SGA Fic: Out Of Bounds update
May. 5th, 2007 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icarusMore of Out Of Bounds. Stop looking so shocked. The whole thing up to this point is here.
It was time for some skating, wasn't it?
John's apartment was dark and quiet, feeling very empty as his keys clinked on the counter. The streetlights through the kitchen window were enough to see by so he didn't bother turn on the overhead.
John wasn't in the habit of staying out late, or even going out at all. It occurred to him that he didn't have much of a social life. Though he hadn't wanted one in quite a while. Most people got attached, then got in the way, expecting John to give more of himself than he'd planned.
He itched and ached, and made straight for the little pill bottle on the windowsill in the kitchen. He rattled out the dosage into his palm, downing the meds with water he drank straight from the tap, bent over, drops running down his cheek as he straightened. And then breathed.
One a.m., fuck. He didn't know what to do with himself, wired past sleepiness. He knew he'd be awake at four a.m. from habit, like it or not.
He paced the kitchen, then wandered to the free weights in the other room and stopped, having to convince himself that, even as restless as he felt, exercising at this hour was still a bad idea. He dismissed the thought of the inline skates. It was pretty cold out, and he knew from experience that it got ten degrees colder at dawn. Not for the first time he wished he was a millionaire with a private skating rink where he just could work out all this energy anytime he wanted. Everything about that fantasy was hazy except for the open air rink itself, him strapping on his skates at odd hours, arms stretched to the starred sky, legs straddled as he whisked along the curve of the ice. Trying out some of the footwork sequences Rodney suggested. He always added new moves to his imaginary rink.
His folks had always thought that he skated way too much, but they didn't realize that John skated twice as much in his mind.
By the time he hit the ice for real John knew the feel of every jump, just how his toe pick would launch him into the air, how he'd pull his arms in tight, that suspended airborne moment, the feel of his hair flying in a circle, how he'd kick out his back leg as he landed, arms flung out for balance and stretch. Sometimes he'd know a new jump so well, it would surprise him when it didn't go perfectly on the first try.
Stretching in the empty circle of his bedroom, John tapped out a frustrated rhythm on his thighs. Then made for the TV he'd inherited from a former roommate. There was nothing on, and John told himself that, no, he was not calling Rodney at one-sixteen a.m. just because he was bored. Rodney probably had things to do tomorrow, important things that people with houses did, like, mow the lawn or clean the gutters or something.
He couldn't picture Rodney mowing the lawn for the life of him.
Clicking on the light, John pulled a cardboard box from under the bed and pawed through his videos, a collection that would make his parents roll their eyes, so he usually hid his tapes before they visited; they were mostly figure skating. He'd recently added several ice shows he'd found. Poor quality VHS recordings, although Viktor Petrenko, Toller Cranston, and Robin Cousins were always great. But what had caught his eye was the name Rodney McKay. He'd apparently done one summer tour after he retired. John had picked up some of Rodney's old Worlds programs of course, but this one he liked best because it was only eight years ago, so Rodney had already started filling out, looking less like some teenage kid and more like he did now. Like Rodney. Except with a little more hair.
The camera started rolling with Rodney at the side of the rink, talking to a little guy with fuzzy, messy hair who wore an incongruent bow tie. Rodney leaned close, either to say something in his ear or kiss him on the cheek, it was hard to say, then glanced up, startled as the announcer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to ... Rodney McKay!"
Rodney skated to the center rink with a few quick strokes, leaning forward as his arms pumped. He bounced into a light circle, arms raised. He wore a ridiculous costume of white 18th century ruffles and obscenely tight, clingy aqua satin pants.
Which, when he turned around, was a pretty nice view, ugly color or not. The teenage Rodney didn't look like that. And in the front, the light color left nothing to the imagination. John made a mental note to never wear a white costume.
Smirking at the crowd Rodney tugged playfully on the ruffles on his sleeves, first the left then the right, nose high in mock snobbery. Then he struck a George Washington-crossing-the-Deleware pose, his chin up. It was funny.
John dipped a hand under his waistband, figuring Rodney would kill him if he knew he did this. And that his choice of performances was a little weird. The screen flashed Rodney's name and the name of the music: Dvorak's "Humoresque," 1894.
