Fic: C'est dur d'être libre comme toi (skating RPF, Johnny/Stephane)
So today kind of sucked. And then callmesandy hung out with me on IM, and I had a drink, and I watched that YouTube clip of Johnny Weir's St. Petersburg fanmeeting where they edited it down to just the tinhatty moments where he talked about Stephane, and then this happened.
Title: C'est dur d'être libre comme toi
Fandom: figure skating RPF
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Stéphane Lambiel
Rating: R for sexual content
Warnings: None standard.
Summary: In which Johnny's in love with his long-distance fuck buddy, and fate's a bitch.
Word Count: about 1,300.
Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction. The characters herein are based on real people, but the words and events are completely made up. They are not intended to be mistaken for fact, and no libel is intended. This original work of fan fiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License; attribution should include a link to this Livejournal post.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for audiencing. Title is from "Corbeau" by Coeur de Pirate.
*
Johnny had been taking a vacation from Stéphane. But now he'd had a little vodka and some Gaga and vacuuming and he wanted a blow job. It was cosmically unfair that Johnny's best fuck buddy lived in Switzerland. A fuck buddy should live a block away and be ready to throw on a sweater and come over and blow you at a moment's notice. Instead, they were stuck letting fate determine their encounters. Surrendering to fate could be a valid life choice in a real relationship, but not for casual sex with someone Johnny could go months without talking to.
Annoyed with fate, he masturbated.
The next morning, early, he was in New York doing a fashion snark guest spot for a cable channel he'd never heard of, and in between takes he was drowning his headache in weak coffee and plotting his war against fate. Stéphane never checked his email, had no Facebook or Twitter, and had once expressed an outright fear of Skype. Stéphane defeated all of the electronic shortcuts to human interaction.
So an expensive phone call had to do. Johnny braced himself for awkward silences. He'd forgotten to count on what always happened between the two of them: the moment they started talking, it was like no time had passed. "I was just, just thinking of you," Stéphane said. Johnny could hear his teasing, flirty grin when he added, "I was practicing, you know, and I was falling on easy jumps."
"Funny," Johnny said. "I was jerking off last night and thinking of you."
"So come over here, and I'll finish you off. It's not so far." It was impossible to tell over the phone what Stéphane meant by that, whether he was still only teasing or whether there were some feelings there. If they'd been together, Stéphane would have been gesturing with his effusive hands, his intentions twinkling in the corners of his eyes.
"I wish you did that sometimes," Stéphane continued. "I dreamed of it once. You came to my door and rang the bell, and I was so happy to see you, and then we fucked. You were on top."
"You know what we should do?" Johnny said. "We should meet halfway in between."
"In the middle of the ocean?"
"I heard there's this big island of garbage there. Like, it all floated to the middle. We could meet there and fuck our brains out," Johnny said.
"You're disgusting." Stéphane must have been wrinkling up his cute little face. Between the two of them, people thought Johnny was the femme one, but Stéphane was just plain delicate.
"I think that's the Pacific anyway."
"So what do we do?" Stéphane said. As if they could plan out a solution, as if it were only a matter of strategy.
"Miss each other? Dream?"
"You give up too easily," said Stéphane.
Johnny left it at that, and they talked idly for a few minutes before hanging up, not really distracting themselves from the impossible. At the end of the day, Johnny did just what he'd suggested: missed Stéphane, fantasized, and masturbated grumpily.
Stéphane called again a few days later, full of manic energy. "I have a friend in Barcelona! He says we can borrow his apartment!"
"That's not halfway," Johnny grumbled. "I might as well say I have a friend with a house on Cape Cod we can borrow."
"But you love Spain. And I despise America."
Johnny contemplated this. He didn't love Spain, but he could learn to, whereas Stéphane was beyond hope. "I have stuff to do, you know."
"It's more important than me?" Stéphane tripped lightly over the question, but he couldn't sustain it. He sounded genuinely sad when he added, "Of course. It's always more important."
"The producers do want me to have a boyfriend."
"Producers? What?" Stéphane said.
"Of my show." Johnny looked over his shoulder like a camera might have appeared while he wasn't looking. If the producers knew he was having these conversations, they'd insist he reenact them.
"That's very quick," Stéphane said. "Yesterday we were friends with benefits, today boyfriends already."
"You're the one trying to get me to run away to Spain with you."
So Johnny canceled all of his appointments, bought a plane ticket, and met his very best fuckbuddy in Spain. They kissed on the train from the airport, and then it stopped feeling romantic. "I can't afford to do this every time you get horny," Johnny said.
"I thought about it," Stéphane said, "and I don't hate Canada. Montreal isn't so far, right? They even speak French." He straightened his body and tilted his chin. Clearly, in his mind, the French language was the pinnacle of human achievement.
