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icarusI think I've given everyone enough time for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sgabigbang. I hope? This part has been burning a hole in my pocket because it contains two of my favorite scenes. Would you like 7,415 words of Out Of Bounds today?
You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John stopped, shook his head, his teeth white as he laughed at himself. He bent down and clicked to the next song, blinking up at the sky.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dossier and rabidfan, who've been as excited about this part as I've been. A bow to kung-fu master, enname.
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Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The window of a white Honda hatchback rolled down and the driver whistled at a flagging cyclist, calling out over the thrum of the engine, "Hey, pretty boy! Going my way?"
John glanced up with a start and flash of irritation, then broke into a smile when he recognized Rodney. He pushed his helmet higher to take a look. The car rolled to stop. John stood over his bike. "Hey... it runs." John grinned.
"Turns out you were right about the water pump, although there were a few other things besides—like all four tires needed replacing, and boy, did your mechanic gave me an earful about bent rims," Rodney shouted, one arm stretched across the back of the seat. "Anyhow, you want a ride?" He patted the headrest.
John was tempted but shook his head. "Nah. It's only a few more blocks and—" He indicated the bike. "—the spokes might rip up the upholstery. Hate to damage your new ride."
"Okay, suit yourself. I'll see you when you get there, slowpoke." Rodney gave him a smug smile and waved as he pulled away. He slowed lazily for the stop sign, his turn signal on.
Oh, Rodney thought he'd make it home first, did he? John stood on his pedals and took a sharp turn into the unpaved alley. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rodney's head jolt up, catching him in the rear view mirror—and he gunned his engine.
The bike rattled as John curved between ruts, wheels hissing on sand – he cut through a section of grass – and swerved diagonally across the Weaver's driveway. Pumping, rising up to bend forward over the handlebars, John shot a quick look over his shoulder as he hit blacktop. Through the trees a little white hatchback zoomed and then lurched to a stop at the traffic light. Straining, John put on a burst of speed, the wind picking up.
He raced on the dirt trail through the park, past teeter-totters and swing sets, dodging around a startled couple and their dog who stepped off the path. He skidded over woodchips where the trail opened up onto the road, then swept across the street, up and onto the neighbor's sidewalk, his shoulder high, ducking as pine branches whipped his face. He stood off the seat and bounced over the single step, rolling down their neighbor's drive.
Rodney's Honda swerved into the driveway just in front of him, clipping the mailbox. Swearing, John pedaled harder. He dropped the bike in the front yard, jumped off, disentangling himself. He hit the grass at a dead run as Rodney struggled with his seatbelt and fumbled his door open. John launched up the front steps, only to feel a strong hand grab his shoulder, yank him back and shove him into the railing. With a surprised laugh, John caught his balance and tackled Rodney's legs on the top step. He landed on Rodney with a grunt and they went down in sprawl over the front porch. John's chin hit wood, getting a face full of splinters, while Rodney's car keys skittered with a jingle before they fell through a slot in the boards, silenced.
Out of breath, coughing and gasping, they rolled to their backs. They lay there for several minutes, chests heaving with laughter, unable to stop.
"Brute force," Rodney gasped, when they could finally speak again. "That is so like you."
"Oh, who started that?" John laughed.
"You're going to fetch those keys," Rodney insisted. He barely moved, managing only a little flicking wave before letting his hand drop to his forehead.
"No, I'm not," John assured him. He rolled his head to the side. "But thanks for breaking my fall."
"I think I'm going to need a chiropractor," Rodney moaned, but he was beaming.
~*~*~
The music suddenly cut off in the middle of the last footwork sequence as John ran through his entire long program. He finished it anyway, feeling pretty good. It was tough but, John nodded to himself as he pushed across the ice, he'd gotten it down. He edged his hip towards Rodney and Sonja, sliding to a stop.
"Well, that was a little rough around the edges," John began in all modesty, smiling with his hands in his pockets, "but I'd say—"
"I think that entire section needs to be earlier," Sonja mused aloud to Rodney, tapping her lower lip with a long fingernail. She flipped around to John. "You're good at that jump, yes?"
"Usually," John said, not sure if she meant the quad toe or the triple axel.
"Then we should have it right in front of the judges...." She turned and picked up a clipboard with graph paper, paging through the sheets. She tucked her hair behind her ears and folded them over. "Here. We'll have to change the transition, of course."
John leaned over and tried to make out her squiggles. No dice. "You'd have to change a lot more than that."
"And this spin is boring. I don't like it. We'll take it out completely." She started erasing feverishly.
"I just got that down...." John complained, but she held up her hand forcefully for silence.
Finally, she brushed eraser rubbings off the page and straightened. "Yes, that will be much nicer."
Rodney watched over her shoulder in fascination, although John narrowed his eyes at him, looking for the tell-tale confusion that showed he couldn't follow it either. But Rodney simply rubbed his chin and said, "Hmm."
Sonja pulled the door to the ice open, stepping on. "It will be like this," she began, knee raised, her asymmetrical gauzy skirt fluttering behind her. She crooked a finger at John. "Come."
John tried to follow her new pattern, but it was just close enough to the old one that he had to check himself at every turn, slowing and losing the beat.
"You'll get it," she declared with a clenched smile.
"I got it the last time," John insisted.
She made several more radical changes before waving goodbye, throwing John a kiss and telling him he was doing marvelous. John scowled at her disappearing form.
"Rodney," he said in an undertone through gritted teeth, "She's driving me insane. I get it down—and then she changes it."
"She's great, isn't she?" Rodney beamed. "The timing's been honed like the edge of a knife."
"I haven't practiced the same program two weeks in a row!"
"Any program's going to need a few refinements," Rodney pointed out.
"Refinements? It's unrecognizable!"
"It's clear that you have never worked with a professional choreographer before," Rodney said with a superior gaze. "My Firebird Suite program took weeks to design," he assured him. "In fact, we were still making changes up until the day I left for the Olympics."
At John's shocked expression, Rodney laid a hand on his shoulder. "Get it down in sections, try not to think of it as a complete piece yet—and get into the music behind the program. Then all the changes will make sense."
~*~*~
A day later, Rodney glanced around the new age juice bar, wincing in irritation. Behind him an industrial blender whirred and a woman ordered a "Wheat grass, grande" like it was some sort of latte. Rodney recoiled in mute horror and hunched his shoulders around his overpriced "Mango Tango, tall." No doubt Sonja had chosen this fun house because she knew he would hate it. She plunked down on the stool next to him, holding a large cup of some sort of green and orange slime.
"It's healthy," Sonja said at his appalled stare, taking a long sip from her straw. It oozed up in chunks. She was doing her Jackie Onasis impression today, complete with cropped Chanel jacket and oversized pearls.
Rodney peered at his mango drink warily and hoped that it didn't ooze as well. "When I was growing up, juice came frozen in a can."
"Barbaric," she said, sipping more ooze.
"I know a kid in second grade who was dared to eat a frog, and when he threw up, it looked a lot like that." Rodney used his straw to point at her slime shake.
"You will not successfully disgust me," she said, her eyes steady, making a noise with her straw as a chunk caught.
"Yes, well, I've managed to disgust me," Rodney said mournfully, pushing away his Mango Tango. It was slimy, probably much like the guts of that....
Sonja sipped her drink with a displeased little frown and she looked at Rodney through beady narrowed eyes.
"So. How are we doing?" Rodney opened with a small smile, partially to escape this overpriced hippie haven, and partially because he was genuinely curious why she wanted to meet away from the rink.
"My choreography is excellent," she said with an unshakeable confidence that Rodney couldn't argue with.
He nodded agreement. "Highly original, which in the skating world is the ultimate praise."
She leaned her chin on a tiny little fist. "It is a wasted effort."
Rodney blinked as her frown deepened into a scowl.
"I give John Art and he turns it into shit," she said with a dramatic gesture.
"You choreograph for sixteen year olds," Rodney fired back.
"I would rather choreograph for a baby with some artistic sense than this." She hunched on her stool. "I tell him to duck low, stay low, like he is hiding, and then to spring!" She spread both hands. "Up! Like he has been caught." Rodney squirmed. He knew the part she was talking about and had the same complaint. "What does he do? He bends low, watches for the jump, does the transition and then he jumps—like he has been planning it the whole time." She let her hand fall to her knee with a slap. "It is all wrong," she said in disgust.
Rodney shifted on the stool, his face scrunched as he explained to her, "Well, it takes time for any skater to get into the emotion behind the program. First they have to get the technical aspects down. And... these are more changes than he's used to." Rodney flinched, knowing that wouldn't impress her.
"He is an elite skater. Senior level. For ten years." Sonja shook her head. "It should come quickly. And this, this that I'm showing him now? This part is not hard."
Rodney wrung his hands, wincing at her. "The artistic scores are what we're working on."
Leaning on her elbows she ducked her head, clutching at her blond hair. "He's going to make me look like a fool." She straightened with a huff of breath. "I will finish this long program for you, Rodney, because I love you and you are my friend. But I am never again doing this. He is destroying my work. Even worse," she added, "he is destroying my best work."
~*~*~
John walked past the windows with a faint zapping rasp as the electric hedge trimmers took off another swathe of branches. Rodney couldn't see the point of organizing nature –
square hedges were a sign of man's delusion that he'd conquered the outdoors, while dandelions were proof positive that it was impossible – but since he'd allowed John to tackle the lawn he'd heard fewer complaints from the neighbors, so it was all to the good.
