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icarusHow about a couple more chapters of Out Of Bounds, eh? ~3,000 words or so?
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: There were two kinds of skating. Practicing what one already knew, and, ah, playing with things one didn't do quite so well. Rodney preferred his students didn't watch him attempt the latter.
A/N: Thank you to my tireless betas,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rabidfan and roaringmice (our skating consultant ;). Welcome to the team, tingler and mariamme. You guys have been fabulous.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Each year the Hurwitzes went on vacation for the week after Christmas, as did most of Rodney's students. He catered to a clientele that "wintered" overseas (and yes, apparently it was a verb; he'd lost that argument after a Google search), or else took holiday ski trips to Taos. The hot spot in the '80s had been Puerto Vallarta. These days everyone did southern Greece.
Rodney didn't know where the Hurwitzes went. He suspected they stayed home.
Most of the other coaches took the week off as well, leaving a skeleton crew and a temp at the front desk. Rodney padded through halls still decked in red garlands of tinsel that glittered purplish blue under the fluorescent lights. Someone had stapled children's drawings to the bulletin board outside Rodney's office, blobs of red scribbles that were probably of Santa, although that took guesswork. Last year's rink schedule was still posted. The schedule was late every year and wouldn't be ready for at least another two weeks.
The Hurwitzes had forgotten to teach this year's temp how to turn on the music, and she refused to let him show her for fear it was against the rules, so the rink remained hushed. Rodney almost felt like he could scuff around in his bathrobe and slippers, sipping coffee.
Usually he used the post-Christmas holiday to take advantage of his unlimited access to the ice (an access that had seemed far more unlimited before he learned what coaching was truly like). This year he had two championship skaters. He preferred -- well, there were two kinds of skating. Practicing what one already knew, and, ah, playing with things one didn't do quite so well. He preferred his students didn't watch him attempt the latter.
Rodney gathered his bags, draped his jacket over one shoulder and shut off the lights in his office. He locked the door, testing it, then made his way to the two flights of stairs to the front lobby. The door into the lobby was heavy, so he had to hold it open with his elbow as he dragged his wheelie bag through.
He dumped everything on the floor by the window overlooking the rink. There was only one person on the ice below, the surface smooth and only cut here and there with white curling lines. He leaned his shoulder against the window the way his mother always told him not to, because the tensile strength of the safety glass far outweighed any pressure he could apply short of using power tools.
John did a gazelle-like leap into a triple. He stumbled through the landing. The Salchow was not his best jump.
John slid to a sharp halt and swung his elbows back, stretching, his chest heaving with a breath. He ran through the arm movements for his long program, standing in place. Then he began again, this time walking through a loose version of the footwork. Chin bobbing, he seemed to be imagining the steady beat of the Daiko drums.
"Do you guys have, like, only one customer?" the temp said behind him. "He's been down there all day. I'm supposed to lock up at ten o'clock," she added.
"Give him a few more minutes," Rodney said, not looking in her direction.
John had moved to center ice, his shoulders set.
"He's not even on the schedule...." she said, sounding worried. "They said everyone has to be on the schedule."
"You're aware that I sign your timecard, correct?" Rodney reminded her. She fell silent.
John winged his way around the ice, leading with his shoulder as he drilled his long program again.
~*~*~
Later in the week the temp hovered at the window overlooking the rink where Rodney had gone downstairs to fetch John, her eyes wide and strained.
"You know," Rodney informed John, his arms folded as he rocked back on his heels. "There is such a thing as over-training, not that I'm against that in principle, but I'm hungry and I want to go home, so unless you want to walk...." He held out John's jacket over the ice like a lantern.
John pushed over to the side with strong sweeping strokes and came to a slicing stop. He ran his forearm over his sweaty hair. "Yeah," he breathed. "I should probably eat."
"More off-ice training tomorrow," Rodney instructed him, handing him a towel. "Break up your schedule."
"Conditioning isn't my problem," John said, but the complaint was weak and Rodney could tell he agreed.
John ran the towel over his head, making his hair stand up in charming spikes. Less charmingly, he swabbed under his armpits and then tried to hand it back to Rodney. Ah, no.
While John sat to take off his skates the temp disappeared from the window, apparently reassured. Rodney said wistfully, "This is supposed to be my quiet season where work is steady, but calm, and I get to eat and sleep again. Between you and Bethany...."
