extemporally (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
extemporally) wrote2010-08-26 10:58 pm
extemporally) wrote2010-08-26 10:58 pm
Entry tags:
fic: Should Just Be
Should Just Be
Johnny/Stéphane
NC-17
4649 words
Stéphane Lambiel loves a lot of things. Johnny Weir is just one of them. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nova33 and lemniciate, the best betas a girl could ask for. Written for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lilpinktassel.
Love!
Sometimes Stéphane feels like the whole world is filled with love. Swimming together with the trees, hovering on the clouds, merging with the air. Waiting to descend.
Stéphane sometimes thinks that if he weren’t a figure skater (sacrilegious thought!) he’d be a race-car driver. He’s never actually tried it, of course, but he watched Formula One last year, and the idea’s stuck with him ever since. The adrenaline rush and speed of racing would probably evoke the same emotion, he thinks, that sweeps through him every time he performs on ice, and Stéphane’s always loved that feeling. He scares easily in other parts of his life but he loves roller coasters, he loves feeling dangerous.
When he was sixteen he got his driving licence and started driving himself to the rink afterwards. Stéphane enjoyed the drive there more than he should have, for a while, because he got to hit high speeds on the freeway and that was exciting. Then he got used to it, and the shine wore off.
Life is eternally disappointing sometimes.
But if there is one thing Stéphane is entirely certain of, it is that he will never tire of skating. He remains eternally assured of it! Skating is never boring. It always hurts too much, and if he gets lucky it pays off and things go wonderfully. He and Sarah have this running joke; that you have to enjoy pain a little to skate. Stéphane doesn’t enjoy pain, of course, not in that way, but it’s still a nice joke to have. It took him through some bad periods when he wasn’t sure that it was all worth it — the stress, the fatigue, the constant pain.
It’s all worth it. And when he isn’t training for competition — not going to face the judges, who are sometimes his friends but sometimes not, and sometimes give him scores they shouldn’t at the expense of other skaters &mdash it’s just him, the ice, and the crowd. Stéphane will never get used to performing and to the way the spotlight’s shining on just him, the way people are looking at him, just him. This is what he was meant to do, he knows it sure as anything.
That’s why he’s looking forward to the upcoming tour in Russia. It’s a week away and he’s already started packing. The fact that one Johnny Weir is going to be there has absolutely nothing to do with it. There are other people there he would be glad to see, too — many other people.
Stéphane considers saying it aloud into his mirror until he sounds convincing enough, but then he decides he isn’t that pathetic. There’s no one he needs to be saying it to, anyway.
Stéphane Lambiel loves a lot of things. Johnny Weir is just one of them.
“Are you sure you’re done this time, though?” Johnny says, his lips quirking up. They’d wound up in a bar after the show — it was an early evening one — even though they really need to be up early the next day to move on to the next city. Stéphane always forgets how tour is a tangle of people and places and shows — he’s always certain he’ll remember this particular city, this particular night. He always feels kind of bad when he realises that he can’t. “Next to Zhenya, you’re the craziest person I know — most skaters don’t flounce as much as you guys.”
“Flouncing?” Stéphane isn’t sure he knows what that means exactly — even after all this time, their wires still get crossed occasionally. He’s bad with connotations, the cultural context.
“Retiring and unretiring,” Johnny clarifies. “You’re so dramatic.”
This, Stéphane gets. Aren’t most retirement announcements meant to make a big fuss of the skater anyway? And yet — they are always so sad. The retirement announcements are always so sad. He remembers the press conference he gave last year to announce his return to competition. He felt better than he had in a long time then, and happier. The reporters all looked so pleased. And, well — why not? Stéphane hopes no one thinks he’s being arrogant when he says that he’s the best his country has to offer when it comes to figure skating. He just knows that he is.
“I don’t think I will ever really be done,” he says evasively. Last month he gave an interview and found himself hedging yet again, unwilling to rule out yet another return to competition. Every time he’s off competitive ice he always forgets how painful real training is. And if Evgeni can do it, when not him? “Skating is my life.”
Johnny snorts, as if to say that’s so him. “Not for me,” he says. “Life is too short to devote it to one thing entirely. I think —” he lets out a breath. “— I think I’m done.” Stéphane wonders if it’s the first time he’s said something like that to anyone, and if so, why to Stéphane, why now.
“Yes,” Stéphane says. He takes a sip of his drink, because it’s just occurred to him that neither of them have touched theirs in many minutes, too many minutes. “So short that there is barely one time to do one thing very well,” and Johnny freezes, laughs an ugly laugh. Stéphane stares at him before getting it. He really didn’t mean to call Johnny mediocre. He knows what it’s like to want too many things.
“Fair point,” Johnny says, nodding away. When Stéphane opens his mouth to backtrack Johnny reaches up and places a finger on his mouth. “No, no,” he says. “No take backs. It’s okay. I get it.”
Stéphane loves being touched, and his body reacts to it before his mind can — Stéphane leans into that small gesture unconsciously. Johnny must realize that, because his eyes widen a little and he stills before taking his hand away slowly. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking. They must be a little drunk.
“You must not take me so seriously,” he says weakly, in lieu of an actual apology. Johnny hates those, and Stéphane isn’t very good at giving them either.
Johnny laughs outright at that. “Remember the time I walked in on you yelling at your coach?”
There have been many instances of Stéphane yelling at his coach, which he isn’t proud of. But mentally he flips through the times he does remember, and alights on that time Johnny was there.
He remembers the sting of it still — Stéphane was still a teenager at one of the early competitions. “You never take me seriously!” and so on, the emotions too big, bursting out of his chest.
(He felt like that a lot as a teenager, he still feels like that a lot of the time, sometimes it’s tiring but most of the time he thinks he wouldn’t give that up for anything.)
Then when he broke off, both he and Peter had swung around to notice Johnny at the entrance to the rink. Stéphane glared.