Rodney dragged the phone into the bedroom and paced impatiently until Radek finally picked up.
"Hello?"
"I don't tell him that I'm better than him," Rodney announced defensively. "I tell him that I'm better than everyone! That's different!"
They wasted a minute for Radek to get over the novelty of Rodney calling him during waking hours. Then it took them several minutes to bring Radek up to speed and remind him of their last conversation (which Radek insisted had been over a month ago but it had been only three weeks at most). They recapped Radek's unfair accusation that Rodney had somehow crushed John's spirit.
"I merely suggested that there must be a reason for him to imitate you," Radek said with an impatient sigh.
"Well, he needs to do a better job of it, because Sonja's just about ready to throw in the towel," Rodney said.
"Pfft. Sonja."
"You two never did hit it off, did you?" Rodney recalled.
"She said I looked better with my clothes on," Radek complained.
"She meant it as a compliment," Rodney said off-handedly.
"Sonja can keep her opinions to herself."
"That's true." Rodney put his fist on his hip, looking around the room. The zapping sound increased as John started on the shrubs in the backyard. "Thank you, Radek, that's a very good point. I mean, who's the coach here anyhow?"
"What?"
Rodney stabbed a finger in the air. "She may be the one with Olympic gold on her wall, but I have a decade of experience coaching."
~*~*~
"Now hear me out," Rodney announced the following Friday. John gave him a mulish stare, while Sonja had that indulgent smile that said she was humoring him.
"I've given it some thought, and I think it's not too late to change our choice of music," Rodney said. "'Mission: Impossible' would be perfect for the long program." He enumerated his points on his hand. "It suits John's style without being ludicrously difficult. It's a crowd pleaser—which will solve half our problem right there, since when the crowd's into the program your artistic marks go up automatically. And then the whole 'Impossible' angle will be a wink to the judges about John's record. They'll eat it up."
John's arms were folded. "So you're saying we dump the last six weeks worth of work?"
"Exactly!" Rodney nodded. "You weren't getting it anyway! Why don't we save the ground-breaking choreography for the ground-breaking figure skaters?"
"Can I choreograph you?" Sonja asked.
"What? I'm not—no!" Rodney licked his lips. "Look, we need to go with what will work."
"So that whole song and dance about me picking my own music and having a say in my own program only holds true till you don't like my choices." John scowled at him.
"No, no, no! It's just that it's obviously not working out—"
"Oh, I get it all right," John said with false cheer. He skated off across the rink until he hit the doors on the opposite side. There he snapped on his skate guards and stalked out to the coke machines.
Rodney desperately turned to Sonja for support.
She threw up her hands and shrugged, philosophical about it. "He is not going to win anyway. Let him have his fun."
Then she glanced at her watch. "We end early tonight, yes?" She followed John's tracks across the ice, taking off her skates and replacing them with four-inch heels. "It will be a short season," she called out to Rodney, as if that were some sort of reassurance. The elevator doors shut behind her.
"Am I the only person who cares if he wins?" Rodney asked the empty stadium.
~*~*~
Saturday all the lights in the house were on with the dimmer switches turned down low. Rodney had soft romantic music on, a gentle rocking rhythm. He was still shouldering the coffee table back against the fireplace when John came in.
"Ah. It's about time you got home," Rodney said. He dusted off his hands and beamed a smile at him. "I thought we'd try something tonight."
John shook his windbreaker off one arm and glanced around in evident bemusement.
"Should I be worried?" John tossed the windbreaker onto a hook and loped into the living room.
"Call it a work night," Rodney said. "I'm feeling particularly brilliant this evening. Which is not to say that I'm not always brilliant," he assured John with a small sweeping gesture with his hand, mimicking a bird taking flight, "but there are certain times that the stars line up and you just know you're going to shine."
"Fortune smiles on us all," John said dryly, hands on his hips, head tilted at Rodney.
"Doesn't it?" Rodney's smile spread into grin that was probably a little goofy. Then he snapped his fingers at John. He wasn't with the program yet. Sometimes it frustrated Rodney, when he was galloping leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of the world, to have to turn back and explain everything. "Take off your shirt."
"Oh, this is a naked brilliant idea," John said, seeming more on board.
"No. It's just that your shirt is garish and it's distracting me."
John pouted down at the well-worn plaid, plucking at it. Rodney could never understand his tendency to get attached to shabby inanimate objects. Exhibit A: his car.
"Come, Come." Rodney urged him with a hand-spinning motion. There was a rebellious pause as John met his eyes, but slowly the shirt slid off his shoulders, John looking doubtful but interested. And horny.
Perfect.
Rodney helped hurry him along with the shirt, saying as he fussed with it, "So. You know already how to create an abstract idea in skating... James Bond, that sort of thing...."
"This is a skating lesson?" John sounded disappointed.
"Yes. Of course it is," Rodney said impatiently. People were always very slow on the uptake when he was on one of his streaks, although to be fair it was mostly in comparison to his own intellect and creative acumen. He hooked John's arm with his own and drew him into the center of the living room. "Just run with it, please."
"Please" usually worked to silence the initial objections of the ignorant, Rodney had found.
John pulled off his T-shirt, too, and stood bare-chested in the little clear area Rodney had created, his skin pebbling. Rodney had thought to turn the heat up but it had slipped his mind. That shouldn't matter in a moment, however. He turned up Thunderpuss' thumping cover of "New York City Boys."
"I like this song," John said.
"Yes, yes, I know, that's why it's playing." Rodney spread his hands, forestalling further inane commentary. "So. Right now you know how to create an abstract concept, a visual image that has certain associations for your audience – such as James Bond." John nodded, his lips pursed. He folded his arms over his chest. Not the most receptive posture but perhaps he was just cold. Rodney made a chopping gesture with both hands, like an elevator going down. "You need to go a level or two deeper than that. Delve into the emotions. Movement and emotion, of course they're not separate," Rodney said on a chuckle at that perfectly obvious statement.
John gave him a strange look, one eye cocked at Rodney. All right, not perfectly obvious to everyone. But John, although halfway intelligent, was more physical than intellectual in his approach to problems, so Rodney barreled ahead.
"We'll start with something you're good at—as I can attest to from extensive personal experience." Rodney smirked. "Sex."
John's eyebrows raised. "You should charge more for your lessons."
"Ha, ha. You know, valuable insights are being wasted here while you indulge your puerile sense of humor," Rodney snapped.
"Sorry, Rodney. Sex. Movement." John smiled as if he were indulging Rodney. "I'm all ears."
"Good." Rodney led John by the elbow to the CD player. "Now. There are different types of sex, of course. Thus, our soundtrack for this evening." He waved a hand to the stereo. Picking up the remote he switched to a different song. Bouncy Hispanic rap by Molotov began, chanting "Here comes the mayo...."
"I like this song, too," John noted.
"Again, chosen for just that reason." Rodney's eyelashes fluttered in frustration as John insisted on missing the point. "So. Pop quiz. What kind of sex is embodied in this song?"
John tipped his head, considering.
He was a difficult student. He actually learned with his body but he was stubborn, even if he didn't want to be, forcing Rodney to convince his mind first. It was like he had to pre-set John into learning mode.
"It's kind of, you know ... threesomes, teenage experimentation, that sort of thing. Doing wild, stupid stuff. It's rave music."
Rodney bobbed his head, bouncing to the beat a little, agreeing. John was finally on the on-ramp to the McKay superhighway. "How about this?" He pointed the remote at the CD player and song clicked over to thumping gay nightclub classic, "Dive in the Pool." "What's different about this one?"
John moved his chin back and forth in time with it. He rubbed his lower lip with his forefinger and said, shrugging, "It's louder." Rodney nodded eagerly so he continued, "Older, smarter. You know better what you're doing and what you want. It's still multi-partner, casual sex. Where you get in, get what you want, and get out."
Which sounded appealing. Not that Rodney regretted his relationships; it was just that they'd been so few and far between. He sighed, wistful. "Hmm. I never really did much of that."
"What happened to your parade of international stardom way back when?"
"Oh, it was mostly only one person. I suppose I'm monogamous by nature."
John snorted at the admission. "Yeah, no surprises there."
"What?" Rodney realized he might have lost some cool points with John who had apparently done a lot of that sort of thing.
"No," John said. "I mean, you've lived in the same house for ten years. In your twenties. Most people don't even stick with the same apartment."
"Hey. I could have had countless people through here!"
"But you didn't," John pointed at him, accusingly, Rodney thought. "Look. You seem kind of ... single-minded, and you don't like change much." They both cringed away from the standing minefield of John and cleaning. "I'm just saying that you don't strike me as the type who wants to wake up with someone different every week."
"Is that how it works? One a week?" Rodney asked, bewildered, going eyes wide as he took in the fact that he was currently with the type of guy who'd slept with someone new every week. Wouldn't that get him used to infinite variety? Would he get bored? He looked John up and down, but John for his part just seemed tense.
"Sometimes every couple of days." John dug his toe at the carpet, studying the floor. "Sometimes you strike out a lot, or what's available isn't worth the work involved."
Rodney breathed easier. He'd tried that kind of life himself but mostly he'd struck out. Good that John had as well.
