Feb. 15th, 2008 11:45 am
Fandom: SG: Atlantis
Warnings: AU, slash, language, figure skating, crack
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Beta: My wife mgbutterfly handled this one for me.
Summary: John is the top male figure skater in the world, Rodney is the captain of Canada's hockey team. They run into each other at the winter Olympics.
Author's Note: Well, mgbutterfly recently mentioned that someone needed to write a fic where Rodney was a figure skater and John was the Zamboni driver who teaches him to love. And she's right. It needs to be written. But this is not that. This is, instead, the story of hockey star Rodney McKay and figure skating wunderkind John Sheppard. At the Olympics.
John is blinking up at the ceiling of the ice rink, tasting blood in his mouth, and feeling the chill from the ice creeping up through his thin jacket and pants. He drums his fingers on the ice, closes his eyes against the throb of pain from cracking the back of his head against the hard, unforgiving surface of the ice.
When John opens his eyes again he's staring up into a face that doesn't look so much concerned as irritated. The man's got bright blue eyes, pale skin, a crooked mouth, and a bright orange cap pulled down over his ears. The guy nudges John none to gently in the side with one of his blades and says, "If you're going to die could you wait until the paramedics get here?"
John winces, sticks a hand up and the stranger takes it after a moments consideration. John's surprised by how easily the other man hauls him to his feet, ends up over balancing and stumbling into guy's wide chest. John can feel his eyes doing that thing where they go all huge and surprised and says, "Oof!" as the guy braces big hands on John's hips and holds him steady.
"Are you sure you should be standing up? Head injuries can be very severe, you know."
John pulls far enough away from his rescuer to look the man in the face. The guy's still got big blue eyes, framed by criminally long lashes that John hadn't been able to see from his previous vantage point, and his mouth is still crooked. John says, "I've got a thick head. I wouldn't worry about it. Thanks for the hand up."
The guy shrugs, takes his big warm hands off of John's hips and skates back a step, "Yes, well, I don't have time to be questioned in a police investigation so I figured it'd be for the best to make sure you hadn't killed yourself. That first steps a bitch, huh?"
John can feel himself flushing because stepping out onto the ice and immediately slipping hadn't exactly been his finest moment. He runs a hand up the back of his neck, ducks his head, and coughs. John drawls, "Thanks for the concern." And doesn't add that it was all the guy's fault anyway. John had stepped out on the ice expecting the rink to be empty and had been completely unprepared for tight jeans wrapped around muscular thighs and an ass that he'd immediately started composing poetry over.
With all the blood in his body rushing to his groin, John ending up on his back had seemed like a foregone conclusion. He hadn't quite planned on it happening in the middle of the ice skating rink, but that was just semantics.
John clears his throat, making a valiant effort to keep his eyes from dropping to the other man's crotch, "So, you come here often?"
The man smirks, it twists his crooked mouth up in a way that makes John's toes curl in his skates, "You really did suffer some kind of brain trauma, didn't you?" John would protest, but the man decides to test his theory by grabbing John's chin and tilting his head side to side while staring hard at John's eyes. Finally the man sighs, "That's it, I'm taking you to the First Aid building, come on."
Which is how John finds himself being manhandled off the ice when he should be practicing his short routine. John tries to twist out of the other man's grip, but the stranger is all hands. He gets John off the rink, and down onto one of the benches by sheer brute force.
John blinks when the man crouches in front of him and starts unlacing John's skates with his broad, square fingers. John says, aware that as far as protests go he's not trying very hard, "I can get those."
The man waves a hand, makes an impatient sound, "Your judgment has obviously been compromised by the massive brain trauma you're suffering from." John grins, because he's got a hot guy on his knees in front of him, and there is absolutely no way in the world that's ever a bad thing.
John lets his voice slide to a lower register, "You know, I usually ask for dinner before letting people undress me."