"You love it," John said.
Rodney looked elsewhere, chin up, maintaining his dignity. But he couldn't quite control the tiny smile on his face.
~*~*~
A muddle of girls gathered in the front hall of the Hurwitz's rink, tracking in slushy footprints and zipping up snowsuits as parents offered last minute kisses and goodbyes. Everyone moved with the whisper-squeak of ski jackets. One of the moms who'd volunteered for the drive to Canadian Nationals raised her voice and her hand, turning in a circle to collect her charges. Distracted, excited girls talked and giggled all around her.
In the center of the room the regular front desk receptionist sat behind the desk, her head down and school books spread out, oblivious to the chaos. Above her someone had hung a hand-written banner that read, "Go, Bethany!" Underneath it a slimmer banner read, "Congrats, John! U.S. Divisional Champion." John studied it with some amusement. Canada had Divisionals. The U.S. had Sectionals. But it was the thought that counted.
The carpool crew had achieved some semblance of order, or at least decided they had, and John followed as they all trooped out. Rodney had vanished with Mrs. Bevington when she left to fetch her car.
The black SUV was shiny and new, steaming in the parking lot outside the rink, freshly washed and ready for the drive to Ottawa.
John was the last to climb in back. Rodney had used "helping" Mrs. Bevington get her car washed (i.e. riding along) as an excuse to claim shotgun. John adjusted his sunglasses, bent over as he looked around at seven girls ranging from about age nine to fourteen, all talking over each other. Their chatter reminded John of the bird section of a pet shop.
"You're coming with us?" Bethany almost squeaked, her eyes big. She didn't wait for an answer but moved over, patting the seat next to herself. It was by the window so John had no objection.
"Rodney insisted," John said, giving him a dry smile.
"Oh, very amusing," Rodney said from the front with no humor at all.
No, that wasn't exactly how it had gone down.
"Come on, Rodney, it's Nationals."
"It's Junior Nationals and you can't afford the distraction. You've only two weeks left."
"There is such thing as over-training," John had said with a smirk.
"That's a wild rumor."
"Rodney, I've been busting my ass for a month and I swear, if I hear 'Surf Rider' one more time, I'm going to take out a hit on the sadistic bastard who wrote it. We'll be near rinks. I can get ice time. I won't even have to break my training routine."
"And what about the drive to Ottawa?" Rodney had said it like he was laying down his trump card.
"It's only a few hours hours."
"That's what they said on Gilligan's Island."
"What?"
Rodney had shaken his head. "You'll be exhausted, you'll lose too much time. Forget it."
Yeah, Rodney probably shouldn't have used the long drive as his reason to nix John going, not with Mrs. Bevington standing right behind them. She was only too happy to offer a ride. John had accepted with a wide smile and Rodney's spluttering complaints that it would disrupt his training schedule -- "No, absolutely not!" -- had fallen on deaf ears.
Mrs. Bevington gathered her coat around her plump form and climbed up into the driver's seat, rocking a little as she sat down. She rested her hand on the steering wheel like a bus driver and looked back in the rearview mirror. "Everyone have their seat belts on?"
"Mr. McKay doesn't!" one of the girls gleefully pointed out, to squeals of laughter from the others.
Rodney gave her his patented death glare. Then he gave in and buckled up with a heavy sigh. "I was going to do it in a minute...."
John didn't have his belt on either, but none of the girls turned him in, clearly playing favorites here. He gave them with a smile.
"John, do you know this one?" a skinny kid with glasses chirped. "One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer!" she began, and the other girls joined in around him. "Take one down, pass it around, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall--!"
As the SUV rolled forward, Rodney used the visor mirror to look at John, his smile entirely too smug.
~*~*~
John stood in front of the urinal at a fast food joint, feet planted. It always took him extra second to relax in public restrooms. Too many associations. Rodney swung the door open, then set an extra large coffee on the sink and took the urinal next to his.
"Still alive?" Rodney asked.
"I think I've learned more about Daniella's sub-par spins than I ever wanted to." After about an hour, John's silence had effectively rendered him invisible. His ears still rang from the girl who couldn't tell the difference between an indoor and outdoor voice. "Whoever the heck Daniella is."
"Hmm, yes. She made a tactical error not riding with us," Rodney said. The warm chemical smell of urine and urinal cakes filled the room.