"Sometimes it ... really sucks."
"Oh?" Rodney perked up with prurient curiosity.
John studied him a moment. Then said in a measured tone, "If you don't like someone you're rid of them fast, I guess. But if you do like them...." He shrugged it off. "That's not what they're in it for, it's no big deal if they don't call you back." John grimaced and looked away. "I got out of that world pretty fast. Wasn't my thing."
"Hmm," Rodney said. And realized they were far off-topic. Though he made a mental note of "not my thing" and put it in a silver box, stowed deep in his memory.
He clicked to another song, a slow tremulous trumpet, jazzy and sensual, "Straight to Number One." John listened and didn't even need to prompted, causing Rodney to fold his arms and beam at him in pride. "Okay," John pointed at the stereo. "Now that's very personal. It's sex, but one on one."
"And what's different about it?"
John's mouth quirked to the side in his smart-ass expression. "A woman sings it."
"Ah." Rodney raised a finger, smiling. "But she's not singing, is she?"
"She's whispering," John said, getting it, and on board with the program.
"Now don't tell me about it. Show me."
John squinted at him, clearly puzzled and curious. Mystified, not that he would admit it.
"Let's go back to the queer anthem, shall we?" Rodney returned to the thumping club music and turned it up loud. "Now. Show me this song."
John winced and hesitated.
"Oh, come on. Everyone knows this song. No one cares how you dance to it." Rodney licked his lips and began again, hand in a placating gesture. "All right. Tell me about this song first, then."
"Ah.... It's loud. Fun." John's head dipped, seeming to recognize how silly it was to describe a song rather than dance to it. "People do a conga line. Had a guy practically rub himself off on me all around a club one time...." John's expression froze as his words trailed off, like it had belatedly occurred to him that Rodney might not appreciate that little tidbit. So he'd noticed Rodney's worries earlier. Rodney gave his silver box a mental pat; "not my thing" was still there, warming him.
Although apparently he'd have to demonstrate before John would deign to move his body. Rodney took a moment to roll his eyes and silently berate the whole of white Anglo-Saxon culture that made little boys sit still in church pews and the like, thus needlessly complicating his job. Few of his black students had this problem. Rodney raised his arms and bounced. "Experiment. It doesn't matter how it looks."
The singer shouted "Let's get soaking wet!" and Rodney turned it up still louder. He led a trail around the couch, declaring, "I'm not even watching you! Grab my hips if you want. That's the benefit of a conga line."
He glanced back, unable to resist. John had let his shoulders bounce to the music, watching Rodney with a sparkle of amusement. But then he slowed, so Rodney studiously kept his eyes forward. He felt John's hands come to rest on his hips.
Rodney asked at the end of the song, breathing hard, "Better?"
He didn't wait for an answer but switched back to the slow techno-jazz of "Straight to Number One." He set down the remote and turned to face John, swaying with him, hand cupped around his hip. It was a simple rhythm in 2/4 time, with a light pick-up and emphasis on the upbeat in the repeating phrase, the bass drum imitating a heartbeat. Very easy to swing back and forth like teenagers at the senior prom. That, however appealing, was not the goal.
Rodney murmured in John's ear, "So how would this be different from the other piece?" John's hair was warm with sweat. He smelled like after shave and sharp body odor, not that Rodney minded one bit.
"It's quieter. Slower."
"And how do you move?"
"Slower," John said with a wink, arms stretched straight out over Rodney's shoulders, hands clasped, and grinning.
Rodney huffed a sigh at him. "And-?"
John shrugged.
"You make smaller, gentler, 'fluffier' movements. Imagine you're dancing in whipped cream."
He felt John's slow upbeat bounce become more conscious, not just mindlessly swaying but lighter on his feet.
Rodney switched the CD back to the pounding club music.
"Hey... I liked that song."
"This is a lesson, not pleasure time," Rodney reminded him, eyes closed primly. "Now, the gay techno is—"
"—Loud. And kind of a shock to the system right now."
"—Aggressively masculine. Therefore you need stronger movements." Rodney chewed his lip, thinking how to describe this. "You know how you have to fight your way through the crowd to the bar?"
John laughed. "Yeah."
"Forceful. Like that."
Rodney backed away to the opposite side of the room and motioned to John, making cupping gestures with both hands. "Force your way through the crowd to me." He held up a forefinger. "But in time with the music."
John glanced down at the floor and back up at Rodney, as if measuring the distance. He unconsciously made loose fists, jaw clamped, muscling with a sideways motion as he swam upstream to Rodney, laboring through an invisible crowd with his shoulders.
"Good!" Much better than Rodney had expected. He'd picked up some of the melodic line with his chest, too.
"It doesn't seem any different to me."
"It's much better. Trust me."
John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes squinted in confusion.
Rodney switched back to a quieter piece, the humming synthesizers on "Sola Sistem," soft and dreamy.
"You know, that's really jarring." But he accepted Rodney's arms back around his waist.
His moves were coming easier with just a little practice. Rodney could see little catches as John over-thought it, but those would smooth away with time.
John admitted after a moment, swaying in the slow dance, "I like this much better."
"I'm learning that about you. I can't decide if it's natural laziness or if you're really a closet romantic," Rodney said. "Now tell me about this one. What kind of sex do you think it is?"
John rubbed his cheek on Rodney's shoulder, soft as a kiss. "It's the second round. Or maybe the next morning when you've got plenty of time." He changed the swaying motion, taking the lead.
"So this is light and fluffy too, eh?"
"Mmm." John answered with a languid shimmy of his hips, slow as syrup, pressing close.
That was a no. Rodney gave him an A-plus.
Mindful of John's complaint, he let the song play all the way through—which had nothing whatsoever with the fact that Rodney was enjoying himself. At the end of the song Rodney shifted to "Suffering," a sad, acoustic guitar piece with a delicate pick-up note into heavy downbeat, like someone pacing.
"Now... I want you to think about those lovers who didn't call you back."
"I'd rather not," John said, his expression darkening.
"But it's part of sex, isn't it?" Rodney told him anxiously, catching his eyes. This was important to understand. "You've got to capture nuance."
He turned John around, resting his chin on John's shoulder, to give him a chance to think. John resisted being manhandled a moment, then let Rodney clasp his arms around his waist from behind.
"I'll dance it with you."
John's head had fallen forward, mouth in a harsh frown. His body had fallen still. Rodney persisted with the scuffing step of the song. "Nobody suffers like I do... nobody else, oh no...." the song crooned.
They weren't getting anywhere. Rodney listened to the lyrics, forcing himself to stay silent. "Nobody suffers like I do... nobody else but you...."
Arms shifting into a more comfortable position, Rodney swallowed and said into John's shoulder, "I had a... a friend. I didn't know what happened to him for four years. Thought he was in the Russian gulag." He huffed a little laugh at his teenage self and some very unfortunate research. "Ah well. I was young. I could be pretty melodramatic back then." He hummed. "But that's part of it. Yearning. The whole... caring thing. It's risky."
"Yes." John's voice was deep and sincere, face in shadow. But the lines of tension softened and he seemed a little less stoic.
"So," Rodney waved away his inward curiosity at the mysteries of John's brain and stuck to the purpose at hand. "What does your body do when you think of these things?" he asked. "Not anyone else's body, mind you. Yours."
John gave a barely perceptible tilt of his head. "I just want to curl up and—"
"No, not what you want. That's thinking. What does your body do? You curl up... and-? Give me physical descriptions."
John took a breath.
"Okay. Get yourself back into the mood and watch yourself," Rodney said.
John took a moment. Rodney wondered if he'd taken to heart what he'd never told anyone about Radek, or if he was brooding on something else from his own life.
"I look at the ground. Head down. My shoulders curl forward. And my arms kind of go like this." He demonstrated, one arm over his chest, the other around to his hip, protectively. "No. Wait," he corrected himself. "My head kind of goes to the side, not just down."
"Good," Rodney said. That was a level of detail he hadn't expected. "And how do you move?"
"Slow. Kind of... stumbling?" John scrunched his face up and glanced back at Rodney. "That's kind of overdoing it, isn't it?"
"Don't judge yourself. Just go with it."
"Then my hands go out, hopeless. Like just—fuck it." He flung his hands out and let them drop.
Rodney watched him, thoughtful. "Sharp movements? So you're angry?"
"A little of that, yeah."
"That's what I mean by nuance," Rodney said. "There's sadness and heartbreak inside of sex, and anger inside of sadness."
"Huh."
"If you're telling a truth like this out there on the ice, all that nuance will just ... be there. You'll have a performance, not just disconnected motion."
"It isn't really about dancing, is it?" John said.
"No." Rodney shook his head. "It's about being true to yourself. Getting to something raw and real. If it scares you to do it, you're probably right on track."
Rodney let go and backed away a few steps, blinking rapidly. "Whew, ah. I, um, didn't mean to talk so much."
"It's fine," John said softly.
"Okay. Um. You work on that and I'll... be, um," Rodney thumbed over his shoulder, "elsewhere."
"You don't have to go." John gave him a puzzled look.
Rodney shook his head. "Ah. I think you'll find that when you hit something real you'll need a bit of 'a moment' afterward." He picked up the car keys and jingled them. "But... keep dancing."