The man snorts, pulls one of John's skates off and John's not sure if the rub of thumb over ankle was intentional or not. The guy sets the skate aside, ignores John's comment, "So, figure skater? Aren't there supposed to be more sequins and lycra involved in your outfit?"
John's surprised by how easy it is to laugh around this stranger. John's still grinning when the man looks up, says, "I try to leave the sequins to Zelenka and Kusanagi, actually."
The man pushes to his feet, John's skates hanging by their laces from one hand. He says, "Let's just pretend I know and care who those people are so that we don't have to waste anymore time discussing them. I'm going to get your shoes. Don't lapse into a coma while I'm gone."
John grins, leans back on his elbows, and watches the guy walk away. Apparently washed out jeans and flannel shirts are the new lingerie. God, he needs to get a name for the man ASAP, before he becomes permanently labeled in John's head as Hot Ass. It may already be too late.
When the guy (Hot Ass) comes back he's wearing sneakers and has a bag slung over one of his broad shoulders and John's mouth goes a little dry. John clears his throat, licks his lips, and manages to catch his shoes when Hot Ass tosses them at his head. John pauses in the middle of pulling his boots on, "How'd you find my shoes?"
Hot Ass shrugs, his hands shoved into the pockets of his already tight jeans, "The event staff up at the desk recognized you. Girl named Tire? Tear? Something like that." The name doesn't ring any bells, but then, there's a certain demographic that knows John's name and his face and probably his likes and dislikes better than he does. John tries to avoid them.
John pushes himself up to his feet, lets the movement carry him a little further into Hot Ass's space than is strictly necessary. Hot Ass blinks at him, all surprise with a touch of confusion and it warms John low in his gut. He drawls, "So I thought you were taking me away from this place?"
Hot Ass rolls those eyes that are already completely fucking John's mind up, and wraps one of his big hands around John's elbow. There's nothing gentle or nice about the way Hot Ass drags him out of the arena. There's nothing coddling or afraid about that warm hand pulling John along without giving him any option at all in the matter.
John says, as Hot Ass drags him across the Olympic Village, "So, does my Prince Charming have a name?"
Hot Ass flashes him a disbelieving look, "You don't know who I am? Seriously? How do you not know who I am? Maybe you're suffering from amnesia as well, because, honestly, it's just criminal negligence if you don't know me."
John looks sideways at Hot Ass. There's color flushing the man's cheeks from the chilly Canadian air. There are strands of soft, brown hair peeking out the back of the man's horrendous hat, curling up against the nape of the man's neck. John grins, says, "You don't know who I am, either."
Hot Ass's answering grin is huge and smug, "John Sheppard, USA, competing in the Men's Single figure skating events?"
John gapes, then grins, "You didn't know before Tire-Tear told you."
Hot Ass wears guilt well; it makes John's grin stretch wider and slip towards lecherous. The man blusters, "She might have mentioned it, yes, but that hardly changes the fact that I do, indeed, know who you are. And you, apparently as a result of living under a rock, do not know me. I should have left you to die."
Hot Ass punctuates his statement with a particularly vicious tug, and John laughs, breathless in the chilly air. John feels swept off balance, off his feet, and doesn't know whether to blame the fall or the man that caused it. John says, "Or you could just tell me your name."
Hot Ass opens his mouth, closes it, and then frowns deeply before finally saying, "Rodney, Rodney McKay."
They're all of two steps into the First Aid building when a shorter, younger, man appears in front of them. John has time to blink, and then the newcomer is grabbing Rodney's shoulders, shaking him and saying, "Oh, God, you're not hurt, are you? We can't afford to have you—"
Rodney brushes past the kid like he's not there, dragging John along, calling over his shoulder, "I'm fine, Chuck. If you must know I've been damaging the competition." John twists and waves at the boy who is fidgeting and looks a little lost. Rodney snaps, "He's seventeen."
John blinks, flushes, "I wasn't—that's not. What kind of guy do you think I am?"