"She's their friend?" John turned slightly, splashing over the edge. Oh well, public restrooms, what were you going to do?
"Yep." Rodney tucked himself in and zipped up. "The only thing more vicious than a bunch of twelve-year-old girls is thirteen-year-olds." He sighed rather wistfully. "And they were so nice when they were ten."
"How much farther to Ottawa?" John pleaded.
"Another hour, hour and a half?"
"God."
~*~*~
There was a scampering and pounding of footsteps down the hall outside the hotel room, with a noise like howling Indians. When John poked his head around the door he was greeted with a shrill squeak. He caught a flash of pink diving into a nearby room.
"He saw me, he saw me in my pajamas!" The squeal was followed by bubbling laughter.
John rolled his eyes and shut the door.
Moments later there came a knock, followed by Rodney's voice, "Go to bed, you, you hellions! Don't you realize there's a competition tomorrow?" With a huff of disgust he stepped inside. "Had enough yet? Because I have." He tossed his key card on the desk.
"I'm being flashed," John said with a sardonic half smile. "So far it's just pajamas, but I think I'll stay in here before it degenerates."
There was another scamper and giggle past the door. Rodney swung it open. Yep. Flowered underwear and an undershirt. "All right, that's it! Some of us have to sleep around here!"
"Mr. McKay saw me!"
"Ewwwww!"
"Don't you brats have a curfew?!" Rodney stormed.
"Rodney, it's eight o'clock. Let their moms handle this." John pulled him away from the door and closed it. Firmly. "Hotels are exciting places for kids."
"Yes, I remember!" Rodney paused, considering with a blink as his expression completely changed, his mind visibly catching up with his words. "Oh. Yes. Hmm. Come to think of it, I always was a little wound up before a competition."
"There you go," John said, half-sarcastic.
He stretched out on one of the beds with a comfortable sigh. Rodney dug through his suitcase, spreading clothes out on the other bed. Making a mess, John thought.
"I remember one year...." John began with a distant, naughty smile. "... there was this ice storm that knocked out all the power in the suburbs. So we had to go to a Holiday Inn for a few days. My mom made my dad watch me—which was perfect, because dad paid about as much attention to me as you would a fly." John ran his knuckle across his lips. "They had a swimming pool. Well, we hadn't brought any swimsuits but dad let me swim in a pair of boxers."
"How old were you?" Rodney climbed onto the bed, laying on his stomach.
"Oh, I dunno. Junior high, I guess. It was before I was competing, I know that much."
"Huh. You must have been a cute teenager."
"Nah. I was skinny and the second-shortest kid in the class." John made a face. "Anyway, there I was, swimming around in my underwear when this other kid shows up, about a year older than me. He's tallish, starting to get a little built through the chest; skinny arms. We start playing, like kids do, doing cannonballs and jumping off the diving board, you know—instant friends, just add toys.
"After about an hour, we get tired and hang out under the diving board where no one can see us. Oh, and he's Mr. Big Man On Campus. We end up whispering about sex, girls, guys, everything under the sun. And he knows it all."
"What was his name?"
"I don't remember. But my dad was maybe ten feet away reading the paper. I got nervous that he might hear us and kept checking over the edge of the pool." John leaned up, his elbow denting the pillow. "Well, there's this shower where you rinse off the chlorine, so I took us over there because I was pretty interested in what the kid had to say."
"I'll bet."
"Only he had other ideas. We get around the corner in the shower—there's no one else around—and he asks me if I want to lick his butt."
Rodney snorted.
"And I ask, 'lick your butt cheek?' And he says, 'No, stupid, in the hole,' And I tell him, 'Gross!'"
Rodney laughed.
"Of course, I'm still walking with him, right? And he's all, 'No, no, it feels good, you'll like it.' Then he asks if I want to suck his dick, and all I could think was, 'Um, the floor's kind of cold.' Finally he asks if he can fuck my ass. And I said okay."
"No cold floor," Rodney said matter-of-factly.
John pointed his forefinger, lounging back on the bed. "Exactly."
"Very practical."
"I thought so. Now. Being smart teenagers, we think it through. We turn on the shower full blast to hide any noise, and we decide to just pull our pants down part-way in case we have to make a run for it. He has me bend over and hold one of those towel bars—and then he slams it in."
