No Stranger to Upheaval

aka the one with the laces

Johnny can walk in high heels with his eyes closed—but that’s hardly a party trick, so he has no idea why Paris is making him do it right now. He has people to entertain and booze to drink; couldn’t he have, like, tied a cherry stem with his tongue instead?

“Bitch, stop pushing me around.”

He tries to dislodge the hand that’s covering his eyes, but Paris is stronger than he looks.

“Nah-uh-uh-uh-aaah,” Paris sing-songs, hip-checking him forward. “Behave, or you won’t get your present!”

Johnny tries to raise an eyebrow, but both his eyebrows are stuck under Paris’ hand. He can only hope that it’s not the same hand he used to give Scott Sherman a hand job just ten minutes ago, because ew, seriously. There are things he does not want to share with his best friend, and Scott Sherman’s come is one of them.

“I thought the Louboutins were my present?”

“I lied. They were from Patti.” He pushes Johnny to make a sharp left. They’re going to the door. Why are they going to the door?

“Why are we going to the door?”

“Jesus, you’re getting inquisitive in your old age!” Paris exclaims. “Why, I remember a time when you’d follow my lead without question.”

“That was before the Twitter pictures incident,” Johnny reminds him.

Paris makes a dismissive sound. “It’s not like everyone hadn’t seen your dick before.”

“It’s my business who I show my dick to, Paris. We talked about this. You have your room; I have mine. You have your genitals; I have mine. Yours, mine. Yooooours, miiiiiiiine. It’s not exactly rocket science.”

“You sound like a kindergarten teacher.” Paris stops him with a hand on his arm, then reaches around him to open the apartment door. “It’s so not sexy.”

It takes Johnny a second to realize that his eyelids (and eyebrows, thank God) are finally free. He rubs his eyes, probably fucking up whatever’s left of his mascara all to hell, and then blinks a couple of times rapidly to clear his vision.

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head to stare at the man standing in the doorway at a different angle. “Did someone spike the whiskey, or did you get me a French figure skater for my birthday?”

Paris nods enthusiastically.

The man in the doorway looks adorably confused. “I am Swiss,” he says, like that’s the point here.

Johnny gives the man his brightest grin. “Whatever you say, honey.”

~

Paris says Stéphane is the friend of a friend, which in Paris-speak means he saw the guy at a party and made up a common acquaintance to meet him. It’s not the most admirable way of getting someone a birthday present, but Johnny’s not about to debate methods when they clearly get results.

The only part of this little birthday arrangement that doesn’t work for Johnny is the fact that he finds himself at a rink the next day, which makes him curse his pride that made him keep things from his best friend. Paris knows he once wanted to be a figure skater. He doesn’t know why he never did.

In Johnny’s defense, the story is not that interesting anyway, and he certainly never thought it would be relevant. His skating career, which started with him skating on a frozen cornfield when he was a kid, ended a mere ten months later when he and his friends tried to skate on a frozen pond and learned the hard way why that’s a bad idea. Johnny remembers the loud crack, the freezing water, and the rest is a long, blurry nightmare.

But that was more than a decade ago, and Paris got him a lesson from an actual Olympic Medalist who’s not only as handsome as he seems on TV but cuter—there’s just no way Johnny’s going to let a couple of stupid memories ruin this for him.

“Here, let me do it.”

Johnny stares down at Stéphane kneeling at his feet, tightening up the laces of his skates, biting his lip in concentration.

How is this his life?

“Like this, see?” Stéphane says, looking up at Johnny beneath his lashes, all adorable and innocent. “You need laces be tight so you do not break your ankle.”

Johnny licks his lips and nods. Stéphane’s hands are cupping his calves, palms large and strong, warmth seeping through the cloth. Johnny’s cheeks want to heat up, but there’s no way he’s letting them do any such thing.

“You’re really cute, you know that?” he says to Stéphane saucily. The best defense is a good offense, and Johnny has the best fucking offense in the history of ever when it comes to flirting.

“Yes, you said last night,” Stéphane says and doesn’t even blink. He stands up, grabbing Johnny’s hands and pulling him along.

Somewhere, an invisible scoreboard dings, reading 0 to 1 in Stéphane’s favor.

~

There’s no crack this time—the ice stays solid beneath Johnny’s feet—and an hour and a half later finds him breathless and sweaty with the stupidest grin on his face.

“You are a natural,” Stéphane says, looking impressed and surprised.

Johnny spins once and strikes a pose. “I’m a dancer,” he says. “I know how to move.”

Stéphane raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Let’s see if you can do this.”

~

That night, Johnny shows the gigantic bruise on his ass to Paris.

“Tell me that’s a sex injury.”

Johnny grins. He can’t seem to be able to stop doing it. “No, I just fell on my ass a couple million times.”

