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icarusYes, the German disco was just an excuse to upload 'One Night In Bangkok,' and also because, what the hell, this story is supposed to be fun.
Part one: 'Get back out there.' – 'No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll *hurt* less.'
Part two: 'So why do we have to skate in the nude again?'
Part three: Naturally, John had brought the boom box but had forgotten to bring any music.
Part four: Rodney wondered if John knew 'Mustang Sally' was a favorite with strippers the world over.
Part five: 'This is hero worship, isn't it?'
Part six: 'Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that lately.'
Part seven: It was just hockey, not a cardinal sin.
Part eight: I'm sure when we were being chased by sabre-toothed tigers we did all kinds of neat tricks.
Part nine: 'You want to be alone?' Kim-the-unutterably-stupid asked.
Part ten: He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment.
Part eleven: 'I take American Express.'
John lay with his eyes shut, the sun warming his face. The breeze was cool and his sunglasses dented the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up a little further and sighed, suffused with an unaccountable sense of well-being. Though he figured part of that was probably the drugs.
Strands of grass tickled the backs of his arms through the aluminum lawn chair. The apartment manager hadn't really cut it before winter hit… they were slack about stuff like that… and it had sprung back up with the first unseasonably warm day, thawed and smelling green, cold, and wet. John could hear the chittering of either some kind of bird or a squirrel in the bushes behind him, though he couldn't be bothered to check what it was.
He'd wakened at McKay's house that morning and found himself wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the too-short couch. His shoes were tucked neatly under the coffee table. He didn't remember doing that, so Rodney must've taken them off.
John had been a good guest. He'd folded his blanket, washed and put away the plates they'd left out. Then, after opening the medicine cabinet and digging through a few drawers in the bathroom, he'd found the Tylenol. He'd grabbed the whole bottle plus a big glass of water and elbowed open the door to Rodney's room.
Rodney had been out cold, a rounded bare shoulder peeking out from an excessive pile of blankets, with an electric blanket turned on full. He slept in an aggressive sprawl, arm curled over his head, stretched out over ninety percent of his king-size bed. John had set the pills and water on the table next to him, using the bottom of the glass to shift aside some balled up dirty tissues. John wrinkled his nose.
One of Rodney's pillows had been knocked to the floor, so he'd picked that up and, after a moment's hesitation, set it on a wicker chair.
Then he'd thought about breakfast; but one sniff of the milk put that idea out of his mind. He was better off eating at home. So, quietly putting on his shoes, John had scribbled a quick note and left it on the kitchen table.
John's eyes glinted with humor, thinking he probably shouldn't have done that. His thumb stroked the cordless phone in his lap. One could only be good for so long.
~*~*~
The disco was dim, barely populated, with a few bored patrons and over-excited American popular music, playing "One Night In Bangkok" at top volume. The skinny kid in glasses breathed a stream of smoke and stubbed out a cheap Russian cigarette. He was far enough away from the Olympic village for some peace and quiet, and maybe a look at the world outside the iron curtain if you slipped your guided (re: guarded) "tour group." Risky, but he would just say he got lost. Radek was good at looking innocent.
The kid who stepped through the door had over-styled greasy brown hair and wide scared eyes. He took in the disco like he'd just entered a dangerous western slum, the sort they'd heard about in Czechoslovakia, that would never occur under Communism. He sat gingerly, two empty seats away from Radek, his eyes darting. And then ordered a rum and coke. Radek burst out laughing.
"What?" the kid said, managing to sound both hurt and irritated.
Radek grinned. "Even you old enough to be coming here?" He tapped the counter.
The kid's face fell, eyes wide with shock and fear. "Yes," he said in an uncertain waver.
Radek leaned forward, elbows on the counter, glinting with amusement. "You Americans. They have no age rule!" He made a broad gesture at the room. "You say freedom this, freedom that, but then? You scare of disco!"
"Hello? It sounds as though you think you're speaking English. And by the way," the kid pointed to himself, thumb to his chest and said in a clearly American accent, "Not American."
Introductions were exchanged. Rodney was sixteen and surprisingly didn't smoke -- everybody smoked! -- though he was willing to try and let Radek order him a real drink. He obviously didn't like it, but pretended well. He insisted loudly that he was Canadian, his presence filling the dispirited disco, and they ignored everyone else to launch into a cheerful debate over whether America and Canada were the same thing. Radek found himself defending the very Soviet system that he'd just escaped, simply because he found Rodney so insulting.
