takes one to know
takes one to know
Johnny Weir, Evan Lysacek (Evan Lysacek/Brian Joubert).
1500 words
G
Evan left the guy's room several hours later. His shirt was buttoned up wrong, and he was uncomfortably aware that he wasn't wearing anything under his jeans. Somehow he hadn't been able to find his underwear anywhere when it was time to go. The guy hadn't been any help looking, although he had been spread out languidly on the bed, his skin smooth pale gold and his hair all tousled and attractive. Evan had already stepped into his shoes, but when he opened the door he looked back and almost felt like another round. The guy had lifted one hand, though, and said "I think it is time for you to go now, before any of the coaches, they wake up," and shut his eyes decidedly.
He was halfway to the elevator when someone hissed "Are you doing the walk of shame?" in what was probably supposed to be a whisper. Then the whisperer apparently answered their own question, because they sped up, caught hold of Evan's arm, and hustled him into the elevator.
Johnny fucking Weir. Of course.
"Tell me everything," Weir said, and the doors clamped shut and Evan was trapped. "And don't even say you weren't on a booty call, because you totally reek, did you know that?" His nostrils curled, his perky little nose twitching downwards with the movement. "It's a very male smell. Eau de, I don't know. Some sort of rutting beast. You could do with a shower."
Evan nodded slowly. He felt this was true, too.
"Well?" Weir said, bouncing up and down. "Who was it, one of the ice dancers? Most of the ladies' singles are way too young, or way too good for you. Oh, come on. Hello? Anyone awake in there? Did she actually fuck your brains out? For a dude who just got lucky, you seem kind of --"
"Not a girl," Evan said. Admitting weakness to Weir was bad, but right now he was very tired, and there was no one else he could tell. He kind of wanted to tell someone, which was weird. And if Weir told anyone else, anyway, Evan could just say it was jealous lies spread by a backstabbing rival. People would believe it.
Weir's mouth opened and closed like a guppy. "Oh," he said. The rest of the elevator ride was only half a minute long, but they felt like very long, difficult seconds, with Weir staring at him like he hadn't known Evan since they were maybe thirteen. Evan shut his eyes, and only opened them with the doors opened with a ping!
He tried to turn left, but Weir grasped him firmly by the elbow and pulled him down the hall. "Look, I appreciate the thought," Evan said, as Weir pushed him into his room. "But I'm not going to sleep with you. I have to save my energy."
"I have a boyfriend," Weir said matter-of-factly. "And please, I wouldn't fuck you if your dick was made of chocolate."
"How would that even," Evan started, but he just wasn't up to Weir's crazy clown logic right then. "Whatever."
"The details," Weir said. He steered Evan over to the bed and forced him to sit down. "Let me live vicariously. Come on, who? Sandhu?"
"No," Evan said, and frowned. Like he'd hit that. "Um, I can't -- the French guy?"
"You didn't get his name?" Weir asked. "This is a whole new side of you, Evan. I think I like it." He looked amused, and then the smile slid right off his face. "Wait, do you mean Brian? With the freckles?"
"The freckles, yeah."
Weir whistled silently. His mouth made an interesting shape, pursed up. "Huh," he said. "Well, well, well. How was it?"
Evan shrugged. "Sex," he said. "I don't know."
"Everything is just wasted on you, isn't it, Evan?" Weir tilted his head. "Come on, you can't just say that. How was he?"
It wasn't like Evan had much to compare it with. "Good. I don't know."
Weir frowned, like he thought Evan was holding out on him. "How can you not know? You were there, right? Do you turn your brain off during sex -- okay, I'd believe it, but now I'm having sex robot thoughts and they're grossing me out. Come on, it's not like--"
"It just kind of happened," Evan said helplessly. He could feel his face heating. "It's. Kind of not what I do. Normally."
Weir didn't say anything for a few moments. "Wait a second," he said finally. He got up and disappeared into his bathroom -- well, Evan guessed it was his bathroom. It could have been his closet, but then it would have been a really big closet. He wasn't sure why he was thinking so hard about closets. He could feel the burn in his thighs, the faint twinge in his back. He had to skate tomorrow.
Weir came out, clutching something, and tossed it carelessly into Evan's lap, like he could pretend he wasn't doing Evan a favour if he did it as inconspicuously as possible. It was a little tube of something, half beige and half black, and Evan stared at it, but it still didn't make any sense.
"What?"
"God, don't you know anything --" Weir started, and seemed to answer his own question. He sighed. "Here, okay," and took the tube back, unscrewing the top with vicious energy. "Tilt your head."
Evan did, and then Weir was standing in front of him, blocking his view, and touching his neck. "What are you doing?"
"Covering up the marks," Weir said. "You have big juicy purple love bites, all over your neck. Seriously, didn't you think about the free skate tomorrow?"
"I wasn't thinking," Evan said, and Weir made a sort of snorting noise. His thumb moved gently under Evan's jaw.