Rodney shrugs, but doesn't look particularly repentant. In fact, Rodney looks mostly distracted, scanning the faces of the people moving around them, and John's...well, John's kind of gotten used to being the center of attention. He presses closer to McKay, purrs into the shorter man's ear, "He wasn't the one I was letting take off my clothes."
Rodney looks across at him, focusing all his attention on John and John feels butterflies in his stomach and his heart skipping beats and hears angels singing and a thousand other clichés all slamming down on him at the same time. John licks his lips, watches Rodney follow the movement with his eyes, and clears his throat.
Anything John might have said gets pushed to the side when Rodney shifts his eyes over John's shoulder and is suddenly moving again, dragging John along, "Beckett! I need to talk to you."
Beckett turns out to be a flustered doctor with a Scottish accent who turns around and sighs, "What is it, Rodney? Did you find another meal being served with citrus? I've already told you I can't do anything to control what the kitchens serve."
Rodney scoffs, shoving John at Beckett, "Shockingly, for once no one is trying to murder me. Here, I found him trying to kill himself in the practice rink. Make sure he's not going to die from some kind of hemorrhage. I'm going to get coffee."
John's skin feels cold without Rodney's hand to warm it. He drags a hand back through his hair and stares at Beckett, who stares back. After a moment Beckett blinks, says, "Aren't you John Sheppard?" when John blushes and ducks his head Beckett continues, "My niece loves you, can you just sign this for me?"
Unfortunately, Beckett says it loudly enough for everyone in the area to hear, and John's suddenly being closed in on from all sides by crowds of pre-teen girls that he's sure were no where to be found five minutes ago. John's face feels painfully stretched by the smile he's having to flash in about a billion different directions, and he's signed so many pictures of his own ass in the last five minutes that he can't even keep track of names anymore and has settled for scribbling 'sweetie' and 'darling' indiscriminately.
McKay's voice is salvation, "What is this, a convention of Tweens with Nothing Better to Do Anonymous? Get out of my way, I have hot coffee and I'm not afraid to use it."
Rodney moves through the crowd that John hadn't been able to budge, leaves a trail of confused looking girls with pigtails and braces in his wake. John drops the bright pink pen he's been holding, says, "Rodney!" and throws himself at his one chance for escape.
Rodney says, "Oof," when John slams into him, but doesn't actually budge. McKay's all solid strength, and John wraps an arm around his shoulders and whispers blatant lies into his ear, "Beckett said I should go lie down. Why don't you come along?"
For a moment Rodney just stares at him, blue eyes calculating, and then the man raises one of the cups of coffee to his lips and drains it all in one long gulp. Rodney looks at the other cup for a second before turning and pressing it into Beckett's hands and then slinging his arm around John's waist and steering him through the crowd.
Rodney says, dragging John through the cold air again, this time towards the competitor's apartments, "I have a game in two hours."
John thinks about this. There's a lot that he can do in two hours. He says, "Well, we'll just have to hurry then, won't we?"
Sex with Rodney McKay turns out to be a lot like everything else with Rodney McKay. Rodney's pushy and is apparently following some plan that John isn't privy to. Rodney talks a lot, big words that John hadn't really associated with hockey players in the past, and apparently it's all just exercise for his mouth, because when Rodney shoves John against the wall and goes to his knees, taking John's jeans and boxers with him, it's the start of pretty much the most brain melting blow job John's ever had.
John comes grasping at Rodney's broad shoulders, managing to finally pull off that ugly orange hat and tangling his fingers in Rodney's soft hair. Afterwards Rodney looks up at him, grinning smugly with his crooked lips, licking a smear of come out of the corner of his mouth, and John groans.
John hauls the other man to his feet, one hand clenched in his hair, one braced around Rodney's shoulders, and kisses him hard and sloppy. Rodney comes with his jeans loose around his hips, John's hand working his cock. They're still kissing, Rodney's teeth catching at John's bottom lip, Rodney's hands braced on either side of John's shoulders, pushing John a little harder against the wall with each thrust.