Hands still holding his lapels, Rodney began with dainty footwork in little mocking turns, his free leg swinging, ending with a bow to an imaginary partner. He repeated the whole thing, turning in little Wally jumps, then pushing himself into a gliding swan pose. The audience giggled. Then Rodney pushed off into a double, smoothly landing it as if it were nothing, turning backward in a complicated transition. He gathered speed from nowhere, swinging his leg around in a sharp 360, then switching, his arms spread as the crowd clapped, suddenly taking him seriously.
He paused, feet coming together in a stop, his expression smug and amused at having tricked them. Then with a mincing gesture, he held his lapels again, and walked on his skates as if out for a Sunday stroll.
In the romantic surge of music, his arms embraced the audience, energy increasing with his speed. His motion solid, so fast and strong, edges dug into the ice clean like he was on solid ground. Then as he hit the end of the rink, he pulled a gorgeous, effortless double axel, gliding into a not-very-fast spin with perfect form on the high violin, touching his skates, catching them overhead. He sidled out of that, one hand tracing the air, then raised his free leg on the long legato, holding it high for the whole serpentine chain. A girly move that was an inside joke with skaters, and the audience sort of got it from Rodney's self mocking turn of his wrists, chuckling again.
Then Rodney stopped. With a grin he played an imaginary violin tucked under his chin, circling in very complicated footwork now. He ended on his toes, ankles crossed in a ballerina pose, hands up in a shrug. The crowd cheered and he dropped his head to bow.
John put it on pause as Rodney came back up, glowing with praise. John tipped his head back on his pillow with a little smile and drifted off to sleep, all the lights still on, still dressed, and one hand still tucked in his pants.
~*~*~
John blinked blearily, fumbling for the clock on the floor, blinking at the glow of the digital numbers. He sniffed. Bright winter light poured from the kitchen window in the main room, which left him confused and wondering what day it was. The faint buzz from the TV told him he'd left it on all night. He sat up and tugged off his jeans, swearing at himself for staying up so late. He'd missed his morning work-out and now his routine was completely screwed up.
Annoyed, he clicked the TV off, then changed his mind and switched it from VCR to television. He had illegally hijacked someone's ESPN -- it was for a good cause -- and the cable guy still hadn't figured it out. The sports scores rang out as he scuffed into the kitchen in his underwear, digging at the elastic band that was embedded into his skin. He returned with a bowl of cereal and ate it standing, one shoulder leaned against the kitchen doorjamb.
Football season was over. He missed that every year. Cruel of them to have the Superbowl the same day as Nationals. But basketball was still going strong. The spoon clanked against the bowl.
"Welcome back to sports center! Keith, the Pistons are looking good this season...."
"They suck," John told them, wiping his mouth as some milk almost dripped.
"Absolutely, Darron. The real question is: Can they keep it up?"
"Not a chance," John said.
"Now for the current standings in the run up to Nascar...."
"Who cares about Nascar?" John griped as he settled cross-legged on the bed, watching anyway, mesmerized by the buzz and roar of cars as they interviewed someone he'd never heard of.
"Back to you, Jessica."
"Thanks, Darron. Now everyone's heard the latest on the upcoming World Figure Skating Championship. Will Heidi Pauwels hang in there....?"
John sighed. As usual, ESPN treated figure skating as if it were a women's event. He'd be lucky if the men were even mentioned.
"The two-time silver medalist has elected to not to compete at Four Continents in Colorado Springs in order to focus on the Worlds...."
Letting out a breath, John shook his head.
Now that everyone and their brother had an ex-Russian skating coach, they were picking up the Soviet habit of "saving yourself" like a virgin for the big competitions. Keeping your edge. Ha. If it were him, he'd skate in every one he possibly could, including the cheesefests sponsored by Alpo or whatever corporation wanted to rain money on figure skating this year. But his season was over, coming in ninth at Nationals. Way over.
"She's not the only one. Just last night Kyle Fletcher withdrew from the Four Continents as well, to focus on the Worlds next month."
"It's highly competitive this year, Jessica. There's new pressure from the Japanese skating team-- let's have a look." The screen flashed to a montage of tiny young Japanese girls.
That was a perfect example of ESPN's crap coverage. Heidi had just held onto the silver by her fingernails at last year's Worlds and barely stood a chance at the podium. Kyle on the other hand, had the Four Continents sewn up. John set down his empty cereal bowl in amazement. His gold was in the bag and he'd walked away. That left an open playing field. And second place Mike Estey was down with a pulled groin muscle -- it was iffy he'd even make Worlds. Third place Jeff Kulka was going, last John heard. Fourth place William Haas retired after Nationals, wanting to go out on top. It was about time for him to pack it in.