"Okay, I believe that. Seriously, two more days, and it's the off-season, you couldn't wait -- God, I can't believe I'm playing fairy godmother to you, of all people," he said, and laughed under his breath. He sounded as bemused as Evan felt, and the dispassionate way he was rubbing concealer into Evan's skin was making Evan feel sleepier. It felt kind of nice, stuck somewhere between comforting and intimate. "Tilt your head the other way now. Do I have to give you the talk? Start slow, use lube, did you use protection, yadda yadda," Weir said, and he was joking, but it broke off, and his fingers paused. "Evan, you used protection, right?"
"Yeah."
Weir nodded shortly. "Good." He hooked his fingers under Evan's chin and lifted it, turning it from side to side and examining his work critically. Evan let him. "You'll do. I should -- here," he said grudgingly, taking his hand away, and shoved the tube back into Evan's hand. "Fix yourself up tomorrow."
Evan curled his fingers around it. "Thanks."
"This doesn't mean I'm not going to be praying that you fall on your ass tomorrow," Weir said. "Don't get me wrong. I hope you pop every axel in your program."
"Same to you," Evan said, getting to his feet. "But thanks."
Weir watched him walk over to the door, his eyes narrowed. "Seriously," he said again, like he couldn't stop himself. "The night before the long program? Are you impaired? Don't you know that that's like, the first move in taking out your opposition, if you swing that way? Sometimes even if you don't," he added conscientiously. "It's like, remedial. Get inside their head, and fuck with them."
"It's a thing?" Evan asked, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "You've never tried to sleep with me."
"I don't need to fuck you to beat you," Weir said. "And like I said, I wouldn't fuck you even if you came in showers of diamonds or spurts of Crème La Mer, which costs like, just as much. Plus, I didn't know it would work on you." He eyed Evan almost speculatively.
"I don't think it does," Evan said.
He placed third the next day. Weir placed fourth, and made faces at Evan when he was standing on the podium. The French guy with the freckles placed three points behind him, and Evan let himself be pleased about that, and then let himself forget the incident almost entirely.
Sometimes he caught Weir watching him out of the corner of his eye, though, more curious than hostile. They still weren't friends, but it was. Something. They got on okay at the Olympics next season, even if Evan was secretly glad when Weir fucked up his long program, and he was pretty sure that Weir had been just as pleased when Evan came down with the flu. The summer after that, they were on tour together, and it was fun, almost, until Evan decided that he needed a girlfriend, needed to get serious about the next Olympics and his image and his skating. And about his rivals.
The occasional curiousness in Weir's eyes curdled into something else, something bitter and knowing that said you are just like me, but you hide it better. They weren't friends. It flashed out every time Evan placed higher, every time the commentators praised his style and tutted over Weir's. Evan didn't like seeing it, so he let himself ignore it.
Johnny Weir, Evan Lysacek (Evan Lysacek/Brian Joubert).
1500 words
G
Evan left the guy's room several hours later. His shirt was buttoned up wrong, and he was uncomfortably aware that he wasn't wearing anything under his jeans. Somehow he hadn't been able to find his underwear anywhere when it was time to go. The guy hadn't been any help looking, although he had been spread out languidly on the bed, his skin smooth pale gold and his hair all tousled and attractive. Evan had already stepped into his shoes, but when he opened the door he looked back and almost felt like another round. The guy had lifted one hand, though, and said "I think it is time for you to go now, before any of the coaches, they wake up," and shut his eyes decidedly.
He was halfway to the elevator when someone hissed "Are you doing the walk of shame?" in what was probably supposed to be a whisper. Then the whisperer apparently answered their own question, because they sped up, caught hold of Evan's arm, and hustled him into the elevator.
Johnny fucking Weir. Of course.
"Tell me everything," Weir said, and the doors clamped shut and Evan was trapped. "And don't even say you weren't on a booty call, because you totally reek, did you know that?" His nostrils curled, his perky little nose twitching downwards with the movement. "It's a very male smell. Eau de, I don't know. Some sort of rutting beast. You could do with a shower."
Evan nodded slowly. He felt this was true, too.
"Well?" Weir said, bouncing up and down. "Who was it, one of the ice dancers? Most of the ladies' singles are way too young, or way too good for you. Oh, come on. Hello? Anyone awake in there? Did she actually fuck your brains out? For a dude who just got lucky, you seem kind of --"
"Not a girl," Evan said. Admitting weakness to Weir was bad, but right now he was very tired, and there was no one else he could tell. He kind of wanted to tell someone, which was weird. And if Weir told anyone else, anyway, Evan could just say it was jealous lies spread by a backstabbing rival. People would believe it.
Weir's mouth opened and closed like a guppy. "Oh," he said. The rest of the elevator ride was only half a minute long, but they felt like very long, difficult seconds, with Weir staring at him like he hadn't known Evan since they were maybe thirteen. Evan shut his eyes, and only opened them with the doors opened with a ping!
He tried to turn left, but Weir grasped him firmly by the elbow and pulled him down the hall. "Look, I appreciate the thought," Evan said, as Weir pushed him into his room. "But I'm not going to sleep with you. I have to save my energy."
"I have a boyfriend," Weir said matter-of-factly. "And please, I wouldn't fuck you if your dick was made of chocolate."
"How would that even," Evan started, but he just wasn't up to Weir's crazy clown logic right then. "Whatever."