"Every day?" John offered, looking up.
It was an outstanding sign that he was the one who had suggested it.
"Let's not make a schedule, okay? You already have a lot of that. A few times a week at least. But especially when you feel like it," Rodney said, emphasizing the weak pun. John didn't seem to catch it, his chin lifted and eyes closed.
~*~*~
After driving in aimless circles for a while, Rodney spotted a pay phone at a gas station and realized that he'd been looking for one. Parked, he strode purposefully towards it, the gas station deserted at this hour. The receiver was wet with condensation. He wiped it on his shirt, then dialed the familiar number. The sweat from dancing was cool on the back of his neck.
He called collect since there was no way he had enough change to call Europe.
Radek picked up the phone right away.
"Three-fifteen a.m. It's a new record."
"Don't even pretend you were asleep. You're a night owl that hasn't seen the dawn in years."
Radek didn't argue, which was as good as an admission.
Then Rodney, much to his own dismay, found himself at a loss for words, pinwheeling in the sudden silence. A series of absurd platitudes came to mind, discarded just as quickly as being unworthy of a three a.m. phone call. Finally, he decided to get to the point. Radek hated to waste time.
"I... I thought you were gone for good," Rodney blurted out. Then he clarified, realizing that the Radek he was speaking to was in the present, "I mean, back in 1986."
"A reasonable assumption given that I was carted off by the government."
"I worried about you."
Radek snorted. "That was foolish. There was nothing you could do."
"Yes. Well. I did."
Rodney could practically hear Radek blinking in confusion.
"All right."
~*~*~
Most of the lights were off by the time Rodney returned. He pulled in to the driveway and slid the parking brake home. He smiled with satisfaction as he noted the kitchen drapes were drawn; all signs suggested that John hadn't stopped dancing after he left. Rodney tried to picture it and realized he really couldn't. Instead, his mind conjured up images of a teenage John playing air guitar. He was still chortling as he unlocked the door.
John startled defensively, sitting up a few inches from where he was sprawled on the couch. It took Rodney a moment to process the creamy color of John's bare skin against the dark blue of the fabric, the slight curve of his hip and trail of hair leading to his steady sliding hand. Covered partially, his cock was also blush red. The color was high on John's face, a sheen of sweat where the light curved over his shoulders.
Bright, guilty, yet unrepentant eyes shone up at Rodney. "You did say 'nuance.'" John blushed. He could be surprisingly sweet under his tough exterior.
Rodney dropped his coat on the floor, clambered over the arm of the couch and up between his legs. He knocked John's hand aside, saying, "Give me that." Rodney fisted the firm length of John's cock, warm and sleek with oil, though his thigh was clammy against Rodney's cheek.
John edged back on the couch to give him room and relaxed, looking down his chest with languid eyes. His legs fell open and he let a soft grunt as Rodney swallowed him down.
~*~*~
John flipped the bill for the car storage back and forth between his fingers, paid in full circled on it. He paced the kitchen, the phone on his shoulder. The cord dragged along the floor behind him as he opened the fridge, found nothing in there he wanted, shut it, and moved on to the cabinets.
The insurance company was giving in by stages, but they had issued an ultimatum they would pay storage fees only up to a certain amount. John was pissed enough at them to make sure it cost them exactly that much (hoping it would force them to get their act together), but he wouldn't risk getting stuck with the bill. Faced with the choice of getting the car fixed -- and maybe never getting paid for it -- and paying to get it out of hock, John chose the lesser of two evils. Which meant....
"Thanks, mom," John said, edging his shoulder higher to hold the phone. He found a package of crackers which he proceeded to mangle, dripping crumbs on the counter. "I just couldn't ask... well, anyway. Thanks."
"What is family for?" she said, brushing it off. It was nothing to her, he knew. "We missed you last year," she chided, a bit of steel behind her voice.
John ran his hand through his hair, digging the heel of his sneaker into the kitchen linoleum. He looked around for an escape from this part of the conversation. "Yeah, something came up."
"This year the sectional is in Ohio, just a hop, skip and a jump away. I checked. So there's no excuse."
Visions of lectures filled John's mind. Being surrounded on all sides by family, and their opinions, right in the middle of the skating season. Why couldn't Thanksgiving be in August? "Um. You mind if Rodney comes?"
"He's a skating friend of yours?"
"He's my coach," John said. Then he started getting into it, slouched back against the window. Rodney was perfect. They'd be polite with a witness there. "And, you know, I'd hate to leave him here all alone...."
"All alone?"
"Well, we're sort of roommates now—" John stopped short, looking up, a clear light dawning in his eyes, lips parted as he realized how that sounded. He flashed on telling his mom that he had his own room – and Rodney had meant to give him the den, though John was glad he hadn't because he'd seen the den now, plus Rodney would have had to move his computer – and by the time he weighed the fact that he really didn't want to lie, against the fact that he really didn't want her to know, he knew he'd been quiet far too long.
"Johnny?"
"I've got to go."
He quickly hung up and stared at the phone.
Of course it rang right away. And the answering machine had Rodney's voice on it. John picked up the receiver and held it gingerly away from his face like an unexploded bomb. "Hello?"
It could be a telemarketer. It could happen.
"Johnny?
That's where we left off, John thought ironically. He ducked his head, biting his lip. "Yeah?"
"Are you—?"
Oh, man, he really didn't want to hear the end of that sentence. Fortunately, his mom obliged. John rubbed his eyes and didn't say anything for a long, drawn out moment.
"I knew it," she said, victorious.
John decided "knew what?" wouldn't fly at this point. He raised his chin an inch, toughing it out. "What do you mean?" he asked.
There. That was neutral. He could still salvage this.
"I always suspected."
"Is this because of my skating?" John whined, voice muffled with his face buried in his hand.
"What? No." She went on, "You were always so different from the other boys, and when you were in the womb—" Here John inwardly died. He'd heard this story a million times. "—I was convinced you were a girl. And in a way, I was right."
"Mom...."
"Plus all those skating posters. You know, there are girl skaters in this world, Johnny, and you'd think a teenage boy would have noticed."
"Mom...."
"And you took all the clothes off your G.I. Joe."
John groaned. "Can we not talk about this now?"
"I told your father that it was perfectly normal for you to be curious, that's what Dr. Spock said, though I wondered at the time—"
John tried a firmer voice. "Mom." That got her attention. He sighed and adjusted the phone closer, looking down. "Are you all right?"
"I... need a moment to catch my breath."
~*~*~
She called back an hour or so later. John sat in the darkened kitchen, the quiet family neighborhood lit by twilight outside, green with deepening gray skies, the clouds white underneath. Several kids raced by across the street, chasing each other, taking advantage of the last gasp of daylight before being forced to go home for dinner. John's voice was a low murmur, punctuated by an embarrassed chuckle every now and then while he revised ten years of history for her.
He ran his wrist over his knee nervously. Then he asked, looking up, eyes intense, "You're not disappointed in me, are you?"
"What?" she said, genuinely shocked, "No!" Then she added, half-joking, "But I hope you're not disappointed that I'm not too surprised. I'd hate to spoil your moment."
John frowned, thinking it over. "I kind of am. This is big news."
"You've never been as subtle as you think," she said.
Outside there came the distinct ringing sound of a whiffle bat and kids shouting, "Go, go, go!"
"I'll have to tell your father," she warned him.
John was just grateful that she'd tell him. "I know." His arms folded, slumped in the chair and worn out, he was surprisingly okay with it. Most likely because his dad was in another country. "Will he be as surprised as you were?" John said in a dry voice, his shirt shifting as he leaned back.
His mom took a delicate breath. "Less," she said.
"I figured."
~*~*~
The heat radiated from the empty parking lot, a rising shimmer behind John. It was cooler under the row of archways outside the rink which created a wind tunnel, sifting his hair. Light curved in half-moon shapes between overlapping shadows, a shade deeper where they crossed, sweeping over each other.
Sand scuffed under his bare feet where he paced out three steps, and turned. The cord of the headphones dangled and Rodney's CD player felt like a gun on his hip. Lifting his arms tentatively, John licked his lips, chewed his lower lip and tried to find the bass beat with the swing of his shoulders.
He stopped, shook his head, his teeth white as he laughed at himself. He bent down and clicked to the next song, blinking up at the sky.
Shifting his weight self-consciously, John rocked from side to side to the drumming repetition of the club mix. He deepened the motion, eyes shut. His forehead creased for a moment as he forced that internal voice, John, you're making an idiot of yourself, into silence. He focused, a hand to his lips—he made it drop—and deliberately shelved the steps of his programs, breathing in the music instead. His shoulders relaxed, head lifted. Light was gold against his eyelids while he let his hips move, shadows shifting as he turned.
Tons of music this time:
New York City Boy – Thunderpuss cover of Pet Shop Boys
Here Comes The Mayo - Molotov
Dive in the Pool – Barry Lewis feat. Pepper Mashay
Sola Sistim – Underworld
Straight to Number One – Touch & Go
Suffering – Jay-Jay Johanson
Break 4 Love – Pet Shop Boys
[Previous][Next]
sgabigbang. I hope? This part has been burning a hole in my pocket because it contains two of my favorite scenes. Would you like 7,415 words of Out Of Bounds today? You can get caught up here: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: John stopped, shook his head, his teeth white as he laughed at himself. He bent down and clicked to the next song, blinking up at the sky.