"Wait. What did you use for lube?"
"Nothing." John crinkled his eyes, grinning.
Rodney winced, breath hissing through his teeth. "Oh, that must have—"
"Hurt like you wouldn't believe." John nodded, still grinning. "I manage to not yell, because I'm more paranoid about my dad coming in than anything in the world at that moment. I'm sitting on my hands on the floor, and he's all over me going, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!' And that's when I figured he probably didn't know as much as he said he did."
"Surprise, surprise."
"We were going to try again...."
"You're kidding me."
"Some people never learn." John laughed. "But it sounded like someone was coming so we ran for the bathroom stalls, me trying to pull my pants up, which were cotton and soaking wet. By that point we were too freaked to do anything else. So we took showers to make our alibi complete ... and I get a look at myself in the mirror."
John shook his head. "Rodney. It was the wet T-shirt contest of boxer shorts. You could see everything. Size, length, the shape of my ball sac, even a little color. I wrapped a towel around my waist and was ready to kill my dad. Though looking back, I'm sure he didn't notice either."
"You were walking porn."
John snickered. "I jumped on that kid practically buck naked for over an hour."
"So what happened after that?"
"Oh, we got Doritos from the vending machine -- I got some clothes -- and then we walked around the hotel. It was all one big adventure to us. Never got the nerve up to try again though."
Rodney was beaming at him. "So was that your first time?"
"I don't know. If it counts, then sure, I guess so." John rolled to his side, eyeing Rodney with a smirk. "What about you?"
"Oh, that was Radek. During the Olympics."
John sat up, hooking his elbow over his knee. "I know the first guy you ever slept with?"
"Okay, so I was seventeen! I was a late bloomer! I led a very sheltered life and then was abruptly ... unsheltered. My dad usually went to these things and, yes, fine, he had six weeks paid vacation per year but not even he couldn't take a solid month off for the Olympics."
John's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "You still call the first guy you ever slept with?"
"Um. Yes?"
"That's intense, Rodney."
[Previous][Next]
The story in one file up to an earlier chapter: Out Of Bounds.
Title: Out Of Bounds
Author: Icarus
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: John/Rodney
Summary: There were two kinds of skating. Practicing what one already knew, and, ah, playing with things one didn't do quite so well. Rodney preferred his students didn't watch him attempt the latter.
A/N: Thank you to my tireless betas,
rabidfan and roaringmice (our skating consultant ;). Welcome to the team, tingler and mariamme. You guys have been fabulous. 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. After struggling in Utrecht, John returns home to prepare for Nationals.
[Previous][Next]
Out Of Bounds
by Icarus
Each year the Hurwitzes went on vacation for the week after Christmas, as did most of Rodney's students. He catered to a clientele that "wintered" overseas (and yes, apparently it was a verb; he'd lost that argument after a Google search), or else took holiday ski trips to Taos. The hot spot in the '80s had been Puerto Vallarta. These days everyone did southern Greece.
Rodney didn't know where the Hurwitzes went. He suspected they stayed home.
Most of the other coaches took the week off as well, leaving a skeleton crew and a temp at the front desk. Rodney padded through halls still decked in red garlands of tinsel that glittered purplish blue under the fluorescent lights. Someone had stapled children's drawings to the bulletin board outside Rodney's office, blobs of red scribbles that were probably of Santa, although that took guesswork. Last year's rink schedule was still posted. The schedule was late every year and wouldn't be ready for at least another two weeks.
The Hurwitzes had forgotten to teach this year's temp how to turn on the music, and she refused to let him show her for fear it was against the rules, so the rink remained hushed. Rodney almost felt like he could scuff around in his bathrobe and slippers, sipping coffee.
Usually he used the post-Christmas holiday to take advantage of his unlimited access to the ice (an access that had seemed far more unlimited before he learned what coaching was truly like). This year he had two championship skaters. He preferred -- well, there were two kinds of skating. Practicing what one already knew, and, ah, playing with things one didn't do quite so well. He preferred his students didn't watch him attempt the latter.
Rodney gathered his bags, draped his jacket over one shoulder and shut off the lights in his office. He locked the door, testing it, then made his way to the two flights of stairs to the front lobby. The door into the lobby was heavy, so he had to hold it open with his elbow as he dragged his wheelie bag through.