John counted off on his fingers, snickering. Who was even left to compete?
David Bellamy had married Cherise Grant, an ice dancer, and they were probably on their honeymoon by now. Was it Todd Kaganoff or Christian Yong Suk in sixth? John couldn't recall. One was sixth, the other seventh.
Todd was definitely out of the game. He'd retired quietly, though he might come back for something like this. A shot at the gold? Yeah. That would tempt him. Christian was out with injuries John had read somewhere, though exactly what he didn't know.
He definitely knew who had taken eighth, of course, one up from his spot: Mark Svick.
So they had third place Kulka, good old Todd if he came out of retirement, eighth place Mark Svick and....
Holy shit. Ninth place... John sat up, jolted. Was him.
Holy... But no one had contacted him.
John stood and paced, rubbing the back of his neck. Haas could come out of retirement, too. Hell, Belamy might cut short his honeymoon if gold were on the line. And maybe Christian's injuries weren't all that serious. There were a million things that could happen. He shouldn't get his hopes up. There was no point in getting excited.
Dvorak's 'Humoresque.' Good for a week or 100 downloads, whichever comes first.
The next part is here.
It was time for some skating, wasn't it?
Previously: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hired ex-skating champion and 'artiste' Rodney McKay to be his coach. Plagued by a persistant ACL injury and rapidly growing too old for the sport, few believe John has a shot. Rodney quickly developed a crush on his rebellious protege. A teasing friendship developed between them, and John's just returned home from what, huh, might have turned into a date.
'Get back out there.' – 'No. I'm taking up hockey. It'll *hurt* less.'
'So why do we have to skate in the nude again?'
Naturally, John had brought the boom box but had forgotten to bring any music.
Rodney wondered if John knew 'Mustang Sally' was a favorite with strippers the world over.
'This is hero worship, isn't it?'
'Me coach. You student. You keep forgetting that lately.'
It was just hockey, not a cardinal sin.
I'm sure when we were being chased by sabre-toothed tigers we did all kinds of neat tricks.
'You want to be alone?' Kim-the-unutterably-stupid asked.
He mentally took back his den and no longer had to worry about John's exercise equipment.
'I take American Express.'
Give John a spotlight and what does he do? Skate in the dark.
Something about a dead hamster-?
Being a UPS driver had been great, nice people, but it worked all the wrong muscle groups.
'I don't think she actually skates -- she just floats over the ice like a fruit fly!'
'You see me naked and you think I'm athlete?'
Pain was good. It told John when he went too far.
'Oh, yes, we're all very impressed with your vapid conversation.'
'Can you give me some hip action now that all your delusions have been shattered?'
His folks didn't realize that John skated twice as much in his mind.
John's apartment was dark and quiet, feeling very empty as his keys clinked on the counter. The streetlights through the kitchen window were enough to see by so he didn't bother turn on the overhead.
John wasn't in the habit of staying out late, or even going out at all. It occurred to him that he didn't have much of a social life. Though he hadn't wanted one in quite a while. Most people got attached, then got in the way, expecting John to give more of himself than he'd planned.
He itched and ached, and made straight for the little pill bottle on the windowsill in the kitchen. He rattled out the dosage into his palm, downing the meds with water he drank straight from the tap, bent over, drops running down his cheek as he straightened. And then breathed.
One a.m., fuck. He didn't know what to do with himself, wired past sleepiness. He knew he'd be awake at four a.m. from habit, like it or not.
He paced the kitchen, then wandered to the free weights in the other room and stopped, having to convince himself that, even as restless as he felt, exercising at this hour was still a bad idea. He dismissed the thought of the inline skates. It was pretty cold out, and he knew from experience that it got ten degrees colder at dawn. Not for the first time he wished he was a millionaire with a private skating rink where he just could work out all this energy anytime he wanted. Everything about that fantasy was hazy except for the open air rink itself, him strapping on his skates at odd hours, arms stretched to the starred sky, legs straddled as he whisked along the curve of the ice. Trying out some of the footwork sequences Rodney suggested. He always added new moves to his imaginary rink.
His folks had always thought that he skated way too much, but they didn't realize that John skated twice as much in his mind.