“Sorry,” Johnny said in English, but even then Stéphane’s English was good enough for him to understand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” He’d been a little shy back then, but Stéphane had detected the hint of a smirk in his voice.
“Oh,” Stéphane says aloud. He takes another sip of his drink, feels a little light-headed. “You understood that?”
“In high school I could speak French fluently,” Johnny says. “A lot better than I can now.”
“We didn’t talk much,” Stéphane says. For a single, stupid moment he can’t think of anyone else Johnny could have practiced his French on. And Johnny laughs in agreement.
“No,” he says. “It’s so stupid, the rumours were so stupid. I’ve never even slept with any of my competitors.” Stéphane’s actually kind of surprised by that.
“And now it is too late,” he says without thinking.
Johnny narrows his eyes but apparently decides to let that one go. “Yes,” he says. “And now it is too late.”
Stéphane’s got enough sense, even half-drunk, to not push the issue — he’s a gentleman, after all, a prince amongst men. Johnny’s too good a friend to him for Stéphane to want to ruin things, even if he wants it. Even if Stéphane gets the impression that sometimes Johnny doesn’t like him very much at all. Stéphane looks down and smiles into his drink.
So it’s a surprise when Johnny reaches over and seizes his wrist, squeezing hard enough that the pressure makes Stéphane look up.
“Too late for some things, maybe,” Johnny says. “Not for — others?”
Stéphane is very, very bad at some things and very good at others. He’s reasonably confident that he is very good at sex — no one’s ever complained about him. The actual thing, that is. The lead-up, though? Not so good. He’s been flirted with only to realize it afterwards. Sometimes people accuse him of flirting indiscriminately when he’s just interested in them as people. Johnny’s always been able to tell the difference.
That’s why Stéphane chokes here, and Johnny takes that as flustered rejection.
“That’s okay,” he says, although he sounds a little disappointed. “No, no need to.”
“No, no,” Stéphane says, borrowing Johnny’s inflexion of the word. “I, ah, would like that.”
He scoots closer on his bar stool and reaches over to tuck an arm around Johnny’s waist, so his fingers dig into Johnny’s hip. The bar is dim and darkly lit, but Stéphane allows himself to think that he can see the red gathering in Johnny’s cheeks. It’s a real confidence booster for Stéphane.
“I would like to,” Stéphane says. He drops a kiss at the top of Johnny’s cheek, because why not? And then another one because again, why not? “Very, very much.” Johnny’s frame is lithe and strong against his arm, and Stéphane just wants to hold him forever, feel his body against his own, warm and close.
Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for his wallet to pay for their drinks.
They don’t say much during the cab ride back to the hotel. Johnny taps his fingers in a one-two rhythm on the arm rest, stares out the window as Stéphane makes jolting conversation with the cabbie. He’d be more worried that this means Johnny’s changed his mind except that Johnny never has any problems saying no. It’s getting him to say yes, that’s the trouble.
“Are you cold?” Stéphane asks Johnny. They’re nearing the hotel now — two streets away, then one. He’s not wearing one of his ridiculous furs, and Johnny shrugs a shoulder in response.
“I thought you were supposed to warm me up,” Johnny says. There’s a flash of humour in his eyes, and Stéphane takes that as a challenge.
“Okay!” he says, and wraps his arms around Johnny very tight, squeezes. Johnny shrieks a little, whacking at Stéphane’s back to get him to let go, and Stéphane holds on, hides his smile in the curve of Johnny’s shoulder. This isn’t very different from the tenor of the most of their interaction. But the conversation before — that was different, oddly serious.
The cab pulls to a stop, and this time Stéphane’s the one who pays. He gets some change in return, and resolves to keep the coins forever as he tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.
For a second, when Stéphane opens the door to his hotel room, he thinks the bed is going to be unmade, the same way he left it this morning.
It isn’t, of course. The sheets are newly-made, the bed pristine. One corner of the bedspread goes untucked, invitingly. Stéphane’s half-tempted to slide into bed with Johnny and just hold and hold and never let go. But he doesn’t, because he’s old enough to restrain his impulses and that isn’t what Johnny came here for anyway. Johnny’s right next to him, brushing up close enough that Stéphane can feel the heat of his body. When Stéphane slants a glance his way Johnny laughs nervously.
“So,” he says, and Stéphane leans forward and kisses Johnny carefully.
They’re around the same height, an inch of difference between them at the very most. It makes their bodies so accessible to each other. Stéphane doesn’t have to look up or lean down, just moves in close before screwing up his courage and giving Johnny a dry kiss, chaste and close-mouthed. Johnny almost laughs into Stéphane’s mouth, then kisses back in earnest, their tongues sliding around each other. Stéphane intended to be careful — he wanted to be suave, but the kiss heats up and without quite knowing how he’s been backed up against the wall. Johnny places his palms against the wall, on either side of Stéphane’s body, and kisses him again, more aggressive this time. Johnny’s lips are soft, his tongue hot and wet. Stéphane finds this so exhilarating that his stomach swoops. The blood in his veins sing, and he presses against Johnny eagerly, trying to get as much contact between their bodies as possible.
Stéphane’s hard already. The slow, low burn in his belly is wonderful, but Johnny’s right here and Stéphane wants him now. It’s always been par for the course, the wanting, but now he can have, and when Stéphane slides a leg between Johnny’s thighs Johnny shifts to accommodate him, then presses up closer without even pulling away from the kiss. Johnny’s hard too. Stéphane ruts up against Johnny shamelessly, and Johnny gasps, finally breaking the kiss so his head falls back. The thrill of triumph that runs through Stéphane is unexpected. It’s difficult not to think I did that, even though Stéphane knows that erections don’t have to mean anything, least of all love. He’s just glad that Johnny’s looking at him like he’s someone new.
After a little while Johnny pulls away, leaving Stéphane clinging to the wall to stay upright, so dizzy with need he can’t really speak. He watches as Johnny reaches up to pull his sweater off, and then his shirt. Stéphane’s seen Johnny naked before, of course — while Johnny doesn’t quite have a penchant for nudity, he certainly isn’t averse to it either — but never in this context, and never quite so obscenely. Just the upper half of his body, revealed, seems like an invitation.