He dumped everything on the floor by the window overlooking the rink. There was only one person on the ice below, the surface smooth and only cut here and there with white curling lines. He leaned his shoulder against the window the way his mother always told him not to, because the tensile strength of the safety glass far outweighed any pressure he could apply short of using power tools.
John did a gazelle-like leap into a triple. He stumbled through the landing. The Salchow was not his best jump.
John slid to a sharp halt and swung his elbows back, stretching, his chest heaving with a breath. He ran through the arm movements for his long program, standing in place. Then he began again, this time walking through a loose version of the footwork. Chin bobbing, he seemed to be imagining the steady beat of the Daiko drums.
"Do you guys have, like, only one customer?" the temp said behind him. "He's been down there all day. I'm supposed to lock up at ten o'clock," she added.
"Give him a few more minutes," Rodney said, not looking in her direction.
John had moved to center ice, his shoulders set.
"He's not even on the schedule...." she said, sounding worried. "They said everyone has to be on the schedule."
"You're aware that I sign your timecard, correct?" Rodney reminded her. She fell silent.
John winged his way around the ice, leading with his shoulder as he drilled his long program again.
Later in the week the temp hovered at the window overlooking the rink where Rodney had gone downstairs to fetch John, her eyes wide and strained.
"You know," Rodney informed John, his arms folded as he rocked back on his heels. "There is such a thing as over-training, not that I'm against that in principle, but I'm hungry and I want to go home, so unless you want to walk...." He held out John's jacket over the ice like a lantern.
John pushed over to the side with strong sweeping strokes and came to a slicing stop. He ran his forearm over his sweaty hair. "Yeah," he breathed. "I should probably eat."
"More off-ice training tomorrow," Rodney instructed him, handing him a towel. "Break up your schedule."
"Conditioning isn't my problem," John said, but the complaint was weak and Rodney could tell he agreed.
John ran the towel over his head, making his hair stand up in charming spikes. Less charmingly, he swabbed under his armpits and then tried to hand it back to Rodney. Ah, no.
While John sat to take off his skates the temp disappeared from the window, apparently reassured. Rodney said wistfully, "This is supposed to be my quiet season where work is steady, but calm, and I get to eat and sleep again. Between you and Bethany...."
"You love it," John said.
Rodney looked elsewhere, chin up, maintaining his dignity. But he couldn't quite control the tiny smile on his face.
A muddle of girls gathered in the front hall of the Hurwitz's rink, tracking in slushy footprints and zipping up snowsuits as parents offered last minute kisses and goodbyes. Everyone moved with the whisper-squeak of ski jackets. One of the moms who'd volunteered for the drive to Canadian Nationals raised her voice and her hand, turning in a circle to collect her charges. Distracted, excited girls talked and giggled all around her.
In the center of the room the regular front desk receptionist sat behind the desk, her head down and school books spread out, oblivious to the chaos. Above her someone had hung a hand-written banner that read, "Go, Bethany!" Underneath it a slimmer banner read, "Congrats, John! U.S. Divisional Champion." John studied it with some amusement. Canada had Divisionals. The U.S. had Sectionals. But it was the thought that counted.
The carpool crew had achieved some semblance of order, or at least decided they had, and John followed as they all trooped out. Rodney had vanished with Mrs. Bevington when she left to fetch her car.
The black SUV was shiny and new, steaming in the parking lot outside the rink, freshly washed and ready for the drive to Ottawa.
John was the last to climb in back. Rodney had used "helping" Mrs. Bevington get her car washed (i.e. riding along) as an excuse to claim shotgun. John adjusted his sunglasses, bent over as he looked around at seven girls ranging from about age nine to fourteen, all talking over each other. Their chatter reminded John of the bird section of a pet shop.
"You're coming with us?" Bethany almost squeaked, her eyes big. She didn't wait for an answer but moved over, patting the seat next to herself. It was by the window so John had no objection.
"Rodney insisted," John said, giving him a dry smile.
"Oh, very amusing," Rodney said from the front with no humor at all.
No, that wasn't exactly how it had gone down.
"Come on, Rodney, it's Nationals."
"It's Junior Nationals and you can't afford the distraction. You've only two weeks left."
"There is such thing as over-training," John had said with a smirk.
"That's a wild rumor."