Afterwards Rodney breathes heavy into the shell of John's ear, and John rubs his clean hand up and down Rodney's back and thinks that of all the spectacularly bad ideas he's ever had, this one might be his favorite.
When Rodney tilts his head to the side and starts sucking open mouthed kisses against John's jaw, John tips his head back and moans and completely forgets that bruises are a terrible, terrible idea.
Eight hours later John is slumped at the table in his own room, awake and doodling on a notebook when he should be sleeping. He's always gotten jitters before every big event, even after bringing home the gold for the very first time at the tender age of sixteen. It's still a day until his first event, and the tension in his gut is killing him.
John scrawls another little skating stick man in the margin of his notebook, and then for the hell of it, inks in a stick man with what might roughly be described as a hockey stick beside him. He feels immediately silly, because, honestly, has he become one of the fourteen year old girls that stalk him while he wasn't paying attention?
The realization that he totally has doesn't stop him from adding little curly wisps of hair to the stick man's head, or giving it a sharp slash for a mouth, or getting up to riffle through his bag for a blue pen for its eyes.
It's stupid, and John's embarrassed with himself. He hadn't even known who Rodney McKay was before today. He still doesn't have any idea what a Centre is—beyond that it's the position McKay plays. It doesn't matter. John can't stop thinking about the other man; his broad pale shoulders and solid back and ridiculously fascinating hands.
John groans, and lets his head flop forward onto the table. He's not kidding himself, he doubts he'll ever see Rodney McKay again. He knows he was probably just a pre-game fuck, something to settle McKay's nerves and burn off all that excess adrenaline.
John lifts his head just far enough to bang it back down, and wonders if it's too late to call Elizabeth and tell her about his descent into rampant fan-girlism.
The knock on his door interrupts John as he's reaching for his phone. John springs out of his chair, and then takes a deep breath, reaches up to mess up his hair, and slides his pants a little lower on his hips before answering the door.
Rodney's standing outside his door, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, smiling so wide it's threatening to split his face in half. John manages an answering smirk and then Rodney's pushing past him into John's room, throwing his hands up into the air and exclaiming, "We won! We won! Let's have sex!"
John watches Rodney tear his own shirt off and toss it somewhere across the room. Rodney throws himself down onto John's bed, pulling his shoes off and working on his jeans when he notices John still standing in the open doorway. Rodney cocks his head to the side, says, "I know you're not used to group sports, but this really works better with two, come on."
There are a lot of very good reasons for John not to crawl into Rodney's lap. There are probably even better ones for him not to press soft kisses against the purple bruise on Rodney's cheek, or trace his fingers over the scratches and abrasions across Rodney's ribs. John just can't remember what any of them are.
Besides, John's pretty sure that it's worth it to have Rodney spread out under him, babbling a replay of the game as John bobs his head up and down over the other man's cock. Hockey has never, ever, sounded as exciting as it sounds in Rodney's breathy, sex rough voice.
John comes with Rodney's big hands on his ass, his hips thrusting against Rodney's sweat slick thigh, as Rodney tells him exactly how the Canadian team finally managed to score the one and only goal of the quarter final game. Rodney pulls him into a sloppy kiss and John cradles the back of the other man's head and falls asleep sprawled across Rodney's broad chest.
When John wakes up it's to the smell of eggs and coffee. He mumbles into his pillow, flails an arm out, and a familiar voice says, "Do you know that you have six different kinds of shampoo in your shower? And that one of them is White Rain?"
John lifts his head just enough that he can crack one eye at Rodney McKay, who is sitting at John's table, eating a disgustingly greasy breakfast and doodling in John's notebook. The notebook that John had been scribbling JS+RM 4EVER all over. The notebook that has at least two pages filled with John McKay and Rodney Sheppard and that has stick men very cutely skating hand in hand on it.