“Let me,” Stéphane mumbles when he sees Johnny lower his hands to his jeans.
“Are you sure? These are pretty tight.” Stéphane doesn’t need to look up to know that there’s a half-mocking expression on Johnny’s face.
“Let me,” he repeats, and sinks to his knees. He’s close enough to hear the slight intake of breath from Johnny.
The pants are difficult to take off. Stéphane fumbles with the button, manages to slide the zip down – then the best he can manage after is to tug the fabric past Johnny’s ass and halfway down his thighs before he gives up. Stéphane wonders how Johnny pours himself into those every morning. He pushes Johnny’s briefs down and slides a hand up the back of Johnny’s thigh, squeezes the taut muscle there. Johnny breathes out sharply in response, but Stéphane can tell that he likes it. Then he looks up for a moment before leaning over and taking Johnny’s cock into his mouth.
Stéphane’s never done this before. Not to Johnny, and that’s what makes all the difference. That’s what makes it count as a first. He goes carefully, cataloguing Johnny’s reactions in his head although he doesn’t know when, if ever, he’ll be next called upon to use this newfound knowledge.
He breathes through his nose and tries to concentrate on the present. Then he licks in a long stroke up the shaft and swirls his tongue around the head, before flattening his tongue against the length of Johnny’s cock and sucking so hard his cheeks hollow. Johnny moans right then, his voice a measure deeper than it usually is. His fingers press against the back of Stéphane’s neck, then slide into Stéphane’s hair and tug. His thighs are straining with the effort to not push forward and fuck Stéphane’s face, although Stéphane doesn’t think he’d mind that very much.
But just in case, Stéphane puts a hand on Johnny’s right hip. He doesn’t do it forcefully enough to restrain Johnny from moving, probably, but enough so that it’s a reminder. Stéphane bobs his head back and forth, before pulling off entirely, and Johnny groans.
“Stéphane — you can’t — fuck —”
He bats at Stéphane’s shoulder insistently, as if to complete his sentence, but Stéphane’s got other plans and the confidence to carry them out. He licks up Johnny’s cock and mouths at the head, taking the tip of it just inside before letting go. He nudges Johnny’s legs slightly further apart with his hands, then mouths at his balls, first the left then the right. He presses the tip of his tongue against the patch of skin just behind them. He’s got Johnny’s cock in his hand, and when a drop of pre-come oozes out of the head, Stéphane leans over to lick it away and tongues at the slit there. Johnny says, “Oh,” almost like he’s surprised, the last moments of that sound turning into a quaver.
“Tease,” Johnny says weakly. Stéphane wants to retort that if Johnny can still speak, then clearly he isn’t doing this properly. But Johnny sounds so wrecked already, and when Stéphane looks up Johnny’s eyes are half-closed, the look on his face dazed with lust. Stéphane doesn’t know what’s wrong with him that besides feeling turned on, which he already was anyway, it’s like something fraught catches in his chest and he has to swallow past it and look down again. The floor is getting hard on his knees but he remains in that position, reaches up to jerk Johnny off, his fist relaxed.
“You’re killing me here,” Johnny says above him. — his voice pitched low, more to himself than to Stéphane, but Stéphane can hear it just fine.
“I don’t mean to,” Stéphane replies, and applies his mouth again to the head of Johnny’s cock to shut the both of them up. Stéphane’s so scared he might say something to scare Johnny off, even now, which is why he starts when Johnny taps at Stéphane’s shoulder, and pulls off unwillingly.
“I don’t want to come yet, I want to – will you fuck me?” Johnny says the last bit almost plaintively, before ducking his head to remove his pants properly, and if they weren’t where they are right now Stéphane would be so, so amused.
They’ve talked about this together. You can’t be Johnny’s friend without being subjected to moments of over-share, and Stéphane loves gossip — both being privy to it and doling out some of his own — so during those five weeks in New Jersey Johnny had leapt on the chance to tell him about all the sex they both weren’t having, a kind of cruel tease. There’d been boys in the previous off-season, of course, and Johnny told Stéphane all about them, especially that one really hot encounter which was never repeated, much to Johnny’s disappointment.
Stéphane had listened until it was too much. Then he started talking about something else. Whining about his injuries and how much the pain hurt, mostly. But one of the things he learnt was that Johnny really, really likes getting fucked.
“Of course,” he says, getting to his feet and offering Johnny his hand. Johnny looks at Stéphane’s outstretched palm with a quizzical expression before putting his hand in it, smiling at Stéphane. His cheeks are flushed, hectic and beautiful. They walk the half a foot to the bed and Stéphane slides the comforter back, waits as Johnny gets in.
“How do you want this?” Stéphane asks. There’s lube and condoms in his duffel by his bed, and he ducks his head over the bag to dig them out.
Johnny laughs. “I’m flexible, you know.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stéphane says, and straightens up. He knows, of course, how skating can take your body apart and put it back together wrongly — hips that don’t work the way they should off the ice, ankles that go the wrong way. The last thing he ever wants to do is hurt Johnny.
Johnny flashes him a look of surprise before tossing his head, considering. “Then it had better be on my hands and knees.” He moves into that position swiftly, his ass pushing against the air.
He gets in behind Johnny, and presses kisses down Johnny’s spine. He’s glad to feel the shiver Johnny gives in response. When Stéphane gets too cuddly Johnny always tells him to stop clinging. This time, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Johnny sinks into that touch, is pliant when Stéphane pushes gently between the cheeks of his ass, and pushes back against his fingers when Stéphane slips one in, then the next. He drops his head and presses his forehead to the pillow. Stéphane wishes he could see his face right now.
“Harder,” Johnny says, and Stéphane obliges. He twists his wrist, and that’s when Johnny shouts, wordless. “Fucking — Stéphane —”
“Johnny,” Stéphane says, his voice sounding more choked than he’d like. He’s so hard it’s painful, the want coming from deep inside him.