A/N: Thank you to my intrepid and hard-working betas,
dossier and rabidfan, who've been as excited about this part as I've been. A bow to kung-fu master, enname. Previously in Out Of Bounds: Known more for his jumps than his artistry, figure skater John Sheppard hires ex-skating champion and "artiste" Rodney McKay to be his coach. Their teasing friendship warms into something more. Following a serious injury, John moves in with Rodney -- temporarily -- to train full time. John has a real choreographer now, Rodney's former skating partner, Sonja, but to everyone's frustration he's the same old John.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
The window of a white Honda hatchback rolled down and the driver whistled at a flagging cyclist, calling out over the thrum of the engine, "Hey, pretty boy! Going my way?"
John glanced up with a start and flash of irritation, then broke into a smile when he recognized Rodney. He pushed his helmet higher to take a look. The car rolled to stop. John stood over his bike. "Hey... it runs." John grinned.
"Turns out you were right about the water pump, although there were a few other things besides—like all four tires needed replacing, and boy, did your mechanic gave me an earful about bent rims," Rodney shouted, one arm stretched across the back of the seat. "Anyhow, you want a ride?" He patted the headrest.
John was tempted but shook his head. "Nah. It's only a few more blocks and—" He indicated the bike. "—the spokes might rip up the upholstery. Hate to damage your new ride."
"Okay, suit yourself. I'll see you when you get there, slowpoke." Rodney gave him a smug smile and waved as he pulled away. He slowed lazily for the stop sign, his turn signal on.
Oh, Rodney thought he'd make it home first, did he? John stood on his pedals and took a sharp turn into the unpaved alley. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rodney's head jolt up, catching him in the rear view mirror—and he gunned his engine.
The bike rattled as John curved between ruts, wheels hissing on sand – he cut through a section of grass – and swerved diagonally across the Weaver's driveway. Pumping, rising up to bend forward over the handlebars, John shot a quick look over his shoulder as he hit blacktop. Through the trees a little white hatchback zoomed and then lurched to a stop at the traffic light. Straining, John put on a burst of speed, the wind picking up.
He raced on the dirt trail through the park, past teeter-totters and swing sets, dodging around a startled couple and their dog who stepped off the path. He skidded over woodchips where the trail opened up onto the road, then swept across the street, up and onto the neighbor's sidewalk, his shoulder high, ducking as pine branches whipped his face. He stood off the seat and bounced over the single step, rolling down their neighbor's drive.
Rodney's Honda swerved into the driveway just in front of him, clipping the mailbox. Swearing, John pedaled harder. He dropped the bike in the front yard, jumped off, disentangling himself. He hit the grass at a dead run as Rodney struggled with his seatbelt and fumbled his door open. John launched up the front steps, only to feel a strong hand grab his shoulder, yank him back and shove him into the railing. With a surprised laugh, John caught his balance and tackled Rodney's legs on the top step. He landed on Rodney with a grunt and they went down in sprawl over the front porch. John's chin hit wood, getting a face full of splinters, while Rodney's car keys skittered with a jingle before they fell through a slot in the boards, silenced.
Out of breath, coughing and gasping, they rolled to their backs. They lay there for several minutes, chests heaving with laughter, unable to stop.
"Brute force," Rodney gasped, when they could finally speak again. "That is so like you."
"Oh, who started that?" John laughed.
"You're going to fetch those keys," Rodney insisted. He barely moved, managing only a little flicking wave before letting his hand drop to his forehead.
"No, I'm not," John assured him. He rolled his head to the side. "But thanks for breaking my fall."
"I think I'm going to need a chiropractor," Rodney moaned, but he was beaming.
The music suddenly cut off in the middle of the last footwork sequence as John ran through his entire long program. He finished it anyway, feeling pretty good. It was tough but, John nodded to himself as he pushed across the ice, he'd gotten it down. He edged his hip towards Rodney and Sonja, sliding to a stop.
"Well, that was a little rough around the edges," John began in all modesty, smiling with his hands in his pockets, "but I'd say—"
"I think that entire section needs to be earlier," Sonja mused aloud to Rodney, tapping her lower lip with a long fingernail. She flipped around to John. "You're good at that jump, yes?"
"Usually," John said, not sure if she meant the quad toe or the triple axel.
"Then we should have it right in front of the judges...." She turned and picked up a clipboard with graph paper, paging through the sheets. She tucked her hair behind her ears and folded them over. "Here. We'll have to change the transition, of course."
John leaned over and tried to make out her squiggles. No dice. "You'd have to change a lot more than that."
"And this spin is boring. I don't like it. We'll take it out completely." She started erasing feverishly.
"I just got that down...." John complained, but she held up her hand forcefully for silence.
Finally, she brushed eraser rubbings off the page and straightened. "Yes, that will be much nicer."
Rodney watched over her shoulder in fascination, although John narrowed his eyes at him, looking for the tell-tale confusion that showed he couldn't follow it either. But Rodney simply rubbed his chin and said, "Hmm."
Sonja pulled the door to the ice open, stepping on. "It will be like this," she began, knee raised, her asymmetrical gauzy skirt fluttering behind her. She crooked a finger at John. "Come."
John tried to follow her new pattern, but it was just close enough to the old one that he had to check himself at every turn, slowing and losing the beat.
"You'll get it," she declared with a clenched smile.
"I got it the last time," John insisted.
She made several more radical changes before waving goodbye, throwing John a kiss and telling him he was doing marvelous. John scowled at her disappearing form.
"Rodney," he said in an undertone through gritted teeth, "She's driving me insane. I get it down—and then she changes it."
"She's great, isn't she?" Rodney beamed. "The timing's been honed like the edge of a knife."
"I haven't practiced the same program two weeks in a row!"
"Any program's going to need a few refinements," Rodney pointed out.
"Refinements? It's unrecognizable!"
"It's clear that you have never worked with a professional choreographer before," Rodney said with a superior gaze. "My Firebird Suite program took weeks to design," he assured him. "In fact, we were still making changes up until the day I left for the Olympics."
At John's shocked expression, Rodney laid a hand on his shoulder. "Get it down in sections, try not to think of it as a complete piece yet—and get into the music behind the program. Then all the changes will make sense."
A day later, Rodney glanced around the new age juice bar, wincing in irritation. Behind him an industrial blender whirred and a woman ordered a "Wheat grass, grande" like it was some sort of latte. Rodney recoiled in mute horror and hunched his shoulders around his overpriced "Mango Tango, tall." No doubt Sonja had chosen this fun house because she knew he would hate it. She plunked down on the stool next to him, holding a large cup of some sort of green and orange slime.
"It's healthy," Sonja said at his appalled stare, taking a long sip from her straw. It oozed up in chunks. She was doing her Jackie Onasis impression today, complete with cropped Chanel jacket and oversized pearls.
Rodney peered at his mango drink warily and hoped that it didn't ooze as well. "When I was growing up, juice came frozen in a can."
"Barbaric," she said, sipping more ooze.
"I know a kid in second grade who was dared to eat a frog, and when he threw up, it looked a lot like that." Rodney used his straw to point at her slime shake.
"You will not successfully disgust me," she said, her eyes steady, making a noise with her straw as a chunk caught.
"Yes, well, I've managed to disgust me," Rodney said mournfully, pushing away his Mango Tango. It was slimy, probably much like the guts of that....
Sonja sipped her drink with a displeased little frown and she looked at Rodney through beady narrowed eyes.
"So. How are we doing?" Rodney opened with a small smile, partially to escape this overpriced hippie haven, and partially because he was genuinely curious why she wanted to meet away from the rink.
"My choreography is excellent," she said with an unshakeable confidence that Rodney couldn't argue with.
He nodded agreement. "Highly original, which in the skating world is the ultimate praise."
She leaned her chin on a tiny little fist. "It is a wasted effort."
Rodney blinked as her frown deepened into a scowl.
"I give John Art and he turns it into shit," she said with a dramatic gesture.
"You choreograph for sixteen year olds," Rodney fired back.
"I would rather choreograph for a baby with some artistic sense than this." She hunched on her stool. "I tell him to duck low, stay low, like he is hiding, and then to spring!" She spread both hands. "Up! Like he has been caught." Rodney squirmed. He knew the part she was talking about and had the same complaint. "What does he do? He bends low, watches for the jump, does the transition and then he jumps—like he has been planning it the whole time." She let her hand fall to her knee with a slap. "It is all wrong," she said in disgust.
Rodney shifted on the stool, his face scrunched as he explained to her, "Well, it takes time for any skater to get into the emotion behind the program. First they have to get the technical aspects down. And... these are more changes than he's used to." Rodney flinched, knowing that wouldn't impress her.
"He is an elite skater. Senior level. For ten years." Sonja shook her head. "It should come quickly. And this, this that I'm showing him now? This part is not hard."
Rodney wrung his hands, wincing at her. "The artistic scores are what we're working on."
Leaning on her elbows she ducked her head, clutching at her blond hair. "He's going to make me look like a fool." She straightened with a huff of breath. "I will finish this long program for you, Rodney, because I love you and you are my friend. But I am never again doing this. He is destroying my work. Even worse," she added, "he is destroying my best work."
