in the pool? Because you know, that's like, abuse." He wants to laugh but it doesn't quite come. He feels like he has something stuck in his throat. Taco salad or something. "So, dude, call me. Peace."
He hits END and tosses the phone on the couch. Carter puts his head down on Ryan's thigh and Ryan scratches absently behind his ears.
His stomach is a litte upset so the beer gets put on the coffee table and Ryan turns on the Playstation. He hopes that the taco salad wasn't going bad; it had only been in the fridge for like, two days, but maybe his mom had intended for them to eat it the day she brought it over.
Part of him sort of expects to find Mike on his friendlist but next to his name it says Offline. Last online 3 days ago. Which had been from Ryan's house; they'd played a team game of Call of Duty and jacked up these other kids pretty good.
He stares at the screen and kinda thinks about the way Mike crosses and uncrosses his toes when he's really focused on a video game. When Kyle sits down next to him the couch dips that way and Ryan blinks, looking over.
"Call of Duty?" Kyle asks.
Ryan grins. "Yeah, dude. Sign in, come on." He stretches out, puts his feet on the coffee table and Carter climbs over him to sit between them, ears pricked toward the TV.
Kyle is better at Halo then he is at Call of Duty since the dude can't make a headshot to save his ass. Literally. And it doesn't take long to get Ryan laughing, which feels good. He forgets about his stomache, or it goes away, and he finishes his beer and goes to get another for the both of them.
Eventually there's a collection of empty bottles on the coffee table and they're both laughing so hard they're fucking crying. The more Kyle drinks the worse he gets at the game and it doesn't help that Ryan's stopped following the rules and started stalking him down just to kill him over and over. They finally get booted out of a game and don't bother signing back in.
When Ryan flips back to the TV, it's some infomerical on about the world's best spagetti pot. Kyle slumps down and lays his head on Carter. Ryan picks up his phone to check the time and through the buzz he's working he's a little surprised to find that it's after twelve.
Mike hasn't called.
He shouldn't be worried, but he sorta is, and it sucks.
He goes to say something to Kyle, but Kyle's definitely starting to snore. So Ryan leaves him there with the dog and the TV and heads for the stairs. He calls Mike again because either the guy's dead or... the guy's dead. Because he always calls back.
The ringing drops into a loud bit of radio silence, all music and talking and no hello. After a minute Ryan says, "Mike?"
"Um, no." It's a girl, and if she's not killer-drunk then Ryan's a duck. "This is," she's not really slurring, but it's more the giggling that makes him certain, "Mr Phelps' answering service."
He can barely hear her over the pounding beat in the background and the noise of other people, but he laughs as he drops onto his bed. "You're doing a bang-up job. Can I talk to my man?"
She laughs again and says something to somebody that he can't really hear. And then into the phone, "No. He's doing body shots and he needs to focus." And she seriously shushes him over the phone.
The smile slips a little from Ryan's face, from his tone. Not like it matters that Mike's at a party. Even though he could have partied in Florida. He's holding the phone a little bit away from his ear, it's so loud. "So I can't talk to him?" he finally asks.
"He's got a lime in his mouth," she tells him. "Can I-" But then she's yelling something to someone other than him and the line cuts into silence a moment later. Ryan puts the phone on the bed. Mike'll call back. He always calls back.
He kicks his flops off into the closet and pulls off his shirt, hanging it over the back of his chair. For a moment he looks at the desk, thinking that something is wrong with it, he just can't put a finger on it. There's a couple of drawings and his colored pencils aren't put away, but that's not it. He takes a swim cap from the corner and tosses it on the dresser, but that's not it either.
Ryan sits down and gathers up the pencils, leaning back to stuff them one by one into their box. He frowns as he realizes what it is. Mike's purple hoodie isn't over the back of the chair; Ryan has been using it for a backrest for like, three months.
The colored pencils are left half-boxed. Ryan gets up and pulls open his closest all of the way; Mike's pair of sneakers are missing. His shirts-Baltimore Ravens, the ugly white polo with thin green lines, a few others-not hanging up. The pairs of jammers Mike keeps in Florida aren't folded up in the drawer with the rest of Ryan's swim gear. There are no flip-flops under the bed. There is no second toothbrush in the yellow mug on his sink.
That feeling from earlier is back suddenly, the small and unpleasant one that Ryan doesn't know what to do with. He rubs his stomach and looks at his quiet phone. NO NEW MESSAGES.
Tie My Hands, Part 4: When Michael Runs Into His Past.