"Rodney, I've been busting my ass for a month and I swear, if I hear 'Surf Rider' one more time, I'm going to take out a hit on the sadistic bastard who wrote it. We'll be near rinks. I can get ice time. I won't even have to break my training routine."
"And what about the drive to Ottawa?" Rodney had said it like he was laying down his trump card.
"It's only a few hours hours."
"That's what they said on Gilligan's Island."
"What?"
Rodney had shaken his head. "You'll be exhausted, you'll lose too much time. Forget it."
Yeah, Rodney probably shouldn't have used the long drive as his reason to nix John going, not with Mrs. Bevington standing right behind them. She was only too happy to offer a ride. John had accepted with a wide smile and Rodney's spluttering complaints that it would disrupt his training schedule -- "No, absolutely not!" -- had fallen on deaf ears.
Mrs. Bevington gathered her coat around her plump form and climbed up into the driver's seat, rocking a little as she sat down. She rested her hand on the steering wheel like a bus driver and looked back in the rearview mirror. "Everyone have their seat belts on?"
"Mr. McKay doesn't!" one of the girls gleefully pointed out, to squeals of laughter from the others.
Rodney gave her his patented death glare. Then he gave in and buckled up with a heavy sigh. "I was going to do it in a minute...."
John didn't have his belt on either, but none of the girls turned him in, clearly playing favorites here. He gave them with a smile.
"John, do you know this one?" a skinny kid with glasses chirped. "One hundred bottles of beer on the wall, one hundred bottles of beer!" she began, and the other girls joined in around him. "Take one down, pass it around, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall--!"
As the SUV rolled forward, Rodney used the visor mirror to look at John, his smile entirely too smug.
John stood in front of the urinal at a fast food joint, feet planted. It always took him extra second to relax in public restrooms. Too many associations. Rodney swung the door open, then set an extra large coffee on the sink and took the urinal next to his.
"Still alive?" Rodney asked.
"I think I've learned more about Daniella's sub-par spins than I ever wanted to." After about an hour, John's silence had effectively rendered him invisible. His ears still rang from the girl who couldn't tell the difference between an indoor and outdoor voice. "Whoever the heck Daniella is."
"Hmm, yes. She made a tactical error not riding with us," Rodney said. The warm chemical smell of urine and urinal cakes filled the room.
"She's their friend?" John turned slightly, splashing over the edge. Oh well, public restrooms, what were you going to do?
"Yep." Rodney tucked himself in and zipped up. "The only thing more vicious than a bunch of twelve-year-old girls is thirteen-year-olds." He sighed rather wistfully. "And they were so nice when they were ten."
"How much farther to Ottawa?" John pleaded.
"Another hour, hour and a half?"
"God."
There was a scampering and pounding of footsteps down the hall outside the hotel room, with a noise like howling Indians. When John poked his head around the door he was greeted with a shrill squeak. He caught a flash of pink diving into a nearby room.
"He saw me, he saw me in my pajamas!" The squeal was followed by bubbling laughter.
John rolled his eyes and shut the door.
Moments later there came a knock, followed by Rodney's voice, "Go to bed, you, you hellions! Don't you realize there's a competition tomorrow?" With a huff of disgust he stepped inside. "Had enough yet? Because I have." He tossed his key card on the desk.
"I'm being flashed," John said with a sardonic half smile. "So far it's just pajamas, but I think I'll stay in here before it degenerates."
There was another scamper and giggle past the door. Rodney swung it open. Yep. Flowered underwear and an undershirt. "All right, that's it! Some of us have to sleep around here!"
"Mr. McKay saw me!"
"Ewwwww!"
"Don't you brats have a curfew?!" Rodney stormed.
"Rodney, it's eight o'clock. Let their moms handle this." John pulled him away from the door and closed it. Firmly. "Hotels are exciting places for kids."
"Yes, I remember!" Rodney paused, considering with a blink as his expression completely changed, his mind visibly catching up with his words. "Oh. Yes. Hmm. Come to think of it, I always was a little wound up before a competition."
"There you go," John said, half-sarcastic.
He stretched out on one of the beds with a comfortable sigh. Rodney dug through his suitcase, spreading clothes out on the other bed. Making a mess, John thought.