John walked past the windows with a faint zapping rasp as the electric hedge trimmers took off another swathe of branches. Rodney couldn't see the point of organizing nature –
square hedges were a sign of man's delusion that he'd conquered the outdoors, while dandelions were proof positive that it was impossible – but since he'd allowed John to tackle the lawn he'd heard fewer complaints from the neighbors, so it was all to the good.
Rodney dragged the phone into the bedroom and paced impatiently until Radek finally picked up.
"Hello?"
"I don't tell him that I'm better than him," Rodney announced defensively. "I tell him that I'm better than everyone! That's different!"
They wasted a minute for Radek to get over the novelty of Rodney calling him during waking hours. Then it took them several minutes to bring Radek up to speed and remind him of their last conversation (which Radek insisted had been over a month ago but it had been only three weeks at most). They recapped Radek's unfair accusation that Rodney had somehow crushed John's spirit.
"I merely suggested that there must be a reason for him to imitate you," Radek said with an impatient sigh.
"Well, he needs to do a better job of it, because Sonja's just about ready to throw in the towel," Rodney said.
"Pfft. Sonja."
"You two never did hit it off, did you?" Rodney recalled.
"She said I looked better with my clothes on," Radek complained.
"She meant it as a compliment," Rodney said off-handedly.
"Sonja can keep her opinions to herself."
"That's true." Rodney put his fist on his hip, looking around the room. The zapping sound increased as John started on the shrubs in the backyard. "Thank you, Radek, that's a very good point. I mean, who's the coach here anyhow?"
"What?"
Rodney stabbed a finger in the air. "She may be the one with Olympic gold on her wall, but I have a decade of experience coaching."
"Now hear me out," Rodney announced the following Friday. John gave him a mulish stare, while Sonja had that indulgent smile that said she was humoring him.
"I've given it some thought, and I think it's not too late to change our choice of music," Rodney said. "'Mission: Impossible' would be perfect for the long program." He enumerated his points on his hand. "It suits John's style without being ludicrously difficult. It's a crowd pleaser—which will solve half our problem right there, since when the crowd's into the program your artistic marks go up automatically. And then the whole 'Impossible' angle will be a wink to the judges about John's record. They'll eat it up."
John's arms were folded. "So you're saying we dump the last six weeks worth of work?"
"Exactly!" Rodney nodded. "You weren't getting it anyway! Why don't we save the ground-breaking choreography for the ground-breaking figure skaters?"
"Can I choreograph you?" Sonja asked.
"What? I'm not—no!" Rodney licked his lips. "Look, we need to go with what will work."
"So that whole song and dance about me picking my own music and having a say in my own program only holds true till you don't like my choices." John scowled at him.
"No, no, no! It's just that it's obviously not working out—"
"Oh, I get it all right," John said with false cheer. He skated off across the rink until he hit the doors on the opposite side. There he snapped on his skate guards and stalked out to the coke machines.
Rodney desperately turned to Sonja for support.
She threw up her hands and shrugged, philosophical about it. "He is not going to win anyway. Let him have his fun."
Then she glanced at her watch. "We end early tonight, yes?" She followed John's tracks across the ice, taking off her skates and replacing them with four-inch heels. "It will be a short season," she called out to Rodney, as if that were some sort of reassurance. The elevator doors shut behind her.
"Am I the only person who cares if he wins?" Rodney asked the empty stadium.
Saturday all the lights in the house were on with the dimmer switches turned down low. Rodney had soft romantic music on, a gentle rocking rhythm. He was still shouldering the coffee table back against the fireplace when John came in.
"Ah. It's about time you got home," Rodney said. He dusted off his hands and beamed a smile at him. "I thought we'd try something tonight."
John shook his windbreaker off one arm and glanced around in evident bemusement.
"Should I be worried?" John tossed the windbreaker onto a hook and loped into the living room.
"Call it a work night," Rodney said. "I'm feeling particularly brilliant this evening. Which is not to say that I'm not always brilliant," he assured John with a small sweeping gesture with his hand, mimicking a bird taking flight, "but there are certain times that the stars line up and you just know you're going to shine."
"Fortune smiles on us all," John said dryly, hands on his hips, head tilted at Rodney.
"Doesn't it?" Rodney's smile spread into grin that was probably a little goofy. Then he snapped his fingers at John. He wasn't with the program yet. Sometimes it frustrated Rodney, when he was galloping leaps and bounds ahead of the rest of the world, to have to turn back and explain everything. "Take off your shirt."
"Oh, this is a naked brilliant idea," John said, seeming more on board.
"No. It's just that your shirt is garish and it's distracting me."
John pouted down at the well-worn plaid, plucking at it. Rodney could never understand his tendency to get attached to shabby inanimate objects. Exhibit A: his car.
"Come, Come." Rodney urged him with a hand-spinning motion. There was a rebellious pause as John met his eyes, but slowly the shirt slid off his shoulders, John looking doubtful but interested. And horny.
Perfect.
Rodney helped hurry him along with the shirt, saying as he fussed with it, "So. You know already how to create an abstract idea in skating... James Bond, that sort of thing...."
"This is a skating lesson?" John sounded disappointed.
"Yes. Of course it is," Rodney said impatiently. People were always very slow on the uptake when he was on one of his streaks, although to be fair it was mostly in comparison to his own intellect and creative acumen. He hooked John's arm with his own and drew him into the center of the living room. "Just run with it, please."
"Please" usually worked to silence the initial objections of the ignorant, Rodney had found.
John pulled off his T-shirt, too, and stood bare-chested in the little clear area Rodney had created, his skin pebbling. Rodney had thought to turn the heat up but it had slipped his mind. That shouldn't matter in a moment, however. He turned up Thunderpuss' thumping cover of "New York City Boys."
"I like this song," John said.
"Yes, yes, I know, that's why it's playing." Rodney spread his hands, forestalling further inane commentary. "So. Right now you know how to create an abstract concept, a visual image that has certain associations for your audience – such as James Bond." John nodded, his lips pursed. He folded his arms over his chest. Not the most receptive posture but perhaps he was just cold. Rodney made a chopping gesture with both hands, like an elevator going down. "You need to go a level or two deeper than that. Delve into the emotions. Movement and emotion, of course they're not separate," Rodney said on a chuckle at that perfectly obvious statement.
John gave him a strange look, one eye cocked at Rodney. All right, not perfectly obvious to everyone. But John, although halfway intelligent, was more physical than intellectual in his approach to problems, so Rodney barreled ahead.
"We'll start with something you're good at—as I can attest to from extensive personal experience." Rodney smirked. "Sex."
John's eyebrows raised. "You should charge more for your lessons."
"Ha, ha. You know, valuable insights are being wasted here while you indulge your puerile sense of humor," Rodney snapped.
"Sorry, Rodney. Sex. Movement." John smiled as if he were indulging Rodney. "I'm all ears."
"Good." Rodney led John by the elbow to the CD player. "Now. There are different types of sex, of course. Thus, our soundtrack for this evening." He waved a hand to the stereo. Picking up the remote he switched to a different song. Bouncy Hispanic rap by Molotov began, chanting "Here comes the mayo...."
"I like this song, too," John noted.
"Again, chosen for just that reason." Rodney's eyelashes fluttered in frustration as John insisted on missing the point. "So. Pop quiz. What kind of sex is embodied in this song?"
John tipped his head, considering.
He was a difficult student. He actually learned with his body but he was stubborn, even if he didn't want to be, forcing Rodney to convince his mind first. It was like he had to pre-set John into learning mode.
"It's kind of, you know ... threesomes, teenage experimentation, that sort of thing. Doing wild, stupid stuff. It's rave music."
Rodney bobbed his head, bouncing to the beat a little, agreeing. John was finally on the on-ramp to the McKay superhighway. "How about this?" He pointed the remote at the CD player and song clicked over to thumping gay nightclub classic, "Dive in the Pool." "What's different about this one?"
John moved his chin back and forth in time with it. He rubbed his lower lip with his forefinger and said, shrugging, "It's louder." Rodney nodded eagerly so he continued, "Older, smarter. You know better what you're doing and what you want. It's still multi-partner, casual sex. Where you get in, get what you want, and get out."
Which sounded appealing. Not that Rodney regretted his relationships; it was just that they'd been so few and far between. He sighed, wistful. "Hmm. I never really did much of that."
"What happened to your parade of international stardom way back when?"
"Oh, it was mostly only one person. I suppose I'm monogamous by nature."
John snorted at the admission. "Yeah, no surprises there."
"What?" Rodney realized he might have lost some cool points with John who had apparently done a lot of that sort of thing.
"No," John said. "I mean, you've lived in the same house for ten years. In your twenties. Most people don't even stick with the same apartment."
"Hey. I could have had countless people through here!"
"But you didn't," John pointed at him, accusingly, Rodney thought. "Look. You seem kind of ... single-minded, and you don't like change much." They both cringed away from the standing minefield of John and cleaning. "I'm just saying that you don't strike me as the type who wants to wake up with someone different every week."
"Is that how it works? One a week?" Rodney asked, bewildered, going eyes wide as he took in the fact that he was currently with the type of guy who'd slept with someone new every week. Wouldn't that get him used to infinite variety? Would he get bored? He looked John up and down, but John for his part just seemed tense.