Johnny turns to look at him, attempts to hoist a coquettish look on his face. But Stéphane can tell it’s not working — he’s far too desperate. “Please, now. Now.”
When Stéphane rips open the foil package he fumbles with the retrieval of the condom, his fingers all sticky. Johnny, looking over his shoulder, makes to help him, but Stéphane shakes his head. “Stay there,” he says, his voice rasping deeper than usual. If Johnny helped him put the condom on he doesn’t think he’d be able to last very long.
Finally, Stéphane lines himself up and pushes in — tight and hot and slick and so so so good his eyes slip shut from the sensation. He can hear the choked sound Johnny makes. “Okay?” he remembers to ask.
“Don’t stop,” Johnny grits out, as if against his will. “Just — don’t stop, god.”
Stéphane thrusts all the way in, then pulls out, and fucks back in experimentally. He repositions his hips to get a better hold on things. His hands are gripping against the sheets, knuckles nearly white — he can’t help it, everything is so intense. The room is cool but Johnny’s body is hot as a furnace and Stéphane’s sweating already. He presses his chest against Johnny’s back, and can feel every flex of the muscles there. Johnny keeps pushing against him steadily, persistently, when Stéphane wants to draw everything out slowly, lengthen the experience.
“God, you’re so —” Johnny mutters, trying to get Stéphane to quicken his thrusts. “Just — harder, god.”
Stéphane smiles against Johnny’s shoulder, and lifts his right hand to wrap it around Johnny’s waist. Johnny doesn’t seem to mind the affection, not this time. The crook of Stéphane’s elbow rests against Johnny’s hip, and when he finally places a hand on Johnny’s cock and strokes, Johnny bucks back so hard that Stéphane goes all the way in again, which throws his rhythm off. To make up for it, he presses in harder, finally, and lets go, thrusting in and out without any hesitation. Johnny moans something that might be finally but Stéphane can’t tell, he’s lost in the sensation of hot white heat, and he doesn’t think Johnny was speaking all that clearly to begin with anyway.
Stéphane maintains just enough control to continue stroking Johnny, and when Johnny comes it’s on the downstroke, his face pressed against the pillow.
Stéphane pulls out and Johnny moans in protest. He’s still breathing rapidly, but in a couple of seconds he recovers enough to roll over and look at Stéphane, a questioning look on his face. “Stéphane?” He spreads his legs, the invitation clear.
Stéphane doesn’t need to be told twice. He tried to be considerate, but he’s so close. He practically sobs with pleasure as he presses into Johnny again, his thrusts getting more and more uneven. Johnny runs his hands up and down Stéphane’s back, and digs in with his nails just before Stéphane comes, his climax washing gloriously over him. He literally can’t see — his vision is whiting out at the edges.
Stéphane pulls out and knots the condom, wraps it in tissues from the nightstand. He can’t be bothered to leave the bed yet. Against all likelihood, he hopes that Johnny will stay, too.
The room’s heated up, or maybe it’s just their bodies. Stéphane kicks the blankets down and gathers Johnny towards him, pressing a hand on his back. They’re covered in sweat and come but Johnny doesn’t resist, just curls into Stéphane and slings a leg over his hip. It’s better than anything Stéphane could have hoped for. Up this close, Stéphane still can’t stop staring at the bloom on Johnny’s skin, his shockingly green eyes. He smiles at Johnny instead of telling him he’s beautiful.
“That was nice,” Johnny says, breaking the silence. His voice is raspier than normal. “I have the best ideas.”
“We should do it again,” Stéphane blurts, before falling silent and biting his lip. Johnny’s staying on, seems content to touch and cuddle, but what if he doesn’t want a repeat? It seems like a stupid thing to think, but Johnny’s done this in the past — let Stéphane touch and hug him, before turning prickly and shoving Stéphane off with a scowl and a laugh.
Johnny either doesn’t notice Stéphane’s hesitance, or pretends not to. “Sure,” he says, expression on his face easygoing. His smile is less sharp than it was earlier in the evening. “There’s another week left to tour. It’s a long time.”
It doesn’t actually seem like a very long time to Stéphane, but he resolves to make the best of it. He doesn’t know if he can — it’s like having sex with Johnny has unlocked reserves of want and longing inside of him, feelings he knew existed, but only vaguely. Now it’s real. But he sets his jaw and nods anyway, because there really isn’t anything else he can do.
Johnny pets at Stéphane’s hair fondly, absent-minded. “I love tour,” he says, more to himself than Stéphane.
Stéphane loves it too. The company, the roar of the crowd at every show — and now this. “We should just be on tour forever,” he says. Just the two of them, travelling through city after city and skating show after show. Zhenya can come, too.
It would be so much happiness that he isn’t sure his heart could take it.
Johnny snorts. “You’d want to,” he says, and closes his eyes, close to falling asleep. It is clear that an intimate post-coital conversation is going to have to wait. Stéphane loves those while they’re happening – it’s only afterwards that he regrets them sometimes.
If Stéphane were braver, maybe he would say something now, right now. But he isn’t. That’s all right.
“I do,” Stéphane agrees instead. Then, because Johnny doesn’t object, he rests his head on Johnny’s shoulder, nose perilously close to Johnny’s armpit. Johnny doesn’t object because he’s off being totally dead to the world. Stéphane is — slightly less so. He stays awake a little longer to savour the warm shivery glow in his chest, quivering against his ribcage. Love, he thinks. No other words, nothing that could make a proper sentence. Love! Love! Love! I love! You love! He loves! She loves! The conjugation of the verb, rendered in English, is noticeably less complex than the French version. Eventually Stéphane circles around to I love again.
He falls asleep before he can tack the you to the end of it.
Johnny/Stéphane
NC-17
4649 words
Stéphane Lambiel loves a lot of things. Johnny Weir is just one of them. Thanks to
nova33 and lemniciate, the best betas a girl could ask for. Written for lilpinktassel.Love!
