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icarusTitle: Out Of Bounds: Here Is The Sky
Rating: PG, this section. NC-17, the rest of the piece. Radek is 18 in this piece.
Pairing: John/Rodney, Radek
Summary: In high school, Radek Zelenka never imagined going outside the Soviet Union.
Author Notes: An earlier section I've added to Out Of Bounds, the skating AU. I recommend downloading the Czech Rock before reading this piece. By the way, I've deliberately used a non-Olympic year (1986) throughout Out Of Bounds for Rodney's Olympic past. I don't want to have to deal with the actual events and athletes of the 1988 Olympics, not to mention I'm not comfortable displacing Polish figure skater Grzegorz Filipowski for fifth at his Olympics. It's a matter of respect for these athletes.
The sky was bright blue, a cold wind breaking over the bluff.
Radek Zelenka squinted at the sun reflecting off the snow as he adjusted his skis, digging edges deeper into the side of slope. He stuck his ski poles through the sharp icy surface and adjusted the cold wire frames of his glasses on his face. He couldn't regret missing an afternoon of high school for this. He looked around and breathed, waiting. He lifted the cheap plastic Instamatic camera to his cheek. The wind lifted a dusting of snow in a vortex before it settled.
Conditions were perfect.
Up at the top of the track a voice shouted. The skier launched down the ramp, tucked tight, his poles tucked buried under his arms. There was a shudder and thump as he hit the top curve of the ramp, and then silence as he flew, arched forward over skis angled like the vee of geese flying north. A new technique but it worked.
Mouth open in awe, Radek snapped photos in a series dull clicks, turning to follow his arc.
"Oh...." he said, not aware that he'd made a sound.
He held his breath until his brother landed, skis sliding, splayed wide to snowplow to a stop. His brother spun a ski pole in the air with a whoop, pulling the World War I goggles to the top of his head.
Radek measured the distance with his eyes. He knew this course better than his own bedroom, and ski jumping better than most subjects at school -- and he was a top student, engineering ski designs for his brother in his mind. Radek was small enough to be a ski jumper himself but he'd always been the fragile scholar among the Zelenka boys.
It was easily 173 meters, landed clean. Only eighteen meters short of the current 1985 Finnish record. The skis the government had provided them had made a tremendous difference. He put his camera away in his pocket, zipping it inside his coat. One day he'd see his brother break that record.
Shushing down the slope expertly on skis that were older than both of them, Radek's father stopped just up-slope from Radek.
"Good," he shook his head, his breathing harsh. "Very good."
"He will make the Olympic team for sure." Radek grinned. They both knew the politics involved, that talent wasn't the only consideration.
Face red and wind-chapped, his father smiled, his voice a purr of pride. "I have a job for you. If your brother goes—"
"Oh, he will—" Radek gushed.
His father held up a finger for silence. "If he goes, I have a family friend who knows someone who can get you a job on the Olympic team. I want you to keep an eye on him." He nodded very seriously towards Radek's little brother. He took a deep breath, and then said, "If there's a chance...."
Radek's eyes widened in fear. His father didn't mean for them to defect? No one said it aloud, but travel to such events presented unprecedented opportunities.
"...Don't let him go," his father finished. "His mother needs him at home. It would kill her to lose him."
Relieved and frightened, Radek nodded. He waved to his brother who was shouting for their attention, annoyed at being ignored after a great jump.
His father patted his shoulder with a heavy gloved hand. "And keep him away from those crazy western women, eh?" he added with laugh, making a cupping gesture like holding two breasts as he turned to ski to his youngest son.
"Now you ask the impossible," Radek called after him, snickering.
Outside the "iron curtain." Staying on the empty ski slope, looking up at the sky, Radek let it sink in that he was going to the 1986 Olympics. The possibility had never entered his mind.
Czech Rock. And it's actually good! Mala Dama by Kabatae
Rating: PG, this section. NC-17, the rest of the piece. Radek is 18 in this piece.
Pairing: John/Rodney, Radek
Summary: In high school, Radek Zelenka never imagined going outside the Soviet Union.
Author Notes: An earlier section I've added to Out Of Bounds, the skating AU. I recommend downloading the Czech Rock before reading this piece. By the way, I've deliberately used a non-Olympic year (1986) throughout Out Of Bounds for Rodney's Olympic past. I don't want to have to deal with the actual events and athletes of the 1988 Olympics, not to mention I'm not comfortable displacing Polish figure skater Grzegorz Filipowski for fifth at his Olympics. It's a matter of respect for these athletes.
The sky was bright blue, a cold wind breaking over the bluff.
Radek Zelenka squinted at the sun reflecting off the snow as he adjusted his skis, digging edges deeper into the side of slope. He stuck his ski poles through the sharp icy surface and adjusted the cold wire frames of his glasses on his face. He couldn't regret missing an afternoon of high school for this. He looked around and breathed, waiting. He lifted the cheap plastic Instamatic camera to his cheek. The wind lifted a dusting of snow in a vortex before it settled.
Conditions were perfect.
Up at the top of the track a voice shouted. The skier launched down the ramp, tucked tight, his poles tucked buried under his arms. There was a shudder and thump as he hit the top curve of the ramp, and then silence as he flew, arched forward over skis angled like the vee of geese flying north. A new technique but it worked.
Mouth open in awe, Radek snapped photos in a series dull clicks, turning to follow his arc.