"We could buy a little cabin in the mountains," Johnny mused. "We'd get roped into every show at Lake Placid, but I guess that's a small price to pay." His reverie ground to a halt like a cartoon animal skidding into a brick wall. "You don't actually mean that."
"Maybe I will soon." Stéphane put his hands on Johnny's hips and kissed his lips quickly.
Stéphane's friend's apartment was an enormous modernist flat, all rectangles and lofts and odd-shaped skylights. Everything in it was black or white. Johnny and Stéphane had sex in the giant empty bathtub, on the bare mattress of the spare bedroom, and up against the door of the hall closet. That was all in the first three hours. They'd missed each other.
The apartment had a balcony that overlooked lush hills and trees, with the sea in the far distance. Stéphane opened a bottle of wine - he explained that his friend had said anything in the wine rack was fair game, but to leave the mini-cellar alone - and they went out to watch the sun set over the Balearic. "You'll never stop your world for me," Johnny stated, certain, only a little angry.
"You will never stop yours, either," Stéphane replied.
Johnny put down his wine glass and leaned over the railing. The sun had given way to a giant blue-gold moon that scattered looming shadows over the trees. "So there's nothing we can do. We're fucked over by fate."
Stéphane came up to wrap Johnny in his arms and trail kisses down his neck. "We can do anything, if we want to. So it's far away, so we don't see each other often, it's okay. We'll be lonely. It will cost money. We'll sleep with other people sometimes, maybe. But if I love you, if I want no one else more than you, I'll feel that when I hold you and when you're gone."
"Sorry I'm so cynical. I've been burned by long distance before," Johnny said. "But I guess you have, too."
"The distance didn't burn us. It was the person." Stéphane was so good at sounding wise in the moment and foolish later.
So Johnny held himself in the moment. "You've had a decade to burn me. And never have."
For a few minutes, Stéphane let those words hang in the air, rocking Johnny back and forth slightly in his arms while Johnny stared into the moonlight. Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, Stéphane skipped away, giggling, "Let's fuck here on the balcony."
Johnny took him slowly, luxuriating in his familiar skin, wishing the cameras were here so he could keep this moment like a souvenir. They would never be closer than this, no matter how many trips they took to visit. But the fragility and impossibility of loving Stéphane were sweet, and he gave in to them. There would be plenty of time to miss Stéphane later. And who knew? They could be fine. They could be right. They could be better than fate.
Title: C'est dur d'être libre comme toi
Fandom: figure skating RPF
Pairing: Johnny Weir/Stéphane Lambiel
Rating: R for sexual content
Warnings: None standard.
Summary: In which Johnny's in love with his long-distance fuck buddy, and fate's a bitch.
Word Count: about 1,300.
Disclaimers: This is a work of fiction. The characters herein are based on real people, but the words and events are completely made up. They are not intended to be mistaken for fact, and no libel is intended. This original work of fan fiction is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License; attribution should include a link to this Livejournal post.
Notes: Thanks to callmesandy for audiencing. Title is from "Corbeau" by Coeur de Pirate.
*
Johnny had been taking a vacation from Stéphane. But now he'd had a little vodka and some Gaga and vacuuming and he wanted a blow job. It was cosmically unfair that Johnny's best fuck buddy lived in Switzerland. A fuck buddy should live a block away and be ready to throw on a sweater and come over and blow you at a moment's notice. Instead, they were stuck letting fate determine their encounters. Surrendering to fate could be a valid life choice in a real relationship, but not for casual sex with someone Johnny could go months without talking to.
Annoyed with fate, he masturbated.
The next morning, early, he was in New York doing a fashion snark guest spot for a cable channel he'd never heard of, and in between takes he was drowning his headache in weak coffee and plotting his war against fate. Stéphane never checked his email, had no Facebook or Twitter, and had once expressed an outright fear of Skype. Stéphane defeated all of the electronic shortcuts to human interaction.
So an expensive phone call had to do. Johnny braced himself for awkward silences. He'd forgotten to count on what always happened between the two of them: the moment they started talking, it was like no time had passed. "I was just, just thinking of you," Stéphane said. Johnny could hear his teasing, flirty grin when he added, "I was practicing, you know, and I was falling on easy jumps."
"Funny," Johnny said. "I was jerking off last night and thinking of you."
"So come over here, and I'll finish you off. It's not so far." It was impossible to tell over the phone what Stéphane meant by that, whether he was still only teasing or whether there were some feelings there. If they'd been together, Stéphane would have been gesturing with his effusive hands, his intentions twinkling in the corners of his eyes.
