Title: I'll Be Your Baby Tonight
Fandom: Olympics slash
Word Count: 627
Disclaimer: I made it all up. All of it. None of it really happened.
Feedback: Please, sir, may I have some more?
Summary: A nighttime meet up.
Notes: Unbetaed. My first foray into Olympics slash. Based on the Bob Dylan song of the same name.
Michael walks quietly through the streets of the Olympic Village. It's always so busy and so full of athletes, that very few bother the lanky swimmer in USA track pants. He gets a few nods of respect on his way, but other than that, there is very little acknowledgment of the hype that has surrounded him from the first day he set foot here. He kind of misses it.
The Olympics, for him, are over. His races are done, his medals are won. History has been made, and he's a national hero at the ripe old age of nineteen. He could go home now if he wanted. Back to more training. Beijing is practically around the corner.
He doesn't want to go home, though. There are still things waiting for him here.
Heads turn when Michael enters the Australian section of the Village. He immediately regrets not changing into less conspicuous clothes. An American sticks out. Especially with his nationality written across his back.
Luckily enough, there isn't anybody around the door he's searching out. Gossip travels fast, especially among the English speaking countries.
He raps on the door steadily, though his palms sweat. He blames it on the Grecian heat, but he knows he's not fooling anyone, least of all himself. This excursion wasn't exactly approved of by anyone. They all think he's taking the night off to get some rest after a week of racing. As he stands outside the door, he fidgets a bit and runs his fingers through his freshly washed hair.
Ian pulls open the door and smiles. "'lo," he says in that rolling Australian accent of his.
He lets Michael in. "Close your eyes, and close the door," he says quietly.
Michael complies, and leans back onto the door to steady himself. Without his eyesight, he can feel the slightest shifts all around him. His body is tense, ready to snap off the block and into the water.
He feels Ian press himself against him. Their foreheads touch.
"And here I thought you were more interested in Pieter." Michael hopes he imagined the way his voice cracked at the end of his lame attempt at humor.
Ian chuckles softly. "Would you have preferred that?"
"No. Nope." Michael answers too quickly and mentally kicks himself for sounding like a teenager. You are a teenager, a voice reminds him. Mike tells the voice to shut the fuck up.
Ian leans in, and Michael thinks he can feel the the grin on his face. The tension hangs in the air; something so real you could swim in it. Michael tries not to fidget some more. Mature, he tells himself. You're supposed to be mature.
Their noses bump a bit painfully, and Ian lets out an undignified "Ow!". Michael's eyes open of their own accord, and sees Ian rubbing his nose. The moment is so surreal, he can't suppress the laugh that comes out. Ian gives him a semi-serious death-glare, but can't help the chuckle that comes out as well.
"This is all you fault," he tells Michael.
"My fault! It's your big schnoz that got in the way!" Michael doesn't think he can breathe through his laughter. His sides ache.
Ian shakes his head. The motion does nothing to hide his own laughing.
They stand there and giggle for a bit. The tension and nervousness has disappeared. All of the pressure from the last few years lifts, and Michael doesn't think about racing, doesn't think about being three years younger, doesn't think about failing to beat Mark Spitz's record. He thinks about this moment and the man in front of him.
After they've calmed down, Ian grabs Michael, and pulls him in close. This time their mouths find each other with ease.