John jerks upright, feeling his face heating up, because oh God, he can't believe that this is happening to him. Rodney swallows another mouthful of eggs, continues like he's unaware of the meltdown that John is currently suffering, "I didn't know what you liked so I just brought you a little of everything except the orange juice because, hello? I'm not exactly going to risk my life just so you can enjoy your squeezed death fruit."
John blinks and takes in the plates of waffles and pancakes, sausage and bacon, hash browns and toast, that are sitting on the table in front of Rodney. He's still kind of half asleep, and maybe Rodney hasn't gotten to anything incriminating in John's notebook or maybe one of the hits he took last night knocked him temporarily senseless, and either way, John's hungry.
John clears his throat, shifts over to the table, and tries to ignore how normal it feels to be eating breakfast naked with Rodney. He decides to just ignore the entire notebook situation, and digs into the eggs and hash browns, even though it's not exactly the breakfast of champions. He doesn't want a protein shake right now.
John finally, after swallowing a glass of milk and managing to put a dent in his appetite—had sex always made him this hungry?—manages to speak, "So."
It's not very much, but it's apparently enough for Rodney to work with. Rodney leans back in his chair and John gets distracted by the way the man's shirt stretches across his chest, the way the left side of Rodney's face has gone all purple and black during the night. John remembers to shut his mouth when Rodney says, "You have your short program thing today. Do you need—should I—" Rodney makes a waving motion with his hands, looks pointedly at the door with a sad twist to the corners of his mouth.
John tries for suave, stretching in his chair and watching Rodney's eyes snap back to him. John drawls, "Well, you can go if you have something better to do."
Rodney eyes are focused, and there's something about the way he licks his lips that sends a chill up John's spine. It's nothing compared to the flood of heat to his cock when Rodney says, "No one," and it's not like there's anything John can do after that but drag Rodney back to his messy bed.
Hours later, when Rodney leaves to go meet with his team and give John time to get ready for his event, John pauses by the notebook. Rodney's left a few greasy fingerprints on the pages, but John barely notices. He's grinning, ear to ear, at the hearts that Rodney's drawn around their initials, and the fact that there's a new set of stick men, skating off into the sunset together.
The short program is two minutes and fifty seconds of pure terror mixed with euphoria and steely concentration. At least that's what John tells people in interviews. It's actually one hundred and seventy seconds of John praying that he doesn't fall on his ass while trying to remember everything he's supposed to do and reminding himself that he hasn't blown a quadruple salchow for six years.
The rush doesn't fade when he skates off the ice to get the judge's scores. In fact, the burn along his nerves only gets worse as the numbers roll in, until John's sure he's going to vibrate right out of his skin while Elizabeth jumps up and down beside him, her bubbling laughter swallowed by the crowd's cheering.
Elizabeth says, as they walk down the hallways, "I've never seen you skate like that before, John. Where was all that—" she pauses, her hands folded up to her chest, "—emotion coming from? Usually you just go out there and swivel your hips and wink at the pretty girls and nail your technique."
John fidgets with one of the tassels around his waist so he doesn't have to look at her, and says, "Who knows? Maybe I was just in the zone." Elizabeth makes a soft, disbelieving sound, and John pretends he didn't hear her, "I'm beat, I think I'm going to take off, okay?"
Elizabeth rolls her eyes, "You know, Radek Zelenka is still trying to convince me to come manage him. Don't think I won't do it, either."
John's sure the threat would have been more effective if he'd actually been paying attention. As it is, he's too busy grabbing one of the women running around in the white shirts with 'Event Staff' printed on the back. He squints at the woman's name badge and asks, "Katie, Canada's not playing in the hockey thing today, right?"
The little red-headed woman blinks up at him, cradling her clip board to her chest like he might try to take it away from her, "That's right."
John grins, claps her on the shoulders, and says, "Excellent. Have a great day, Katie."