Sometimes Stéphane feels like the whole world is filled with love. Swimming together with the trees, hovering on the clouds, merging with the air. Waiting to descend.
Stéphane sometimes thinks that if he weren’t a figure skater (sacrilegious thought!) he’d be a race-car driver. He’s never actually tried it, of course, but he watched Formula One last year, and the idea’s stuck with him ever since. The adrenaline rush and speed of racing would probably evoke the same emotion, he thinks, that sweeps through him every time he performs on ice, and Stéphane’s always loved that feeling. He scares easily in other parts of his life but he loves roller coasters, he loves feeling dangerous.
When he was sixteen he got his driving licence and started driving himself to the rink afterwards. Stéphane enjoyed the drive there more than he should have, for a while, because he got to hit high speeds on the freeway and that was exciting. Then he got used to it, and the shine wore off.
Life is eternally disappointing sometimes.
But if there is one thing Stéphane is entirely certain of, it is that he will never tire of skating. He remains eternally assured of it! Skating is never boring. It always hurts too much, and if he gets lucky it pays off and things go wonderfully. He and Sarah have this running joke; that you have to enjoy pain a little to skate. Stéphane doesn’t enjoy pain, of course, not in that way, but it’s still a nice joke to have. It took him through some bad periods when he wasn’t sure that it was all worth it — the stress, the fatigue, the constant pain.
It’s all worth it. And when he isn’t training for competition — not going to face the judges, who are sometimes his friends but sometimes not, and sometimes give him scores they shouldn’t at the expense of other skaters &mdash it’s just him, the ice, and the crowd. Stéphane will never get used to performing and to the way the spotlight’s shining on just him, the way people are looking at him, just him. This is what he was meant to do, he knows it sure as anything.
That’s why he’s looking forward to the upcoming tour in Russia. It’s a week away and he’s already started packing. The fact that one Johnny Weir is going to be there has absolutely nothing to do with it. There are other people there he would be glad to see, too — many other people.
Stéphane considers saying it aloud into his mirror until he sounds convincing enough, but then he decides he isn’t that pathetic. There’s no one he needs to be saying it to, anyway.
Stéphane Lambiel loves a lot of things. Johnny Weir is just one of them.
“Are you sure you’re done this time, though?” Johnny says, his lips quirking up. They’d wound up in a bar after the show — it was an early evening one — even though they really need to be up early the next day to move on to the next city. Stéphane always forgets how tour is a tangle of people and places and shows — he’s always certain he’ll remember this particular city, this particular night. He always feels kind of bad when he realises that he can’t. “Next to Zhenya, you’re the craziest person I know — most skaters don’t flounce as much as you guys.”
“Flouncing?” Stéphane isn’t sure he knows what that means exactly — even after all this time, their wires still get crossed occasionally. He’s bad with connotations, the cultural context.
“Retiring and unretiring,” Johnny clarifies. “You’re so dramatic.”
This, Stéphane gets. Aren’t most retirement announcements meant to make a big fuss of the skater anyway? And yet — they are always so sad. The retirement announcements are always so sad. He remembers the press conference he gave last year to announce his return to competition. He felt better than he had in a long time then, and happier. The reporters all looked so pleased. And, well — why not? Stéphane hopes no one thinks he’s being arrogant when he says that he’s the best his country has to offer when it comes to figure skating. He just knows that he is.
“I don’t think I will ever really be done,” he says evasively. Last month he gave an interview and found himself hedging yet again, unwilling to rule out yet another return to competition. Every time he’s off competitive ice he always forgets how painful real training is. And if Evgeni can do it, when not him? “Skating is my life.”
Johnny snorts, as if to say that’s so him. “Not for me,” he says. “Life is too short to devote it to one thing entirely. I think —” he lets out a breath. “— I think I’m done.” Stéphane wonders if it’s the first time he’s said something like that to anyone, and if so, why to Stéphane, why now.
“Yes,” Stéphane says. He takes a sip of his drink, because it’s just occurred to him that neither of them have touched theirs in many minutes, too many minutes. “So short that there is barely one time to do one thing very well,” and Johnny freezes, laughs an ugly laugh. Stéphane stares at him before getting it. He really didn’t mean to call Johnny mediocre. He knows what it’s like to want too many things.
“Fair point,” Johnny says, nodding away. When Stéphane opens his mouth to backtrack Johnny reaches up and places a finger on his mouth. “No, no,” he says. “No take backs. It’s okay. I get it.”
Stéphane loves being touched, and his body reacts to it before his mind can — Stéphane leans into that small gesture unconsciously. Johnny must realize that, because his eyes widen a little and he stills before taking his hand away slowly. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol talking. They must be a little drunk.
“You must not take me so seriously,” he says weakly, in lieu of an actual apology. Johnny hates those, and Stéphane isn’t very good at giving them either.
Johnny laughs outright at that. “Remember the time I walked in on you yelling at your coach?”
There have been many instances of Stéphane yelling at his coach, which he isn’t proud of. But mentally he flips through the times he does remember, and alights on that time Johnny was there.
He remembers the sting of it still — Stéphane was still a teenager at one of the early competitions. “You never take me seriously!” and so on, the emotions too big, bursting out of his chest.
(He felt like that a lot as a teenager, he still feels like that a lot of the time, sometimes it’s tiring but most of the time he thinks he wouldn’t give that up for anything.)
Then when he broke off, both he and Peter had swung around to notice Johnny at the entrance to the rink. Stéphane glared.
“Sorry,” Johnny said in English, but even then Stéphane’s English was good enough for him to understand. “Didn’t mean to interrupt anything.” He’d been a little shy back then, but Stéphane had detected the hint of a smirk in his voice.
“Oh,” Stéphane says aloud. He takes another sip of his drink, feels a little light-headed. “You understood that?”
“In high school I could speak French fluently,” Johnny says. “A lot better than I can now.”