By the time he hit the ice for real John knew the feel of every jump, just how his toe pick would launch him into the air, how he'd pull his arms in tight, that suspended airborne moment, the feel of his hair flying in a circle, how he'd kick out his back leg as he landed, arms flung out for balance and stretch. Sometimes he'd know a new jump so well, it would surprise him when it didn't go perfectly on the first try.
Stretching in the empty circle of his bedroom, John tapped out a frustrated rhythm on his thighs. Then made for the TV he'd inherited from a former roommate. There was nothing on, and John told himself that, no, he was not calling Rodney at one-sixteen a.m. just because he was bored. Rodney probably had things to do tomorrow, important things that people with houses did, like, mow the lawn or clean the gutters or something.
He couldn't picture Rodney mowing the lawn for the life of him.
Clicking on the light, John pulled a cardboard box from under the bed and pawed through his videos, a collection that would make his parents roll their eyes, so he usually hid his tapes before they visited; they were mostly figure skating. He'd recently added several ice shows he'd found. Poor quality VHS recordings, although Viktor Petrenko, Toller Cranston, and Robin Cousins were always great. But what had caught his eye was the name Rodney McKay. He'd apparently done one summer tour after he retired. John had picked up some of Rodney's old Worlds programs of course, but this one he liked best because it was only eight years ago, so Rodney had already started filling out, looking less like some teenage kid and more like he did now. Like Rodney. Except with a little more hair.
The camera started rolling with Rodney at the side of the rink, talking to a little guy with fuzzy, messy hair who wore an incongruent bow tie. Rodney leaned close, either to say something in his ear or kiss him on the cheek, it was hard to say, then glanced up, startled as the announcer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to ... Rodney McKay!"
Rodney skated to the center rink with a few quick strokes, leaning forward as his arms pumped. He bounced into a light circle, arms raised. He wore a ridiculous costume of white 18th century ruffles and obscenely tight, clingy aqua satin pants.
Which, when he turned around, was a pretty nice view, ugly color or not. The teenage Rodney didn't look like that. And in the front, the light color left nothing to the imagination. John made a mental note to never wear a white costume.
Smirking at the crowd Rodney tugged playfully on the ruffles on his sleeves, first the left then the right, nose high in mock snobbery. Then he struck a George Washington-crossing-the-Deleware pose, his chin up. It was funny.
John dipped a hand under his waistband, figuring Rodney would kill him if he knew he did this. And that his choice of performances was a little weird. The screen flashed Rodney's name and the name of the music: Dvorak's "Humoresque," 1894.
Hands still holding his lapels, Rodney began with dainty footwork in little mocking turns, his free leg swinging, ending with a bow to an imaginary partner. He repeated the whole thing, turning in little Wally jumps, then pushing himself into a gliding swan pose. The audience giggled. Then Rodney pushed off into a double, smoothly landing it as if it were nothing, turning backward in a complicated transition. He gathered speed from nowhere, swinging his leg around in a sharp 360, then switching, his arms spread as the crowd clapped, suddenly taking him seriously.
He paused, feet coming together in a stop, his expression smug and amused at having tricked them. Then with a mincing gesture, he held his lapels again, and walked on his skates as if out for a Sunday stroll.
In the romantic surge of music, his arms embraced the audience, energy increasing with his speed. His motion solid, so fast and strong, edges dug into the ice clean like he was on solid ground. Then as he hit the end of the rink, he pulled a gorgeous, effortless double axel, gliding into a not-very-fast spin with perfect form on the high violin, touching his skates, catching them overhead. He sidled out of that, one hand tracing the air, then raised his free leg on the long legato, holding it high for the whole serpentine chain. A girly move that was an inside joke with skaters, and the audience sort of got it from Rodney's self mocking turn of his wrists, chuckling again.
Then Rodney stopped. With a grin he played an imaginary violin tucked under his chin, circling in very complicated footwork now. He ended on his toes, ankles crossed in a ballerina pose, hands up in a shrug. The crowd cheered and he dropped his head to bow.
John put it on pause as Rodney came back up, glowing with praise. John tipped his head back on his pillow with a little smile and drifted off to sleep, all the lights still on, still dressed, and one hand still tucked in his pants.