Stumbling through the doors hours later, Rodney's limp arm draped over his shoulder, Radek discovered that not only did Rodney not smoke, he also did not drink. Only two glasses, and he practically had to carry Rodney. Though even drunk he was a reasonably good kisser. They made it back before curfew, and rescuing the "degenerate American" worked out to be the perfect excuse.
It turned out he really was from Canada.
~*~*~
An ungodly racket woke Rodney. He panicked for a moment that he'd slept through his four am with John, until he managed to blearily collect the rest of the facts. With one hand he reached for the radio alarm clock and shut it off with a badly aimed fist, sinking face-first into his pillow in weak relief. His eyes felt stuck to his eyelids.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rolled to a sitting position and sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear, face buried in his hands for a long minute. With a miserable groan, he moved again with a minimalist's economy of movement, balancing his head as if it were made of china.
Squinting near-sightedly, Rodney spied a tall glass of water on his nightstand. A note in an unfamiliar handwriting read "Drink Me." Beside it was a giant bottle of Tylenol with a note that said, "Eat Me." Rodney dimly noted the double-entendre and Alice In Wonderland references and with a cough, cursed anyone who could make him laugh right now. Then he lumbered forward and, barely opening his eyes, followed the directions to the letter. He set the glass down with miserable sick grunt.
Head still held in his hands, Rodney scuffed to the shower. But the sound of the water hitting the walls was way too loud, so he shut it off, leaning against the cool tile.
He decided camomile tea would be a good idea. And toast.
Dry toast.
He licked his lips. Opening his eyes enough to make out vague furniture-like shapes, he stumbled through the living room into the kitchen. He slumped into a chair and put his head on the table, arms bracketed over his aching head.
Running his hand over stubble, Rodney pried himself up and forced himself to turn on the tea kettle. He stood in his underwear, swaying gently, waiting for it to steam. Even imagining it whistle hurt his head. At last, tea in hand, he scraped back to the chair, where he spotted a note in that same unfamiliar handwriting.
Hey, Rodney. Tylenol's on the table next to your bed if you didn't see it. Drink at least two glasses of water.
I figure you're probably in no shape to skate today, so tomorrow, four am, right? I'll just take the day off. I would've hung around but I don't think I want to know what you're like with a hangover.
By the way, your milk's gone bad. Sniff at your own risk.
Rodney shut his eyes and wished John hadn't mentioned that. He swallowed the rising bile, then continued reading.
Thanks for the spaghetti last night. It still tastes like ketch--
Rodney skimmed it quickly.
Since I'm not around, I thought…maybe a few words to soothe your tender stomach:
Cat litter
Raw sewage
Diahrea
Congealed grease
Gray, rotted maggot-ridden decaying hamburger--
Rodney lurched, planting a hand over his mouth, and barely made it to the sink in time.
~*~*~
The phone rang in John's lap. He answered it cheerfully, "Hello!"
"You son-of-a-bitch!" Rodney's voice spluttered.
"Hey Rodney…" John tried to say in a smooth, innocent voice, but he was already laughing, curled forward around the phone.
"Oh, you're very funny. I'm going to save some of this for you as a topping!" Rodney's voice snarled. "And by the way, your spelling? Atrocious!" The phone clicked.
John stretched, still shuddering with the occasional snickers. Yep. It was definitely a good day. Besides, Rodney seemed the type you had to be careful not to spoil.
~*~*~
John felt the swat of a rolled up newspaper on the bottom of his shoes at the same moment he realized someone was standing in his light. He squinted irritably at the intruder, responding deliberately slow. Then smiled when he realized it was Rodney.
"You think you're cute, don't you?" Rodney announced. He was wearing sunglasses, and it made him look sort of ridiculous, like John Belushi in the Blue Brothers.
"Hey…." John yawned, turning towards him as lazily as a cat in the sun. "You still alive?"
"Yes, barely, no thanks to your adolescent flirting. Can you believe I actually had to work today?" Rodney said, his hands on his hips. "Preteens. Very painfully shrill."
He looked up at the sky, gazing off into the distance as if he imagined he was the squinting embodiment of cowboy cool. John watched him with admiring amusement.
"Could have used my gym bag."
Rodney said it to the air as if commenting on the weather.