"The details," Weir said. He steered Evan over to the bed and forced him to sit down. "Let me live vicariously. Come on, who? Sandhu?"
"No," Evan said, and frowned. Like he'd hit that. "Um, I can't -- the French guy?"
"You didn't get his name?" Weir asked. "This is a whole new side of you, Evan. I think I like it." He looked amused, and then the smile slid right off his face. "Wait, do you mean Brian? With the freckles?"
"The freckles, yeah."
Weir whistled silently. His mouth made an interesting shape, pursed up. "Huh," he said. "Well, well, well. How was it?"
Evan shrugged. "Sex," he said. "I don't know."
"Everything is just wasted on you, isn't it, Evan?" Weir tilted his head. "Come on, you can't just say that. How was he?"
It wasn't like Evan had much to compare it with. "Good. I don't know."
Weir frowned, like he thought Evan was holding out on him. "How can you not know? You were there, right? Do you turn your brain off during sex -- okay, I'd believe it, but now I'm having sex robot thoughts and they're grossing me out. Come on, it's not like--"
"It just kind of happened," Evan said helplessly. He could feel his face heating. "It's. Kind of not what I do. Normally."
Weir didn't say anything for a few moments. "Wait a second," he said finally. He got up and disappeared into his bathroom -- well, Evan guessed it was his bathroom. It could have been his closet, but then it would have been a really big closet. He wasn't sure why he was thinking so hard about closets. He could feel the burn in his thighs, the faint twinge in his back. He had to skate tomorrow.
Weir came out, clutching something, and tossed it carelessly into Evan's lap, like he could pretend he wasn't doing Evan a favour if he did it as inconspicuously as possible. It was a little tube of something, half beige and half black, and Evan stared at it, but it still didn't make any sense.
"What?"
"God, don't you know anything --" Weir started, and seemed to answer his own question. He sighed. "Here, okay," and took the tube back, unscrewing the top with vicious energy. "Tilt your head."
Evan did, and then Weir was standing in front of him, blocking his view, and touching his neck. "What are you doing?"
"Covering up the marks," Weir said. "You have big juicy purple love bites, all over your neck. Seriously, didn't you think about the free skate tomorrow?"
"I wasn't thinking," Evan said, and Weir made a sort of snorting noise. His thumb moved gently under Evan's jaw.
"Okay, I believe that. Seriously, two more days, and it's the off-season, you couldn't wait -- God, I can't believe I'm playing fairy godmother to you, of all people," he said, and laughed under his breath. He sounded as bemused as Evan felt, and the dispassionate way he was rubbing concealer into Evan's skin was making Evan feel sleepier. It felt kind of nice, stuck somewhere between comforting and intimate. "Tilt your head the other way now. Do I have to give you the talk? Start slow, use lube, did you use protection, yadda yadda," Weir said, and he was joking, but it broke off, and his fingers paused. "Evan, you used protection, right?"
"Yeah."
Weir nodded shortly. "Good." He hooked his fingers under Evan's chin and lifted it, turning it from side to side and examining his work critically. Evan let him. "You'll do. I should -- here," he said grudgingly, taking his hand away, and shoved the tube back into Evan's hand. "Fix yourself up tomorrow."
Evan curled his fingers around it. "Thanks."
"This doesn't mean I'm not going to be praying that you fall on your ass tomorrow," Weir said. "Don't get me wrong. I hope you pop every axel in your program."
"Same to you," Evan said, getting to his feet. "But thanks."
Weir watched him walk over to the door, his eyes narrowed. "Seriously," he said again, like he couldn't stop himself. "The night before the long program? Are you impaired? Don't you know that that's like, the first move in taking out your opposition, if you swing that way? Sometimes even if you don't," he added conscientiously. "It's like, remedial. Get inside their head, and fuck with them."
"It's a thing?" Evan asked, pausing with his hand on the doorknob. "You've never tried to sleep with me."
"I don't need to fuck you to beat you," Weir said. "And like I said, I wouldn't fuck you even if you came in showers of diamonds or spurts of Crème La Mer, which costs like, just as much. Plus, I didn't know it would work on you." He eyed Evan almost speculatively.
"I don't think it does," Evan said.
He placed third the next day. Weir placed fourth, and made faces at Evan when he was standing on the podium. The French guy with the freckles placed three points behind him, and Evan let himself be pleased about that, and then let himself forget the incident almost entirely.
Sometimes he caught Weir watching him out of the corner of his eye, though, more curious than hostile. They still weren't friends, but it was. Something. They got on okay at the Olympics next season, even if Evan was secretly glad when Weir fucked up his long program, and he was pretty sure that Weir had been just as pleased when Evan came down with the flu. The summer after that, they were on tour together, and it was fun, almost, until Evan decided that he needed a girlfriend, needed to get serious about the next Olympics and his image and his skating. And about his rivals.
The occasional curiousness in Weir's eyes curdled into something else, something bitter and knowing that said you are just like me, but you hide it better. They weren't friends. It flashed out every time Evan placed higher, every time the commentators praised his style and tutted over Weir's. Evan didn't like seeing it, so he let himself ignore it.