~*~*~
John blinked blearily, fumbling for the clock on the floor, blinking at the glow of the digital numbers. He sniffed. Bright winter light poured from the kitchen window in the main room, which left him confused and wondering what day it was. The faint buzz from the TV told him he'd left it on all night. He sat up and tugged off his jeans, swearing at himself for staying up so late. He'd missed his morning work-out and now his routine was completely screwed up.
Annoyed, he clicked the TV off, then changed his mind and switched it from VCR to television. He had illegally hijacked someone's ESPN -- it was for a good cause -- and the cable guy still hadn't figured it out. The sports scores rang out as he scuffed into the kitchen in his underwear, digging at the elastic band that was embedded into his skin. He returned with a bowl of cereal and ate it standing, one shoulder leaned against the kitchen doorjamb.
Football season was over. He missed that every year. Cruel of them to have the Superbowl the same day as Nationals. But basketball was still going strong. The spoon clanked against the bowl.
"Welcome back to sports center! Keith, the Pistons are looking good this season...."
"They suck," John told them, wiping his mouth as some milk almost dripped.
"Absolutely, Darron. The real question is: Can they keep it up?"
"Not a chance," John said.
"Now for the current standings in the run up to Nascar...."
"Who cares about Nascar?" John griped as he settled cross-legged on the bed, watching anyway, mesmerized by the buzz and roar of cars as they interviewed someone he'd never heard of.
"Back to you, Jessica."
"Thanks, Darron. Now everyone's heard the latest on the upcoming World Figure Skating Championship. Will Heidi Pauwels hang in there....?"
John sighed. As usual, ESPN treated figure skating as if it were a women's event. He'd be lucky if the men were even mentioned.
"The two-time silver medalist has elected to not to compete at Four Continents in Colorado Springs in order to focus on the Worlds...."
Letting out a breath, John shook his head.
Now that everyone and their brother had an ex-Russian skating coach, they were picking up the Soviet habit of "saving yourself" like a virgin for the big competitions. Keeping your edge. Ha. If it were him, he'd skate in every one he possibly could, including the cheesefests sponsored by Alpo or whatever corporation wanted to rain money on figure skating this year. But his season was over, coming in ninth at Nationals. Way over.
"She's not the only one. Just last night Kyle Fletcher withdrew from the Four Continents as well, to focus on the Worlds next month."
"It's highly competitive this year, Jessica. There's new pressure from the Japanese skating team-- let's have a look." The screen flashed to a montage of tiny young Japanese girls.
That was a perfect example of ESPN's crap coverage. Heidi had just held onto the silver by her fingernails at last year's Worlds and barely stood a chance at the podium. Kyle on the other hand, had the Four Continents sewn up. John set down his empty cereal bowl in amazement. His gold was in the bag and he'd walked away. That left an open playing field. And second place Mike Estey was down with a pulled groin muscle -- it was iffy he'd even make Worlds. Third place Jeff Kulka was going, last John heard. Fourth place William Haas retired after Nationals, wanting to go out on top. It was about time for him to pack it in.
John counted off on his fingers, snickering. Who was even left to compete?
David Bellamy had married Cherise Grant, an ice dancer, and they were probably on their honeymoon by now. Was it Todd Kaganoff or Christian Yong Suk in sixth? John couldn't recall. One was sixth, the other seventh.
Todd was definitely out of the game. He'd retired quietly, though he might come back for something like this. A shot at the gold? Yeah. That would tempt him. Christian was out with injuries John had read somewhere, though exactly what he didn't know.
He definitely knew who had taken eighth, of course, one up from his spot: Mark Svick.
So they had third place Kulka, good old Todd if he came out of retirement, eighth place Mark Svick and....
Holy shit. Ninth place... John sat up, jolted. Was him.
Holy... But no one had contacted him.
John stood and paced, rubbing the back of his neck. Haas could come out of retirement, too. Hell, Belamy might cut short his honeymoon if gold were on the line. And maybe Christian's injuries weren't all that serious. There were a million things that could happen. He shouldn't get his hopes up. There was no point in getting excited.
Dvorak's 'Humoresque.' Good for a week or 100 downloads, whichever comes first.
The next part is here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-05-15 10:38 pm (UTC)Out Of Bounds
Date: 2007-05-15 11:27 pm (UTC)You know what? Me, too. This is a fun story to write. With the boyfriend's mother passing away and all the complications surrounding it (plus a little snag in the plot just for garnish) I had to put it aside and focus on RL. In a couple weeks I should be able to give Out Of Bounds some more attention.
Icarus