John blinked, weighed this and considered his options very, very quickly. "Yeah…" He stretched to buy himself some time. "I'm not exactly sure where that is."
"The rink called. They tell me they have it in the lost and found," Rodney said accusingly.
"Oh, hey. That's lucky." John sat up, thinking it was lucky on a lot of levels.
"Empty."
John winced. Although Rodney had thrown the stuff at him….
"So, all that money you owe me?" Rodney did a complicated snapping gesture into his palm, cheerfully vengeful.
John had a feeling he knew where this was headed. He grimaced up at Rodney, wrinkling his nose. "Yeah-?"
"I take American Express." Rodney smiled thinly at him. "Or, more specifically, the malls do."
John considered this with a slow half nod, pursing his lips. What the hell, he could rack up a little more debt.
"How 'bout Visa?" John offered dryly, rolling to his feet. It had been getting a little cold out there anyway. He swung his arms, working a crick out of his back, and then happily loped behind Rodney.
Yeah, it was a good day.
Oh. Forgot to mention -- here's the music:
http://rapidshare.de/files/16270455/80_s_hits_-_one_night_in_bangkok.mp3.html
That link should stay live as long as people are downloading. Now. I need to watch some more skating.
ETA: Sorry to keep tinkering with this, guys. I just... couldn't resist John's, oh, well, you'll see.
Next part is here
Part one: 'Get back out there.' – 'No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll *hurt* less.'
Part two: 'So why do we have to skate in the nude again?'
Part three: Naturally, John had brought the boom box but had forgotten to bring any music.
Part four: Rodney wondered if John knew 'Mustang Sally' was a favorite with strippers the world over.
Part five: 'This is hero worship, isn't it?'
Part six: 'Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that lately.'
Part seven: It was just hockey, not a cardinal sin.
Part eight: I'm sure when we were being chased by sabre-toothed tigers we did all kinds of neat tricks.
Part nine: 'You want to be alone?' Kim-the-unutterably-stupid asked.
Part ten: He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment.
Part eleven: 'I take American Express.'
John lay with his eyes shut, the sun warming his face. The breeze was cool and his sunglasses dented the bridge of his nose. He pushed them up a little further and sighed, suffused with an unaccountable sense of well-being. Though he figured part of that was probably the drugs.
Strands of grass tickled the backs of his arms through the aluminum lawn chair. The apartment manager hadn't really cut it before winter hit… they were slack about stuff like that… and it had sprung back up with the first unseasonably warm day, thawed and smelling green, cold, and wet. John could hear the chittering of either some kind of bird or a squirrel in the bushes behind him, though he couldn't be bothered to check what it was.
He'd wakened at McKay's house that morning and found himself wrapped in a blanket, curled up on the too-short couch. His shoes were tucked neatly under the coffee table. He didn't remember doing that, so Rodney must've taken them off.
John had been a good guest. He'd folded his blanket, washed and put away the plates they'd left out. Then, after opening the medicine cabinet and digging through a few drawers in the bathroom, he'd found the Tylenol. He'd grabbed the whole bottle plus a big glass of water and elbowed open the door to Rodney's room.
Rodney had been out cold, a rounded bare shoulder peeking out from an excessive pile of blankets, with an electric blanket turned on full. He slept in an aggressive sprawl, arm curled over his head, stretched out over ninety percent of his king-size bed. John had set the pills and water on the table next to him, using the bottom of the glass to shift aside some balled up dirty tissues. John wrinkled his nose.
One of Rodney's pillows had been knocked to the floor, so he'd picked that up and, after a moment's hesitation, set it on a wicker chair.
Then he'd thought about breakfast; but one sniff of the milk put that idea out of his mind. He was better off eating at home. So, quietly putting on his shoes, John had scribbled a quick note and left it on the kitchen table.
John's eyes glinted with humor, thinking he probably shouldn't have done that. His thumb stroked the cordless phone in his lap. One could only be good for so long.
~*~*~
The disco was dim, barely populated, with a few bored patrons and over-excited American popular music, playing "One Night In Bangkok" at top volume. The skinny kid in glasses breathed a stream of smoke and stubbed out a cheap Russian cigarette. He was far enough away from the Olympic village for some peace and quiet, and maybe a look at the world outside the iron curtain if you slipped your guided (re: guarded) "tour group." Risky, but he would just say he got lost. Radek was good at looking innocent.