“We didn’t talk much,” Stéphane says. For a single, stupid moment he can’t think of anyone else Johnny could have practiced his French on. And Johnny laughs in agreement.
“No,” he says. “It’s so stupid, the rumours were so stupid. I’ve never even slept with any of my competitors.” Stéphane’s actually kind of surprised by that.
“And now it is too late,” he says without thinking.
Johnny narrows his eyes but apparently decides to let that one go. “Yes,” he says. “And now it is too late.”
Stéphane’s got enough sense, even half-drunk, to not push the issue — he’s a gentleman, after all, a prince amongst men. Johnny’s too good a friend to him for Stéphane to want to ruin things, even if he wants it. Even if Stéphane gets the impression that sometimes Johnny doesn’t like him very much at all. Stéphane looks down and smiles into his drink.
So it’s a surprise when Johnny reaches over and seizes his wrist, squeezing hard enough that the pressure makes Stéphane look up.
“Too late for some things, maybe,” Johnny says. “Not for — others?”
Stéphane is very, very bad at some things and very good at others. He’s reasonably confident that he is very good at sex — no one’s ever complained about him. The actual thing, that is. The lead-up, though? Not so good. He’s been flirted with only to realize it afterwards. Sometimes people accuse him of flirting indiscriminately when he’s just interested in them as people. Johnny’s always been able to tell the difference.
That’s why Stéphane chokes here, and Johnny takes that as flustered rejection.
“That’s okay,” he says, although he sounds a little disappointed. “No, no need to.”
“No, no,” Stéphane says, borrowing Johnny’s inflexion of the word. “I, ah, would like that.”
He scoots closer on his bar stool and reaches over to tuck an arm around Johnny’s waist, so his fingers dig into Johnny’s hip. The bar is dim and darkly lit, but Stéphane allows himself to think that he can see the red gathering in Johnny’s cheeks. It’s a real confidence booster for Stéphane.
“I would like to,” Stéphane says. He drops a kiss at the top of Johnny’s cheek, because why not? And then another one because again, why not? “Very, very much.” Johnny’s frame is lithe and strong against his arm, and Stéphane just wants to hold him forever, feel his body against his own, warm and close.
Johnny doesn’t say anything, but he reaches for his wallet to pay for their drinks.
They don’t say much during the cab ride back to the hotel. Johnny taps his fingers in a one-two rhythm on the arm rest, stares out the window as Stéphane makes jolting conversation with the cabbie. He’d be more worried that this means Johnny’s changed his mind except that Johnny never has any problems saying no. It’s getting him to say yes, that’s the trouble.
“Are you cold?” Stéphane asks Johnny. They’re nearing the hotel now — two streets away, then one. He’s not wearing one of his ridiculous furs, and Johnny shrugs a shoulder in response.
“I thought you were supposed to warm me up,” Johnny says. There’s a flash of humour in his eyes, and Stéphane takes that as a challenge.
“Okay!” he says, and wraps his arms around Johnny very tight, squeezes. Johnny shrieks a little, whacking at Stéphane’s back to get him to let go, and Stéphane holds on, hides his smile in the curve of Johnny’s shoulder. This isn’t very different from the tenor of the most of their interaction. But the conversation before — that was different, oddly serious.
The cab pulls to a stop, and this time Stéphane’s the one who pays. He gets some change in return, and resolves to keep the coins forever as he tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.
For a second, when Stéphane opens the door to his hotel room, he thinks the bed is going to be unmade, the same way he left it this morning.
It isn’t, of course. The sheets are newly-made, the bed pristine. One corner of the bedspread goes untucked, invitingly. Stéphane’s half-tempted to slide into bed with Johnny and just hold and hold and never let go. But he doesn’t, because he’s old enough to restrain his impulses and that isn’t what Johnny came here for anyway. Johnny’s right next to him, brushing up close enough that Stéphane can feel the heat of his body. When Stéphane slants a glance his way Johnny laughs nervously.
“So,” he says, and Stéphane leans forward and kisses Johnny carefully.
They’re around the same height, an inch of difference between them at the very most. It makes their bodies so accessible to each other. Stéphane doesn’t have to look up or lean down, just moves in close before screwing up his courage and giving Johnny a dry kiss, chaste and close-mouthed. Johnny almost laughs into Stéphane’s mouth, then kisses back in earnest, their tongues sliding around each other. Stéphane intended to be careful — he wanted to be suave, but the kiss heats up and without quite knowing how he’s been backed up against the wall. Johnny places his palms against the wall, on either side of Stéphane’s body, and kisses him again, more aggressive this time. Johnny’s lips are soft, his tongue hot and wet. Stéphane finds this so exhilarating that his stomach swoops. The blood in his veins sing, and he presses against Johnny eagerly, trying to get as much contact between their bodies as possible.
Stéphane’s hard already. The slow, low burn in his belly is wonderful, but Johnny’s right here and Stéphane wants him now. It’s always been par for the course, the wanting, but now he can have, and when Stéphane slides a leg between Johnny’s thighs Johnny shifts to accommodate him, then presses up closer without even pulling away from the kiss. Johnny’s hard too. Stéphane ruts up against Johnny shamelessly, and Johnny gasps, finally breaking the kiss so his head falls back. The thrill of triumph that runs through Stéphane is unexpected. It’s difficult not to think I did that, even though Stéphane knows that erections don’t have to mean anything, least of all love. He’s just glad that Johnny’s looking at him like he’s someone new.
After a little while Johnny pulls away, leaving Stéphane clinging to the wall to stay upright, so dizzy with need he can’t really speak. He watches as Johnny reaches up to pull his sweater off, and then his shirt. Stéphane’s seen Johnny naked before, of course — while Johnny doesn’t quite have a penchant for nudity, he certainly isn’t averse to it either — but never in this context, and never quite so obscenely. Just the upper half of his body, revealed, seems like an invitation.
“Let me,” Stéphane mumbles when he sees Johnny lower his hands to his jeans.