"I remember one year...." John began with a distant, naughty smile. "... there was this ice storm that knocked out all the power in the suburbs. So we had to go to a Holiday Inn for a few days. My mom made my dad watch me—which was perfect, because dad paid about as much attention to me as you would a fly." John ran his knuckle across his lips. "They had a swimming pool. Well, we hadn't brought any swimsuits but dad let me swim in a pair of boxers."
"How old were you?" Rodney climbed onto the bed, laying on his stomach.
"Oh, I dunno. Junior high, I guess. It was before I was competing, I know that much."
"Huh. You must have been a cute teenager."
"Nah. I was skinny and the second-shortest kid in the class." John made a face. "Anyway, there I was, swimming around in my underwear when this other kid shows up, about a year older than me. He's tallish, starting to get a little built through the chest; skinny arms. We start playing, like kids do, doing cannonballs and jumping off the diving board, you know—instant friends, just add toys.
"After about an hour, we get tired and hang out under the diving board where no one can see us. Oh, and he's Mr. Big Man On Campus. We end up whispering about sex, girls, guys, everything under the sun. And he knows it all."
"What was his name?"
"I don't remember. But my dad was maybe ten feet away reading the paper. I got nervous that he might hear us and kept checking over the edge of the pool." John leaned up, his elbow denting the pillow. "Well, there's this shower where you rinse off the chlorine, so I took us over there because I was pretty interested in what the kid had to say."
"I'll bet."
"Only he had other ideas. We get around the corner in the shower—there's no one else around—and he asks me if I want to lick his butt."
Rodney snorted.
"And I ask, 'lick your butt cheek?' And he says, 'No, stupid, in the hole,' And I tell him, 'Gross!'"
Rodney laughed.
"Of course, I'm still walking with him, right? And he's all, 'No, no, it feels good, you'll like it.' Then he asks if I want to suck his dick, and all I could think was, 'Um, the floor's kind of cold.' Finally he asks if he can fuck my ass. And I said okay."
"No cold floor," Rodney said matter-of-factly.
John pointed his forefinger, lounging back on the bed. "Exactly."
"Very practical."
"I thought so. Now. Being smart teenagers, we think it through. We turn on the shower full blast to hide any noise, and we decide to just pull our pants down part-way in case we have to make a run for it. He has me bend over and hold one of those towel bars—and then he slams it in."
"Wait. What did you use for lube?"
"Nothing." John crinkled his eyes, grinning.
Rodney winced, breath hissing through his teeth. "Oh, that must have—"
"Hurt like you wouldn't believe." John nodded, still grinning. "I manage to not yell, because I'm more paranoid about my dad coming in than anything in the world at that moment. I'm sitting on my hands on the floor, and he's all over me going, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!' And that's when I figured he probably didn't know as much as he said he did."
"Surprise, surprise."
"We were going to try again...."
"You're kidding me."
"Some people never learn." John laughed. "But it sounded like someone was coming so we ran for the bathroom stalls, me trying to pull my pants up, which were cotton and soaking wet. By that point we were too freaked to do anything else. So we took showers to make our alibi complete ... and I get a look at myself in the mirror."
John shook his head. "Rodney. It was the wet T-shirt contest of boxer shorts. You could see everything. Size, length, the shape of my ball sac, even a little color. I wrapped a towel around my waist and was ready to kill my dad. Though looking back, I'm sure he didn't notice either."
"You were walking porn."
John snickered. "I jumped on that kid practically buck naked for over an hour."
"So what happened after that?"
"Oh, we got Doritos from the vending machine -- I got some clothes -- and then we walked around the hotel. It was all one big adventure to us. Never got the nerve up to try again though."
Rodney was beaming at him. "So was that your first time?"
"I don't know. If it counts, then sure, I guess so." John rolled to his side, eyeing Rodney with a smirk. "What about you?"
"Oh, that was Radek. During the Olympics."
John sat up, hooking his elbow over his knee. "I know the first guy you ever slept with?"
"Okay, so I was seventeen! I was a late bloomer! I led a very sheltered life and then was abruptly ... unsheltered. My dad usually went to these things and, yes, fine, he had six weeks paid vacation per year but not even he couldn't take a solid month off for the Olympics."
John's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline. "You still call the first guy you ever slept with?"
"Um. Yes?"
"That's intense, Rodney."
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Date: 2009-01-21 12:07 am (UTC)