John hears, as he hustles away, Elizabeth's dry voice, "It's okay honey, he does that to all of us sooner or later. Take a few deep breathes and you'll be fine. Here, why don't you sit down?"
John tracks Rodney down to his room, arranges himself as sexily as he knows how against the doorframe and then knocks. Inside Rodney curses loudly enough to wake the dead, and John can hear the man knocking things over on his way to the door. Somehow none of that matters when Rodney throws the door open and drags his eyes up and down John's body before yanking John into his room.
John's not real sure how he managed to get his arms around Rodney's neck or how Rodney got him up against the wall, but it doesn't really matter. Rodney is rasping into John's ear, his big hands sliding up John's sides, "I thought you didn't do sequins and lycra."
John squirms in Rodney's arms, slides a leg around the other man's waist and grinds against him. His voice has gone all thick and breathy, "They're not sequins, they're accents."
Rodney laughs, closes his hands on John's ass and squeezes, his mouth dancing warm and wet across John's neck. John rocks against him, needy and desperate, tilting his face up to the ceiling and hearing himself groan. Rodney rasps, "Oh, eh, is that what you call an accent, you yank?"
John laughs too, hands scrambling at Rodney's shoulders, trying to pull the collar of the other man's shirt out of the way so that he can get his hands on skin. John gasps up to the ceiling, "If they bother you why don't you just take them off?"
"I think I will," Rodney moves them away from the wall, and John feels weak kneed and clumsy with desire, keeps himself plastered against Rodney's warm body. John manages to get a hand up under Rodney's shirt, and has it mostly pulled over the man's head by the time Rodney topples them down onto the bed.
Afterwards, John pillows his head on Rodney's shoulder and curls up around the other man's solid, warm body. Rodney hums, brushes his thumb across John's cheek bone and then snorts, "Is this glitter? Do you have glitter on your face?"
John slings an arm over Rodney's chest, nuzzles against Rodney's neck and lies, "No."
In the morning John leaves Rodney snoring and drooling on the pillow they shared and brings back several plates of food. Rodney's in the shower when John lets himself back in the room and John puts the food down, thinks about how crappy eggs taste cold, and decides he doesn't care.
They don't get out of the shower for almost an hour. John's skin has gone all prune-y, his hair smells like kiwis, and his knees ache from the hard tile floor. He doesn't care at all. They sit in the middle of Rodney's bed and eat cold eggs and toast and Rodney's fingers leave little trails of grease all over John's body when Rodney pushes him down into the mattress.
John would mention that he'd just taken a shower and maybe Rodney shouldn't get him all dirty again, but then Rodney licks the grease off, and so John swallows his protests and arches his back and tangles his fingers in Rodney's soft curls.
Rodney spends most of the day cursing Finland and its ridiculously skilled blond haired, blue eyed cloned hockey players. John manages to convince Rodney to sprawl out on his stomach and massages the knots out of Rodney's shoulders and back. It doesn't actually curb the venom in Rodney's voice, but it does at least interrupt the ranting with occasional breathy pleas.
John, for his part, is just fascinated by the play of the other man's muscles under his hands. Rodney's bigger and thicker than he is, all solid muscles and pale skin and scars. John likes the way his own hands look on Rodney's paler skin, it fascinates him almost to the point of hypnotizing him.
John only realizes that he's absently tracing his knuckles up and down Rodney's spine when the man melts into his touch and mumbles, "You gonna fuck me or what?"
There are some questions for which there will only ever be one answer. John shivers, lowers himself over Rodney's back and kisses the back of Rodney's neck, pulling skin that already tastes like sweat and sex and him into his mouth and sucking. Rodney makes a contented sound and John maybe looses his mind a little bit there.
John comes with his cock up Rodney's ass. Afterwards Rodney curls around him, one heavy arm slung over John's waist. Rodney mumbles, sliding one of his legs between John's thighs and nuzzling into John's hair, "You're coming to see me play tonight, right?"