"I wish you did that sometimes," Stéphane continued. "I dreamed of it once. You came to my door and rang the bell, and I was so happy to see you, and then we fucked. You were on top."
"You know what we should do?" Johnny said. "We should meet halfway in between."
"In the middle of the ocean?"
"I heard there's this big island of garbage there. Like, it all floated to the middle. We could meet there and fuck our brains out," Johnny said.
"You're disgusting." Stéphane must have been wrinkling up his cute little face. Between the two of them, people thought Johnny was the femme one, but Stéphane was just plain delicate.
"I think that's the Pacific anyway."
"So what do we do?" Stéphane said. As if they could plan out a solution, as if it were only a matter of strategy.
"Miss each other? Dream?"
"You give up too easily," said Stéphane.
Johnny left it at that, and they talked idly for a few minutes before hanging up, not really distracting themselves from the impossible. At the end of the day, Johnny did just what he'd suggested: missed Stéphane, fantasized, and masturbated grumpily.
Stéphane called again a few days later, full of manic energy. "I have a friend in Barcelona! He says we can borrow his apartment!"
"That's not halfway," Johnny grumbled. "I might as well say I have a friend with a house on Cape Cod we can borrow."
"But you love Spain. And I despise America."
Johnny contemplated this. He didn't love Spain, but he could learn to, whereas Stéphane was beyond hope. "I have stuff to do, you know."
"It's more important than me?" Stéphane tripped lightly over the question, but he couldn't sustain it. He sounded genuinely sad when he added, "Of course. It's always more important."
"The producers do want me to have a boyfriend."
"Producers? What?" Stéphane said.
"Of my show." Johnny looked over his shoulder like a camera might have appeared while he wasn't looking. If the producers knew he was having these conversations, they'd insist he reenact them.
"That's very quick," Stéphane said. "Yesterday we were friends with benefits, today boyfriends already."
"You're the one trying to get me to run away to Spain with you."
So Johnny canceled all of his appointments, bought a plane ticket, and met his very best fuckbuddy in Spain. They kissed on the train from the airport, and then it stopped feeling romantic. "I can't afford to do this every time you get horny," Johnny said.
"I thought about it," Stéphane said, "and I don't hate Canada. Montreal isn't so far, right? They even speak French." He straightened his body and tilted his chin. Clearly, in his mind, the French language was the pinnacle of human achievement.
"We could buy a little cabin in the mountains," Johnny mused. "We'd get roped into every show at Lake Placid, but I guess that's a small price to pay." His reverie ground to a halt like a cartoon animal skidding into a brick wall. "You don't actually mean that."
"Maybe I will soon." Stéphane put his hands on Johnny's hips and kissed his lips quickly.
Stéphane's friend's apartment was an enormous modernist flat, all rectangles and lofts and odd-shaped skylights. Everything in it was black or white. Johnny and Stéphane had sex in the giant empty bathtub, on the bare mattress of the spare bedroom, and up against the door of the hall closet. That was all in the first three hours. They'd missed each other.
The apartment had a balcony that overlooked lush hills and trees, with the sea in the far distance. Stéphane opened a bottle of wine - he explained that his friend had said anything in the wine rack was fair game, but to leave the mini-cellar alone - and they went out to watch the sun set over the Balearic. "You'll never stop your world for me," Johnny stated, certain, only a little angry.
"You will never stop yours, either," Stéphane replied.
Johnny put down his wine glass and leaned over the railing. The sun had given way to a giant blue-gold moon that scattered looming shadows over the trees. "So there's nothing we can do. We're fucked over by fate."
Stéphane came up to wrap Johnny in his arms and trail kisses down his neck. "We can do anything, if we want to. So it's far away, so we don't see each other often, it's okay. We'll be lonely. It will cost money. We'll sleep with other people sometimes, maybe. But if I love you, if I want no one else more than you, I'll feel that when I hold you and when you're gone."
"Sorry I'm so cynical. I've been burned by long distance before," Johnny said. "But I guess you have, too."
"The distance didn't burn us. It was the person." Stéphane was so good at sounding wise in the moment and foolish later.
So Johnny held himself in the moment. "You've had a decade to burn me. And never have."
For a few minutes, Stéphane let those words hang in the air, rocking Johnny back and forth slightly in his arms while Johnny stared into the moonlight. Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, Stéphane skipped away, giggling, "Let's fuck here on the balcony."
Johnny took him slowly, luxuriating in his familiar skin, wishing the cameras were here so he could keep this moment like a souvenir. They would never be closer than this, no matter how many trips they took to visit. But the fragility and impossibility of loving Stéphane were sweet, and he gave in to them. There would be plenty of time to miss Stéphane later. And who knew? They could be fine. They could be right. They could be better than fate.