"Sometimes every couple of days." John dug his toe at the carpet, studying the floor. "Sometimes you strike out a lot, or what's available isn't worth the work involved."
Rodney breathed easier. He'd tried that kind of life himself but mostly he'd struck out. Good that John had as well.
"Sometimes it ... really sucks."
"Oh?" Rodney perked up with prurient curiosity.
John studied him a moment. Then said in a measured tone, "If you don't like someone you're rid of them fast, I guess. But if you do like them...." He shrugged it off. "That's not what they're in it for, it's no big deal if they don't call you back." John grimaced and looked away. "I got out of that world pretty fast. Wasn't my thing."
"Hmm," Rodney said. And realized they were far off-topic. Though he made a mental note of "not my thing" and put it in a silver box, stowed deep in his memory.
He clicked to another song, a slow tremulous trumpet, jazzy and sensual, "Straight to Number One." John listened and didn't even need to prompted, causing Rodney to fold his arms and beam at him in pride. "Okay," John pointed at the stereo. "Now that's very personal. It's sex, but one on one."
"And what's different about it?"
John's mouth quirked to the side in his smart-ass expression. "A woman sings it."
"Ah." Rodney raised a finger, smiling. "But she's not singing, is she?"
"She's whispering," John said, getting it, and on board with the program.
"Now don't tell me about it. Show me."
John squinted at him, clearly puzzled and curious. Mystified, not that he would admit it.
"Let's go back to the queer anthem, shall we?" Rodney returned to the thumping club music and turned it up loud. "Now. Show me this song."
John winced and hesitated.
"Oh, come on. Everyone knows this song. No one cares how you dance to it." Rodney licked his lips and began again, hand in a placating gesture. "All right. Tell me about this song first, then."
"Ah.... It's loud. Fun." John's head dipped, seeming to recognize how silly it was to describe a song rather than dance to it. "People do a conga line. Had a guy practically rub himself off on me all around a club one time...." John's expression froze as his words trailed off, like it had belatedly occurred to him that Rodney might not appreciate that little tidbit. So he'd noticed Rodney's worries earlier. Rodney gave his silver box a mental pat; "not my thing" was still there, warming him.
Although apparently he'd have to demonstrate before John would deign to move his body. Rodney took a moment to roll his eyes and silently berate the whole of white Anglo-Saxon culture that made little boys sit still in church pews and the like, thus needlessly complicating his job. Few of his black students had this problem. Rodney raised his arms and bounced. "Experiment. It doesn't matter how it looks."
The singer shouted "Let's get soaking wet!" and Rodney turned it up still louder. He led a trail around the couch, declaring, "I'm not even watching you! Grab my hips if you want. That's the benefit of a conga line."
He glanced back, unable to resist. John had let his shoulders bounce to the music, watching Rodney with a sparkle of amusement. But then he slowed, so Rodney studiously kept his eyes forward. He felt John's hands come to rest on his hips.
Rodney asked at the end of the song, breathing hard, "Better?"
He didn't wait for an answer but switched back to the slow techno-jazz of "Straight to Number One." He set down the remote and turned to face John, swaying with him, hand cupped around his hip. It was a simple rhythm in 2/4 time, with a light pick-up and emphasis on the upbeat in the repeating phrase, the bass drum imitating a heartbeat. Very easy to swing back and forth like teenagers at the senior prom. That, however appealing, was not the goal.
Rodney murmured in John's ear, "So how would this be different from the other piece?" John's hair was warm with sweat. He smelled like after shave and sharp body odor, not that Rodney minded one bit.
"It's quieter. Slower."
"And how do you move?"
"Slower," John said with a wink, arms stretched straight out over Rodney's shoulders, hands clasped, and grinning.
Rodney huffed a sigh at him. "And-?"
John shrugged.
"You make smaller, gentler, 'fluffier' movements. Imagine you're dancing in whipped cream."
He felt John's slow upbeat bounce become more conscious, not just mindlessly swaying but lighter on his feet.
Rodney switched the CD back to the pounding club music.
"Hey... I liked that song."
"This is a lesson, not pleasure time," Rodney reminded him, eyes closed primly. "Now, the gay techno is—"
"—Loud. And kind of a shock to the system right now."
"—Aggressively masculine. Therefore you need stronger movements." Rodney chewed his lip, thinking how to describe this. "You know how you have to fight your way through the crowd to the bar?"
John laughed. "Yeah."
"Forceful. Like that."
Rodney backed away to the opposite side of the room and motioned to John, making cupping gestures with both hands. "Force your way through the crowd to me." He held up a forefinger. "But in time with the music."
John glanced down at the floor and back up at Rodney, as if measuring the distance. He unconsciously made loose fists, jaw clamped, muscling with a sideways motion as he swam upstream to Rodney, laboring through an invisible crowd with his shoulders.
"Good!" Much better than Rodney had expected. He'd picked up some of the melodic line with his chest, too.
"It doesn't seem any different to me."
"It's much better. Trust me."
John rubbed the back of his neck, eyes squinted in confusion.
Rodney switched back to a quieter piece, the humming synthesizers on "Sola Sistem," soft and dreamy.
"You know, that's really jarring." But he accepted Rodney's arms back around his waist.
His moves were coming easier with just a little practice. Rodney could see little catches as John over-thought it, but those would smooth away with time.
John admitted after a moment, swaying in the slow dance, "I like this much better."
"I'm learning that about you. I can't decide if it's natural laziness or if you're really a closet romantic," Rodney said. "Now tell me about this one. What kind of sex do you think it is?"
John rubbed his cheek on Rodney's shoulder, soft as a kiss. "It's the second round. Or maybe the next morning when you've got plenty of time." He changed the swaying motion, taking the lead.
"So this is light and fluffy too, eh?"
"Mmm." John answered with a languid shimmy of his hips, slow as syrup, pressing close.
That was a no. Rodney gave him an A-plus.
Mindful of John's complaint, he let the song play all the way through—which had nothing whatsoever with the fact that Rodney was enjoying himself. At the end of the song Rodney shifted to "Suffering," a sad, acoustic guitar piece with a delicate pick-up note into heavy downbeat, like someone pacing.
"Now... I want you to think about those lovers who didn't call you back."
"I'd rather not," John said, his expression darkening.
"But it's part of sex, isn't it?" Rodney told him anxiously, catching his eyes. This was important to understand. "You've got to capture nuance."
He turned John around, resting his chin on John's shoulder, to give him a chance to think. John resisted being manhandled a moment, then let Rodney clasp his arms around his waist from behind.
"I'll dance it with you."
John's head had fallen forward, mouth in a harsh frown. His body had fallen still. Rodney persisted with the scuffing step of the song. "Nobody suffers like I do... nobody else, oh no...." the song crooned.
They weren't getting anywhere. Rodney listened to the lyrics, forcing himself to stay silent. "Nobody suffers like I do... nobody else but you...."
Arms shifting into a more comfortable position, Rodney swallowed and said into John's shoulder, "I had a... a friend. I didn't know what happened to him for four years. Thought he was in the Russian gulag." He huffed a little laugh at his teenage self and some very unfortunate research. "Ah well. I was young. I could be pretty melodramatic back then." He hummed. "But that's part of it. Yearning. The whole... caring thing. It's risky."
"Yes." John's voice was deep and sincere, face in shadow. But the lines of tension softened and he seemed a little less stoic.
"So," Rodney waved away his inward curiosity at the mysteries of John's brain and stuck to the purpose at hand. "What does your body do when you think of these things?" he asked. "Not anyone else's body, mind you. Yours."
John gave a barely perceptible tilt of his head. "I just want to curl up and—"
"No, not what you want. That's thinking. What does your body do? You curl up... and-? Give me physical descriptions."
John took a breath.
"Okay. Get yourself back into the mood and watch yourself," Rodney said.
John took a moment. Rodney wondered if he'd taken to heart what he'd never told anyone about Radek, or if he was brooding on something else from his own life.
"I look at the ground. Head down. My shoulders curl forward. And my arms kind of go like this." He demonstrated, one arm over his chest, the other around to his hip, protectively. "No. Wait," he corrected himself. "My head kind of goes to the side, not just down."
"Good," Rodney said. That was a level of detail he hadn't expected. "And how do you move?"
"Slow. Kind of... stumbling?" John scrunched his face up and glanced back at Rodney. "That's kind of overdoing it, isn't it?"
"Don't judge yourself. Just go with it."
"Then my hands go out, hopeless. Like just—fuck it." He flung his hands out and let them drop.
Rodney watched him, thoughtful. "Sharp movements? So you're angry?"
"A little of that, yeah."
"That's what I mean by nuance," Rodney said. "There's sadness and heartbreak inside of sex, and anger inside of sadness."
"Huh."
"If you're telling a truth like this out there on the ice, all that nuance will just ... be there. You'll have a performance, not just disconnected motion."
"It isn't really about dancing, is it?" John said.
"No." Rodney shook his head. "It's about being true to yourself. Getting to something raw and real. If it scares you to do it, you're probably right on track."
Rodney let go and backed away a few steps, blinking rapidly. "Whew, ah. I, um, didn't mean to talk so much."
"It's fine," John said softly.
"Okay. Um. You work on that and I'll... be, um," Rodney thumbed over his shoulder, "elsewhere."
"You don't have to go." John gave him a puzzled look.