“Are you sure? These are pretty tight.” Stéphane doesn’t need to look up to know that there’s a half-mocking expression on Johnny’s face.
“Let me,” he repeats, and sinks to his knees. He’s close enough to hear the slight intake of breath from Johnny.
The pants are difficult to take off. Stéphane fumbles with the button, manages to slide the zip down – then the best he can manage after is to tug the fabric past Johnny’s ass and halfway down his thighs before he gives up. Stéphane wonders how Johnny pours himself into those every morning. He pushes Johnny’s briefs down and slides a hand up the back of Johnny’s thigh, squeezes the taut muscle there. Johnny breathes out sharply in response, but Stéphane can tell that he likes it. Then he looks up for a moment before leaning over and taking Johnny’s cock into his mouth.
Stéphane’s never done this before. Not to Johnny, and that’s what makes all the difference. That’s what makes it count as a first. He goes carefully, cataloguing Johnny’s reactions in his head although he doesn’t know when, if ever, he’ll be next called upon to use this newfound knowledge.
He breathes through his nose and tries to concentrate on the present. Then he licks in a long stroke up the shaft and swirls his tongue around the head, before flattening his tongue against the length of Johnny’s cock and sucking so hard his cheeks hollow. Johnny moans right then, his voice a measure deeper than it usually is. His fingers press against the back of Stéphane’s neck, then slide into Stéphane’s hair and tug. His thighs are straining with the effort to not push forward and fuck Stéphane’s face, although Stéphane doesn’t think he’d mind that very much.
But just in case, Stéphane puts a hand on Johnny’s right hip. He doesn’t do it forcefully enough to restrain Johnny from moving, probably, but enough so that it’s a reminder. Stéphane bobs his head back and forth, before pulling off entirely, and Johnny groans.
“Stéphane — you can’t — fuck —”
He bats at Stéphane’s shoulder insistently, as if to complete his sentence, but Stéphane’s got other plans and the confidence to carry them out. He licks up Johnny’s cock and mouths at the head, taking the tip of it just inside before letting go. He nudges Johnny’s legs slightly further apart with his hands, then mouths at his balls, first the left then the right. He presses the tip of his tongue against the patch of skin just behind them. He’s got Johnny’s cock in his hand, and when a drop of pre-come oozes out of the head, Stéphane leans over to lick it away and tongues at the slit there. Johnny says, “Oh,” almost like he’s surprised, the last moments of that sound turning into a quaver.
“Tease,” Johnny says weakly. Stéphane wants to retort that if Johnny can still speak, then clearly he isn’t doing this properly. But Johnny sounds so wrecked already, and when Stéphane looks up Johnny’s eyes are half-closed, the look on his face dazed with lust. Stéphane doesn’t know what’s wrong with him that besides feeling turned on, which he already was anyway, it’s like something fraught catches in his chest and he has to swallow past it and look down again. The floor is getting hard on his knees but he remains in that position, reaches up to jerk Johnny off, his fist relaxed.
“You’re killing me here,” Johnny says above him. — his voice pitched low, more to himself than to Stéphane, but Stéphane can hear it just fine.
“I don’t mean to,” Stéphane replies, and applies his mouth again to the head of Johnny’s cock to shut the both of them up. Stéphane’s so scared he might say something to scare Johnny off, even now, which is why he starts when Johnny taps at Stéphane’s shoulder, and pulls off unwillingly.
“I don’t want to come yet, I want to – will you fuck me?” Johnny says the last bit almost plaintively, before ducking his head to remove his pants properly, and if they weren’t where they are right now Stéphane would be so, so amused.
They’ve talked about this together. You can’t be Johnny’s friend without being subjected to moments of over-share, and Stéphane loves gossip — both being privy to it and doling out some of his own — so during those five weeks in New Jersey Johnny had leapt on the chance to tell him about all the sex they both weren’t having, a kind of cruel tease. There’d been boys in the previous off-season, of course, and Johnny told Stéphane all about them, especially that one really hot encounter which was never repeated, much to Johnny’s disappointment.
Stéphane had listened until it was too much. Then he started talking about something else. Whining about his injuries and how much the pain hurt, mostly. But one of the things he learnt was that Johnny really, really likes getting fucked.
“Of course,” he says, getting to his feet and offering Johnny his hand. Johnny looks at Stéphane’s outstretched palm with a quizzical expression before putting his hand in it, smiling at Stéphane. His cheeks are flushed, hectic and beautiful. They walk the half a foot to the bed and Stéphane slides the comforter back, waits as Johnny gets in.
“How do you want this?” Stéphane asks. There’s lube and condoms in his duffel by his bed, and he ducks his head over the bag to dig them out.
Johnny laughs. “I’m flexible, you know.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Stéphane says, and straightens up. He knows, of course, how skating can take your body apart and put it back together wrongly — hips that don’t work the way they should off the ice, ankles that go the wrong way. The last thing he ever wants to do is hurt Johnny.
Johnny flashes him a look of surprise before tossing his head, considering. “Then it had better be on my hands and knees.” He moves into that position swiftly, his ass pushing against the air.
He gets in behind Johnny, and presses kisses down Johnny’s spine. He’s glad to feel the shiver Johnny gives in response. When Stéphane gets too cuddly Johnny always tells him to stop clinging. This time, it seems to be having the opposite effect. Johnny sinks into that touch, is pliant when Stéphane pushes gently between the cheeks of his ass, and pushes back against his fingers when Stéphane slips one in, then the next. He drops his head and presses his forehead to the pillow. Stéphane wishes he could see his face right now.
“Harder,” Johnny says, and Stéphane obliges. He twists his wrist, and that’s when Johnny shouts, wordless. “Fucking — Stéphane —”
“Johnny,” Stéphane says, his voice sounding more choked than he’d like. He’s so hard it’s painful, the want coming from deep inside him.
Johnny turns to look at him, attempts to hoist a coquettish look on his face. But Stéphane can tell it’s not working — he’s far too desperate. “Please, now. Now.”