The kid who stepped through the door had over-styled greasy brown hair and wide scared eyes. He took in the disco like he'd just entered a dangerous western slum, the sort they'd heard about in Czechoslovakia, that would never occur under Communism. He sat gingerly, two empty seats away from Radek, his eyes darting. And then ordered a rum and coke. Radek burst out laughing.
"What?" the kid said, managing to sound both hurt and irritated.
Radek grinned. "Even you old enough to be coming here?" He tapped the counter.
The kid's face fell, eyes wide with shock and fear. "Yes," he said in an uncertain waver.
Radek leaned forward, elbows on the counter, glinting with amusement. "You Americans. They have no age rule!" He made a broad gesture at the room. "You say freedom this, freedom that, but then? You scare of disco!"
"Hello? It sounds as though you think you're speaking English. And by the way," the kid pointed to himself, thumb to his chest and said in a clearly American accent, "Not American."
Introductions were exchanged. Rodney was sixteen and surprisingly didn't smoke -- everybody smoked! -- though he was willing to try and let Radek order him a real drink. He obviously didn't like it, but pretended well. He insisted loudly that he was Canadian, his presence filling the dispirited disco, and they ignored everyone else to launch into a cheerful debate over whether America and Canada were the same thing. Radek found himself defending the very Soviet system that he'd just escaped, simply because he found Rodney so insulting.
Stumbling through the doors hours later, Rodney's limp arm draped over his shoulder, Radek discovered that not only did Rodney not smoke, he also did not drink. Only two glasses, and he practically had to carry Rodney. Though even drunk he was a reasonably good kisser. They made it back before curfew, and rescuing the "degenerate American" worked out to be the perfect excuse.
It turned out he really was from Canada.
~*~*~
An ungodly racket woke Rodney. He panicked for a moment that he'd slept through his four am with John, until he managed to blearily collect the rest of the facts. With one hand he reached for the radio alarm clock and shut it off with a badly aimed fist, sinking face-first into his pillow in weak relief. His eyes felt stuck to his eyelids.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he rolled to a sitting position and sat on the edge of his bed in his underwear, face buried in his hands for a long minute. With a miserable groan, he moved again with a minimalist's economy of movement, balancing his head as if it were made of china.
Squinting near-sightedly, Rodney spied a tall glass of water on his nightstand. A note in an unfamiliar handwriting read "Drink Me." Beside it was a giant bottle of Tylenol with a note that said, "Eat Me." Rodney dimly noted the double-entendre and Alice In Wonderland references and with a cough, cursed anyone who could make him laugh right now. Then he lumbered forward and, barely opening his eyes, followed the directions to the letter. He set the glass down with miserable sick grunt.
Head still held in his hands, Rodney scuffed to the shower. But the sound of the water hitting the walls was way too loud, so he shut it off, leaning against the cool tile.
He decided camomile tea would be a good idea. And toast.
Dry toast.
He licked his lips. Opening his eyes enough to make out vague furniture-like shapes, he stumbled through the living room into the kitchen. He slumped into a chair and put his head on the table, arms bracketed over his aching head.
Running his hand over stubble, Rodney pried himself up and forced himself to turn on the tea kettle. He stood in his underwear, swaying gently, waiting for it to steam. Even imagining it whistle hurt his head. At last, tea in hand, he scraped back to the chair, where he spotted a note in that same unfamiliar handwriting.
Hey, Rodney. Tylenol's on the table next to your bed if you didn't see it. Drink at least two glasses of water.
I figure you're probably in no shape to skate today, so tomorrow, four am, right? I'll just take the day off. I would've hung around but I don't think I want to know what you're like with a hangover.
By the way, your milk's gone bad. Sniff at your own risk.
Rodney shut his eyes and wished John hadn't mentioned that. He swallowed the rising bile, then continued reading.
Thanks for the spaghetti last night. It still tastes like ketch--
Rodney skimmed it quickly.
Since I'm not around, I thought…maybe a few words to soothe your tender stomach:
Cat litter
Raw sewage
Diahrea
Congealed grease
Gray, rotted maggot-ridden decaying hamburger--
Rodney lurched, planting a hand over his mouth, and barely made it to the sink in time.
~*~*~
The phone rang in John's lap. He answered it cheerfully, "Hello!"
"You son-of-a-bitch!" Rodney's voice spluttered.