Rodney shook his head. "Ah. I think you'll find that when you hit something real you'll need a bit of 'a moment' afterward." He picked up the car keys and jingled them. "But... keep dancing."
"Every day?" John offered, looking up.
It was an outstanding sign that he was the one who had suggested it.
"Let's not make a schedule, okay? You already have a lot of that. A few times a week at least. But especially when you feel like it," Rodney said, emphasizing the weak pun. John didn't seem to catch it, his chin lifted and eyes closed.
After driving in aimless circles for a while, Rodney spotted a pay phone at a gas station and realized that he'd been looking for one. Parked, he strode purposefully towards it, the gas station deserted at this hour. The receiver was wet with condensation. He wiped it on his shirt, then dialed the familiar number. The sweat from dancing was cool on the back of his neck.
He called collect since there was no way he had enough change to call Europe.
Radek picked up the phone right away.
"Three-fifteen a.m. It's a new record."
"Don't even pretend you were asleep. You're a night owl that hasn't seen the dawn in years."
Radek didn't argue, which was as good as an admission.
Then Rodney, much to his own dismay, found himself at a loss for words, pinwheeling in the sudden silence. A series of absurd platitudes came to mind, discarded just as quickly as being unworthy of a three a.m. phone call. Finally, he decided to get to the point. Radek hated to waste time.
"I... I thought you were gone for good," Rodney blurted out. Then he clarified, realizing that the Radek he was speaking to was in the present, "I mean, back in 1986."
"A reasonable assumption given that I was carted off by the government."
"I worried about you."
Radek snorted. "That was foolish. There was nothing you could do."
"Yes. Well. I did."
Rodney could practically hear Radek blinking in confusion.
"All right."
Most of the lights were off by the time Rodney returned. He pulled in to the driveway and slid the parking brake home. He smiled with satisfaction as he noted the kitchen drapes were drawn; all signs suggested that John hadn't stopped dancing after he left. Rodney tried to picture it and realized he really couldn't. Instead, his mind conjured up images of a teenage John playing air guitar. He was still chortling as he unlocked the door.
John startled defensively, sitting up a few inches from where he was sprawled on the couch. It took Rodney a moment to process the creamy color of John's bare skin against the dark blue of the fabric, the slight curve of his hip and trail of hair leading to his steady sliding hand. Covered partially, his cock was also blush red. The color was high on John's face, a sheen of sweat where the light curved over his shoulders.
Bright, guilty, yet unrepentant eyes shone up at Rodney. "You did say 'nuance.'" John blushed. He could be surprisingly sweet under his tough exterior.
Rodney dropped his coat on the floor, clambered over the arm of the couch and up between his legs. He knocked John's hand aside, saying, "Give me that." Rodney fisted the firm length of John's cock, warm and sleek with oil, though his thigh was clammy against Rodney's cheek.
John edged back on the couch to give him room and relaxed, looking down his chest with languid eyes. His legs fell open and he let a soft grunt as Rodney swallowed him down.
John flipped the bill for the car storage back and forth between his fingers, paid in full circled on it. He paced the kitchen, the phone on his shoulder. The cord dragged along the floor behind him as he opened the fridge, found nothing in there he wanted, shut it, and moved on to the cabinets.
The insurance company was giving in by stages, but they had issued an ultimatum they would pay storage fees only up to a certain amount. John was pissed enough at them to make sure it cost them exactly that much (hoping it would force them to get their act together), but he wouldn't risk getting stuck with the bill. Faced with the choice of getting the car fixed -- and maybe never getting paid for it -- and paying to get it out of hock, John chose the lesser of two evils. Which meant....
"Thanks, mom," John said, edging his shoulder higher to hold the phone. He found a package of crackers which he proceeded to mangle, dripping crumbs on the counter. "I just couldn't ask... well, anyway. Thanks."
"What is family for?" she said, brushing it off. It was nothing to her, he knew. "We missed you last year," she chided, a bit of steel behind her voice.
John ran his hand through his hair, digging the heel of his sneaker into the kitchen linoleum. He looked around for an escape from this part of the conversation. "Yeah, something came up."
"This year the sectional is in Ohio, just a hop, skip and a jump away. I checked. So there's no excuse."
Visions of lectures filled John's mind. Being surrounded on all sides by family, and their opinions, right in the middle of the skating season. Why couldn't Thanksgiving be in August? "Um. You mind if Rodney comes?"
"He's a skating friend of yours?"
"He's my coach," John said. Then he started getting into it, slouched back against the window. Rodney was perfect. They'd be polite with a witness there. "And, you know, I'd hate to leave him here all alone...."
"All alone?"
"Well, we're sort of roommates now—" John stopped short, looking up, a clear light dawning in his eyes, lips parted as he realized how that sounded. He flashed on telling his mom that he had his own room – and Rodney had meant to give him the den, though John was glad he hadn't because he'd seen the den now, plus Rodney would have had to move his computer – and by the time he weighed the fact that he really didn't want to lie, against the fact that he really didn't want her to know, he knew he'd been quiet far too long.
"Johnny?"
"I've got to go."
He quickly hung up and stared at the phone.
Of course it rang right away. And the answering machine had Rodney's voice on it. John picked up the receiver and held it gingerly away from his face like an unexploded bomb. "Hello?"
It could be a telemarketer. It could happen.
"Johnny?
That's where we left off, John thought ironically. He ducked his head, biting his lip. "Yeah?"
"Are you—?"
Oh, man, he really didn't want to hear the end of that sentence. Fortunately, his mom obliged. John rubbed his eyes and didn't say anything for a long, drawn out moment.
"I knew it," she said, victorious.
John decided "knew what?" wouldn't fly at this point. He raised his chin an inch, toughing it out. "What do you mean?" he asked.
There. That was neutral. He could still salvage this.
"I always suspected."
"Is this because of my skating?" John whined, voice muffled with his face buried in his hand.
"What? No." She went on, "You were always so different from the other boys, and when you were in the womb—" Here John inwardly died. He'd heard this story a million times. "—I was convinced you were a girl. And in a way, I was right."
"Mom...."
"Plus all those skating posters. You know, there are girl skaters in this world, Johnny, and you'd think a teenage boy would have noticed."
"Mom...."
"And you took all the clothes off your G.I. Joe."
John groaned. "Can we not talk about this now?"
"I told your father that it was perfectly normal for you to be curious, that's what Dr. Spock said, though I wondered at the time—"
John tried a firmer voice. "Mom." That got her attention. He sighed and adjusted the phone closer, looking down. "Are you all right?"
"I... need a moment to catch my breath."
She called back an hour or so later. John sat in the darkened kitchen, the quiet family neighborhood lit by twilight outside, green with deepening gray skies, the clouds white underneath. Several kids raced by across the street, chasing each other, taking advantage of the last gasp of daylight before being forced to go home for dinner. John's voice was a low murmur, punctuated by an embarrassed chuckle every now and then while he revised ten years of history for her.
He ran his wrist over his knee nervously. Then he asked, looking up, eyes intense, "You're not disappointed in me, are you?"
"What?" she said, genuinely shocked, "No!" Then she added, half-joking, "But I hope you're not disappointed that I'm not too surprised. I'd hate to spoil your moment."
John frowned, thinking it over. "I kind of am. This is big news."
"You've never been as subtle as you think," she said.
Outside there came the distinct ringing sound of a whiffle bat and kids shouting, "Go, go, go!"
"I'll have to tell your father," she warned him.
John was just grateful that she'd tell him. "I know." His arms folded, slumped in the chair and worn out, he was surprisingly okay with it. Most likely because his dad was in another country. "Will he be as surprised as you were?" John said in a dry voice, his shirt shifting as he leaned back.
His mom took a delicate breath. "Less," she said.
"I figured."
The heat radiated from the empty parking lot, a rising shimmer behind John. It was cooler under the row of archways outside the rink which created a wind tunnel, sifting his hair. Light curved in half-moon shapes between overlapping shadows, a shade deeper where they crossed, sweeping over each other.
Sand scuffed under his bare feet where he paced out three steps, and turned. The cord of the headphones dangled and Rodney's CD player felt like a gun on his hip. Lifting his arms tentatively, John licked his lips, chewed his lower lip and tried to find the bass beat with the swing of his shoulders.
He stopped, shook his head, his teeth white as he laughed at himself. He bent down and clicked to the next song, blinking up at the sky.
Shifting his weight self-consciously, John rocked from side to side to the drumming repetition of the club mix. He deepened the motion, eyes shut. His forehead creased for a moment as he forced that internal voice, John, you're making an idiot of yourself, into silence. He focused, a hand to his lips—he made it drop—and deliberately shelved the steps of his programs, breathing in the music instead. His shoulders relaxed, head lifted. Light was gold against his eyelids while he let his hips move, shadows shifting as he turned.
Tons of music this time:
New York City Boy – Thunderpuss cover of Pet Shop Boys
Here Comes The Mayo - Molotov
Dive in the Pool – Barry Lewis feat. Pepper Mashay
Sola Sistim – Underworld
Straight to Number One – Touch & Go
Suffering – Jay-Jay Johanson
Break 4 Love – Pet Shop Boys
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Date: 2008-08-30 06:48 am (UTC)It's been hard stitching Radek's (unexpected) story into Out Of Bounds. I'm glad it finally worked.