"Oh...." he said, not aware that he'd made a sound.
He held his breath until his brother landed, skis sliding, splayed wide to snowplow to a stop. His brother spun a ski pole in the air with a whoop, pulling the World War I goggles to the top of his head.
Radek measured the distance with his eyes. He knew this course better than his own bedroom, and ski jumping better than most subjects at school -- and he was a top student, engineering ski designs for his brother in his mind. Radek was small enough to be a ski jumper himself but he'd always been the fragile scholar among the Zelenka boys.
It was easily 173 meters, landed clean. Only eighteen meters short of the current 1985 Finnish record. The skis the government had provided them had made a tremendous difference. He put his camera away in his pocket, zipping it inside his coat. One day he'd see his brother break that record.
Shushing down the slope expertly on skis that were older than both of them, Radek's father stopped just up-slope from Radek.
"Good," he shook his head, his breathing harsh. "Very good."
"He will make the Olympic team for sure." Radek grinned. They both knew the politics involved, that talent wasn't the only consideration.
Face red and wind-chapped, his father smiled, his voice a purr of pride. "I have a job for you. If your brother goes—"
"Oh, he will—" Radek gushed.
His father held up a finger for silence. "If he goes, I have a family friend who knows someone who can get you a job on the Olympic team. I want you to keep an eye on him." He nodded very seriously towards Radek's little brother. He took a deep breath, and then said, "If there's a chance...."
Radek's eyes widened in fear. His father didn't mean for them to defect? No one said it aloud, but travel to such events presented unprecedented opportunities.
"...Don't let him go," his father finished. "His mother needs him at home. It would kill her to lose him."
Relieved and frightened, Radek nodded. He waved to his brother who was shouting for their attention, annoyed at being ignored after a great jump.
His father patted his shoulder with a heavy gloved hand. "And keep him away from those crazy western women, eh?" he added with laugh, making a cupping gesture like holding two breasts as he turned to ski to his youngest son.
"Now you ask the impossible," Radek called after him, snickering.
Outside the "iron curtain." Staying on the empty ski slope, looking up at the sky, Radek let it sink in that he was going to the 1986 Olympics. The possibility had never entered his mind.
Czech Rock. And it's actually good! Mala Dama by Kabatae
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Mala Dama by Kabatae
Date: 2007-07-07 03:25 am (UTC)Janet
Re: Mala Dama by Kabatae
Date: 2007-07-07 07:38 am (UTC)Mala Dama's a cool song. Apparently there's a song contest in Europe called Eurovision that's now in its 52nd year (I think I have that right... it's on its 52nd contest and I'm assuming it's annual). Mala Dama was one of the finalists.
English translation
She picked grass and started to play
The little lady from the suburbs
That can read people's palms
That's where cats are hungry in the morning
In the night full of vice
She caresses them and gives them food
She wanders at night and sleeps by day
And her eyes see more than ours
I ran out of words, I just stood there
I would only die with this one
I would die with her in a single day
And if that is not enough for you
If there were a hundred women there,
I'd ask her to dance even though I don't dance
Her den is there by the railway
She collects coins from fountains
And puts them on the tracks
She's building a temple, a tin bridge
The first guest is coming over
So at least his legs won't hurt
She's been though hell and knows magic
She counts the money she's received
Whoever sees her is damned
I would only die with this one
I would die with her in a single day
And if that is not enough for you
If there were a hundred women there,
I'd ask her to dance even though I don't dance
I'll remember the moment
when she played, it sounded like Paganini
and then I knew I was damned
I asked how much, feeling guilty
I would die with her in a single day
And if that is not enough for you
If there were a hundred women there,
I'd ask her to dance even though I don't dance
I would die with her in a single day
And if that is not enough for you
If there were a hundred women there,
I'd ask her to dance even though I don't dance
To sing along with the Czech!
Utrhla trávu a začla hrát
ta malá dáma z předměstí
co umí lidem z dlaní číst
tam kočky zrána mívaj hlad
po noci plný neřestí
je pohladí a dá jim jíst
po tmě se toulá a ve dne spí
a její oči věděj víc než mý
došly mi slova, já stál tam jen
s touhle jedinou bych zemřel
S touhle bych zemřel v jedinej den
a jestli Vám to nestačí
kdyby tam stála stovka žen,
vyzvu ji k tanci a to netančim
Tam za tratí svý doupě má
mince po kašnách posbírá
a pak je skládá na kolej
staví si chrám, plechovej most
už po něm kráčí první host
tak ať ho nohy nebolej
prošla si peklem a kouzla zná
přejetý mince počítá
a kdo ji spatří je zatracen
s touhle jedinou bych zemřel
S touhle bych zemřel v jedinej den
a jestli Vám to nestačí
kdyby tam stála stovka žen,
vyzvu ji k tanci a to netančim
Budu si pamatovat na tu chvíli
když hrála znělo to jak Paganini
a já už věděl, že jsem ztracenej
zeptal se za kolik s pocitem viny
S touhle bych zemřel v jedinej den
a jestli Vám to nestačí
kdyby tam stála stovka žen,
vyzvu ji k tanci a to netančim
S touhle bych zemřel v jedinej den
a jestli Vám to nestačí
kdyby tam stála stovka žen,
vyzvu ji k tanci a to netančim
:D
Icarus