"Hey Rodney…" John tried to say in a smooth, innocent voice, but he was already laughing, curled forward around the phone.
"Oh, you're very funny. I'm going to save some of this for you as a topping!" Rodney's voice snarled. "And by the way, your spelling? Atrocious!" The phone clicked.
John stretched, still shuddering with the occasional snickers. Yep. It was definitely a good day. Besides, Rodney seemed the type you had to be careful not to spoil.
~*~*~
John felt the swat of a rolled up newspaper on the bottom of his shoes at the same moment he realized someone was standing in his light. He squinted irritably at the intruder, responding deliberately slow. Then smiled when he realized it was Rodney.
"You think you're cute, don't you?" Rodney announced. He was wearing sunglasses, and it made him look sort of ridiculous, like John Belushi in the Blue Brothers.
"Hey…." John yawned, turning towards him as lazily as a cat in the sun. "You still alive?"
"Yes, barely, no thanks to your adolescent flirting. Can you believe I actually had to work today?" Rodney said, his hands on his hips. "Preteens. Very painfully shrill."
He looked up at the sky, gazing off into the distance as if he imagined he was the squinting embodiment of cowboy cool. John watched him with admiring amusement.
"Could have used my gym bag."
Rodney said it to the air as if commenting on the weather.
John blinked, weighed this and considered his options very, very quickly. "Yeah…" He stretched to buy himself some time. "I'm not exactly sure where that is."
"The rink called. They tell me they have it in the lost and found," Rodney said accusingly.
"Oh, hey. That's lucky." John sat up, thinking it was lucky on a lot of levels.
"Empty."
John winced. Although Rodney had thrown the stuff at him….
"So, all that money you owe me?" Rodney did a complicated snapping gesture into his palm, cheerfully vengeful.
John had a feeling he knew where this was headed. He grimaced up at Rodney, wrinkling his nose. "Yeah-?"
"I take American Express." Rodney smiled thinly at him. "Or, more specifically, the malls do."
John considered this with a slow half nod, pursing his lips. What the hell, he could rack up a little more debt.
"How 'bout Visa?" John offered dryly, rolling to his feet. It had been getting a little cold out there anyway. He swung his arms, working a crick out of his back, and then happily loped behind Rodney.
Yeah, it was a good day.
Oh. Forgot to mention -- here's the music:
http://rapidshare.de/files/16270455/80_s_hits_-_one_night_in_bangkok.mp3.html
That link should stay live as long as people are downloading. Now. I need to watch some more skating.
ETA: Sorry to keep tinkering with this, guys. I just... couldn't resist John's, oh, well, you'll see.
Next part is here
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 01:47 am (UTC)I chose the version via the time-tested method of flipping a coin.
Really. I'm not kidding.
Man, it was hard getting this back on the rails.
Icarus
no subject
Date: 2006-03-24 02:27 pm (UTC)They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 04:44 pm (UTC)Tylenol's on the table next to your bed if you didn't see it. Drink at least two glasses of water. I figure you're probably in no shape to skate today, so tomorrow four am, right?
I would've hung around but I don't think I want to know what you're like with a hangover.
By the way, your milk's gone bad; sniff at your own risk. And since I'm on that subject, I thought…maybe a few words to soothe your tender stomach:
Cat litter
Raw sewage
Diahrea
Congealed grease
Gray, rotted maggot-ridden decaying hamburger--
He had a fairly good idea the effect that would have on a guy with a hangover.
John's eyes glinted with humor. One could only be good for so long. Besides, Rodney seemed like the type it was best not to spoil.
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 04:57 pm (UTC)Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 05:11 pm (UTC)John hates it when Rodney has the upper hand, that's all.
Icarus
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 06:30 pm (UTC)I'm still not sure. Like I said, this was decided on a coin flip.
Icarus
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 06:34 pm (UTC)Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 06:36 pm (UTC)Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 06:57 pm (UTC)I'm tempted to put it back in, actually. Because Rodney forcing John to replace his gear makes up for it.
Icarus
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 10:31 pm (UTC)Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 10:44 pm (UTC)Nah, I'm done (just changed a bit ago). If I change it again it'll be in the beta review. ;)
Icarus
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 10:56 pm (UTC)Excellent work.
Re: They all concerned John's original note. This is from version 3.
Date: 2006-03-24 06:54 pm (UTC)I'm not kidding!
Icarus