Watching Rodney play is, somehow, a more stressful experience than skating himself has ever been. John sits in the seat that Rodney managed to commandeer for him, and tries not to bite his nails while his stomach tears itself up with nerves.
It might be the first time in twenty-four years of life that John's ever watched a hockey game. He hadn't realized that there was quite so much hitting and blood, and that Rodney would be at the center of so much of it. John's certain that he's left bruises on his own thighs from grabbing his legs every time Rodney hits someone or gets hit.
Hockey, in addition to being a lot more violent than figure skating, is also a lot longer. The game goes on forever, an unending stretch that John spends with his heart in his throat. It's scoreless, breathtakingly nerve wracking, and John doesn't so much as shift in his seat until a minute before the end of the second overtime when Rodney passes the puck to some guy named Devorak who slams it into the net.
John scrambles out of his seat, pushing through the crowd towards the tunnel that Rodney and the rest of his team is skating towards. John's reliving every hit Rodney took, seeing the bloody patch of ice Rodney had left behind after a particularly crushing blow.
John can see Rodney moving off into the locker room, and leans over the railing, yells, "Rodney! McKay!"
Rodney's got his helmet off, his fine hair plastered against his scalp with sweat. Rodney's red-faced, there's a trail of dried blood out of the corner of his mouth and John wants to wipe it off and kiss him better and bring him breakfast in bed and the whirlwind of emotion is so abrupt that John sways. And then Rodney moves back towards him, face breaking into a smile and warmth shoots through John from the pads of his feet to the roots of his hair. John says, breathless, "Hi."
Rodney reaches up, grabs John's hand and just squeezes it for a moment as best as he can in the heavy gloves. There's sweat running down the sides of Rodney's face, and he says, "Did you see the game? Those Finnish bastards didn't know what hit them."
John's chest feels too tight, he leans further over and pushes one of Rodney's soaked curls out of his eyes. Rodney's eyes go soft and John can feel himself grinning dopily, can feel his face warming when Rodney turns his face and presses a kiss into John's palm.
Rodney says, eyes suddenly worried, "I have to get cleaned up, you want to meet me in my room?"
John thinks it's funny that Rodney thinks he has any choice in the matter at all. Since the instant that John stepped into that skating rink and got blindsided by Rodney's ass the entire situation has been entirely out of John's control. He says, aware that he's so wrapped around Rodney's finger it's not even funny, "Yeah. I'll—yeah."
One of Rodney's teammates yells, "McKay, you just about done? We'd like to get on with the celebration if it's okay with you."
Rodney kisses John's palm again, turns and follows the rest of his team to the locker room. John's heart absolutely does not lurch in his chest when Rodney pauses and looks over his shoulder at John before pushing through the doors.
Rodney's a mess of smiles and energy when he shows up. He tackles John to the bed and crawls all over him, laughing breathlessly even as he runs his hands all over John's naked body. John's touches are softer, because he saw Rodney bleed today, and he's really, really not okay with that at all.
John skims his fingers over the bruises across Rodney's shoulder, kisses his busted lower lip softly. He thinks, as Rodney's laughter slowly changes to moans, that he's so very, very screwed. This wasn't supposed to happen to him, and certainly not with some guy he met at the Olympics. They're not even from the same country.
But when Rodney comes, his big hand wrapped around both their cocks, stroking them to completion, John can't help but pull him close. It's natural to bury his face in Rodney's curls, to breathe him in and cradle Rodney in his arms and hold him as Rodney starts his soft snores.
John traces, on the back of Rodney's broad, strong, shoulders, JS+RM. He only feels briefly like a teenaged girl when he then traces a heart, and presses a kiss to Rodney's temple. Rodney makes a happy sound in his sleep, and John smiles and wonders what the hell he's supposed to do after tomorrow and his free skating competition.