When Stéphane rips open the foil package he fumbles with the retrieval of the condom, his fingers all sticky. Johnny, looking over his shoulder, makes to help him, but Stéphane shakes his head. “Stay there,” he says, his voice rasping deeper than usual. If Johnny helped him put the condom on he doesn’t think he’d be able to last very long.
Finally, Stéphane lines himself up and pushes in — tight and hot and slick and so so so good his eyes slip shut from the sensation. He can hear the choked sound Johnny makes. “Okay?” he remembers to ask.
“Don’t stop,” Johnny grits out, as if against his will. “Just — don’t stop, god.”
Stéphane thrusts all the way in, then pulls out, and fucks back in experimentally. He repositions his hips to get a better hold on things. His hands are gripping against the sheets, knuckles nearly white — he can’t help it, everything is so intense. The room is cool but Johnny’s body is hot as a furnace and Stéphane’s sweating already. He presses his chest against Johnny’s back, and can feel every flex of the muscles there. Johnny keeps pushing against him steadily, persistently, when Stéphane wants to draw everything out slowly, lengthen the experience.
“God, you’re so —” Johnny mutters, trying to get Stéphane to quicken his thrusts. “Just — harder, god.”
Stéphane smiles against Johnny’s shoulder, and lifts his right hand to wrap it around Johnny’s waist. Johnny doesn’t seem to mind the affection, not this time. The crook of Stéphane’s elbow rests against Johnny’s hip, and when he finally places a hand on Johnny’s cock and strokes, Johnny bucks back so hard that Stéphane goes all the way in again, which throws his rhythm off. To make up for it, he presses in harder, finally, and lets go, thrusting in and out without any hesitation. Johnny moans something that might be finally but Stéphane can’t tell, he’s lost in the sensation of hot white heat, and he doesn’t think Johnny was speaking all that clearly to begin with anyway.
Stéphane maintains just enough control to continue stroking Johnny, and when Johnny comes it’s on the downstroke, his face pressed against the pillow.
Stéphane pulls out and Johnny moans in protest. He’s still breathing rapidly, but in a couple of seconds he recovers enough to roll over and look at Stéphane, a questioning look on his face. “Stéphane?” He spreads his legs, the invitation clear.
Stéphane doesn’t need to be told twice. He tried to be considerate, but he’s so close. He practically sobs with pleasure as he presses into Johnny again, his thrusts getting more and more uneven. Johnny runs his hands up and down Stéphane’s back, and digs in with his nails just before Stéphane comes, his climax washing gloriously over him. He literally can’t see — his vision is whiting out at the edges.
Stéphane pulls out and knots the condom, wraps it in tissues from the nightstand. He can’t be bothered to leave the bed yet. Against all likelihood, he hopes that Johnny will stay, too.
The room’s heated up, or maybe it’s just their bodies. Stéphane kicks the blankets down and gathers Johnny towards him, pressing a hand on his back. They’re covered in sweat and come but Johnny doesn’t resist, just curls into Stéphane and slings a leg over his hip. It’s better than anything Stéphane could have hoped for. Up this close, Stéphane still can’t stop staring at the bloom on Johnny’s skin, his shockingly green eyes. He smiles at Johnny instead of telling him he’s beautiful.
“That was nice,” Johnny says, breaking the silence. His voice is raspier than normal. “I have the best ideas.”
“We should do it again,” Stéphane blurts, before falling silent and biting his lip. Johnny’s staying on, seems content to touch and cuddle, but what if he doesn’t want a repeat? It seems like a stupid thing to think, but Johnny’s done this in the past — let Stéphane touch and hug him, before turning prickly and shoving Stéphane off with a scowl and a laugh.
Johnny either doesn’t notice Stéphane’s hesitance, or pretends not to. “Sure,” he says, expression on his face easygoing. His smile is less sharp than it was earlier in the evening. “There’s another week left to tour. It’s a long time.”
It doesn’t actually seem like a very long time to Stéphane, but he resolves to make the best of it. He doesn’t know if he can — it’s like having sex with Johnny has unlocked reserves of want and longing inside of him, feelings he knew existed, but only vaguely. Now it’s real. But he sets his jaw and nods anyway, because there really isn’t anything else he can do.
Johnny pets at Stéphane’s hair fondly, absent-minded. “I love tour,” he says, more to himself than Stéphane.
Stéphane loves it too. The company, the roar of the crowd at every show — and now this. “We should just be on tour forever,” he says. Just the two of them, travelling through city after city and skating show after show. Zhenya can come, too.
It would be so much happiness that he isn’t sure his heart could take it.
Johnny snorts. “You’d want to,” he says, and closes his eyes, close to falling asleep. It is clear that an intimate post-coital conversation is going to have to wait. Stéphane loves those while they’re happening – it’s only afterwards that he regrets them sometimes.
If Stéphane were braver, maybe he would say something now, right now. But he isn’t. That’s all right.
“I do,” Stéphane agrees instead. Then, because Johnny doesn’t object, he rests his head on Johnny’s shoulder, nose perilously close to Johnny’s armpit. Johnny doesn’t object because he’s off being totally dead to the world. Stéphane is — slightly less so. He stays awake a little longer to savour the warm shivery glow in his chest, quivering against his ribcage. Love, he thinks. No other words, nothing that could make a proper sentence. Love! Love! Love! I love! You love! He loves! She loves! The conjugation of the verb, rendered in English, is noticeably less complex than the French version. Eventually Stéphane circles around to I love again.
He falls asleep before he can tack the you to the end of it.
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(I love it, the voice is so, so Stéphane.)
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this was gorgeous ♥
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How does that even--oh.
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your stephane is so perfect, i find it hard to believe he could be different in any way :)
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Thank you! ♥
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I wish they could stay on tour forever too.
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I really loved your Stéphane voice in this and I also enjoyed your portrayal of Johnny.
It was just a really lovely, lovely story. Thank you for sharing. :)
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♥
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