The free skating is four and a half minutes of utter hell and pure heaven for John. He knows he nails every technical aspect of the program, but he can't get his mind off of Rodney, and he hopes the distraction doesn't show. Apparently it doesn't, because the judges give him perfect after perfect and it doesn't quite sink in that he won until he's stepping down off of the dais with a new medal swinging around his neck.
There are people everywhere, touching him and congratulating him, and John looks over all of their heads for the one person he really wants to see. And then Rodney's just there, moving people out of his way with those strong, impatient hands and his sharp voice. John grins, huge and helpless, and pushes towards him.
Rodney's saying, "—useless wastes of space kindly get the hell out of my way, thank you," and shoving a reporter sideways across the ice. John laughs, throws his arms around Rodney's neck and Rodney's transferring his complaints smoothing, "Oh my God, look, John, I hate to break it to you but those are definitely sequins."
John pulls back enough to look into Rodney's eyes, and feels a bubble of silence and stillness spreading around him. John's aware of everyone with their cameras raised, waiting for a story. He thinks that this isn't how he should out himself. He thinks that he has no right out Rodney.
John thinks: What would Brian Boitano do?
And tightens his arms around Rodney's neck. Kissing Rodney is fire through his veins, is magic, is unbelievably good. Rodney makes a surprised sound, winds his arms around John's waist and kisses him back. Around them the cameras flash.
When John wakes up in the morning Rodney is sitting up against the headboard, one hand wrapped around the back of John's neck. The television is on, soft in the background and John snuggles closer to Rodney's hip, and mumbles, "Time is it?"
Rodney startles, then resettles when John slides an arm around his waist and squeezes, "Early. Did you know that you've become some kind of cultural hero in the US? Apparently being gay is much more interesting than the fact that you won the gold for the third time in a row." There's a pause, "Alternately, I'm some kind of evil queer bastard that led you away from breasts and vaginas with my big gay Canadian cock."
John gropes around for the remote and clicks the television off, mumbles into Rodney's thigh, "It was more of your ass, actually."
Rodney snorts, shifts to the side and slides down beside John. There's silence as Rodney drags his hand across John's chest, their legs tangling together, and then, "I want—are you staying for my game?"
John shifts, rolls Rodney onto his back and kisses him until he feels Rodney relax. When he pulls back, it's just far enough to murmur, "Yes. Yes. I'm staying." And then, because Rodney's fingers are digging into his hips, "Hey! You should totally fuck me. You know, if they're blaming your big gay Canadian cock anyway."
Rodney makes a low growling sound, and then John's on his back, helpless against the assault of Rodney's mouth and hands.
John tries to sit still through Rodney's last game, and doesn't manage it. It doesn't matter, everyone else is jumping around and yelling, and he's just one more guy shouting obscenities at the Czech team. He's aware of the cameramen, snapping pictures of him as he yells and frets and worries about Rodney down there on the ice.
And when Rodney wins, when the game clock finally runs out with the scoreboard blinking 2:1, John shoves and pushes his way out onto the ice.
Rodney's a sweaty mess, blood running down from his temple, and John throws himself at the other man, topples them both down hard onto the ice. Rodney's laughing and someone's trying to pull him up and John bats their hands away and kisses Rodney right there in the middle of the ice while the Canadian national anthem plays.
John blurts, staring down at Rodney, his bright blue eyes and crooked smile and flushed skin, and says, "I love you, but I think I'll go crazy if I have to watch you get beat up all the time."
Rodney blinks, his fingers digging into John's arms. John holds his breath, because he hadn't meant to say any of that, and then Rodney says, "Okay. That's—okay."
John's chest aches, and he breathes, "Okay? Really?" and leans closer, until his lips are just brushing over Rodney's. He thinks he wants to take Rodney and introduce him to his parents. He wants to meet Rodney's parents. He wants to go skating with Rodney somewhere that no one else has ever been.
Rodney nods, his hand wrapping around the back of John's neck, "Yes."
And kisses him as around them the cameras flash.
::back to index::