“Ouch,” Paris intones, prodding the purpling flesh. “You realize,” he says, “that when I got you the Swiss hunk, I didn’t actually think you would try to learn to skate? I mostly just expected you to fuck his brains out with skates on.”

Johnny considers this. “Wouldn’t that be dangerous?”

Paris makes a face, puts his hands on Johnny’s shoulders, and shakes him. “What’s wrong with you? He’s hot! He’s famous! He’s gullible! What more do you need?”

Johnny drops himself on the couch and winces when he lands right on the bruise. “He’s a good guy. I’m not gonna fuck him over.” Finding the remote under a cushion, he turns the TV on just to have something to do. “Besides, he’s obviously straight.”

There’s a documentary with zebras on, which is definitely a sign, though of what Johnny has no clue.

“Huh,” Paris says, arms crossed over his chest. Johnny looks up just in time to see realization dawn in his eyes. “You like him.”

Does he have to make it sound so pathetic? Johnny shrugs, willing himself not to grab a cushion and bury his face in it. He’s not allowed to do that unless there’s a breakup. Or he loses a shoe.

“Oh, honey. That was not supposed to happen.”

Paris sits down next to him, cuddling close; Johnny sighs and leans in. This is why he loves living with Paris. He makes Johnny look much less of a drama queen in comparison.

~

Stéphane is in town for two weeks, and he meets Johnny at the rink every day. At this point, Johnny thinks he’d continue practicing even if Stéphane wasn’t there, but learning from him makes the experience all the more exciting.

Back when Johnny first fell in love with figure skating, he didn’t realize how sexy it was. He was mesmerized by the moves, the spins, the jumps, and he loved how graceful Oksana Baiul looked as she performed; but the sensuality of it, he was too young to get.

Right now, Stéphane is hitting him over the head with it.

The way Stéphane moves is masculine and strong, but he also shakes his ass with Johnny when challenged and does that beautifully as well. Johnny’s been trying to make him blush with moves and touches and words ever since they met, but for someone as wholesome as he is, Stéphane is surprisingly okay with having another man hang all over him in public and skating like a stripper on ice. Johnny wishes he had a lot longer than a couple of weeks to figure him out, but the limited time is probably a blessing. It’s better not to get attached; Johnny does tend to cling to people he likes.

“I think you can do split jump now. Do you want to try?”

Stéphane is sweaty and red-cheeked after the routine Johnny made him go though, demonstrating several of Johnny’s favorite jumps—all of which Stéphane can do perfectly. Johnny’s hands itch to reach out and bury themselves in the sweaty strands of hair; he barely manages to hold them back. He’s not even sure how much of this lust is for Stéphane’s talent and how much is just sexual chemistry. Either way, he’s not going to ruin a good thing. Even if there was a chance for him to get a one-night stand out of this, he suspects he wouldn’t be satisfied anyway.

“Okay,” Johnny nods. “Show me.”

Stéphane smiles at him, approving. Johnny’s not scared of getting hurt, and he can tell Stéphane has been loving how willing he is to try new things. Johnny wonders if that means Stéphane himself is also willing to try new things, and how that would translate to his sex life—but then shelves that thought for a later time. He can muse on that tonight. Alone. Preferably in bed.

“You can do it off the ice, yes?”

Johnny nods.

“It is not different,” Stéphane reassures him. “Watch me.”

Watching Stéphane is hardly a chore, and Johnny is a fast learner. He does a perfect split jump on his third try, his landing just a little wobbly.

“You are truly amazing.”

Stéphane looks like he’s not just saying that, which makes Johnny practically preen. It’s an addictive feeling. Almost as good as the applause after a particularly good show.

“You think I can pull off a Russian split?”

“Let’s try and see.”

~

That night Paris makes popcorn and puts in a DVD of Stéphane’s performances. They’re from both competitions and shows, in chronological order, proving to Johnny that Stéphane always was a beauty, even when he should’ve been an awkward teenager with too-long limbs.

“You spent all day downloading these, didn’t you?”

Paris throws a handful of popcorn at his head. “Don’t tell me you’re not grateful, bitch.”

On the screen, Stéphane spins and spins and spins. Johnny watches, hypnotized. He’s grateful. Agonized, yes, but still grateful.

Paris sighs. “You know, you should just go for it. I don’t care how straight he is.”

“He’s leaving tomorrow night,” Johnny reminds him. “It wouldn’t be worth the awkwardness.”

“Oh, come on,” Paris whines. “He’s hot, and adorable, and he has the most perfect cheekbones. I’m not even mentioning that ass.” He sits up, face serious. “His thighs alone would be worth it.”

Johnny knows how that list goes—handsome, wholesome, wicked, affectionate, talented, funny, has the most amazing accent, and the French! God, how Johnny loves the French!—but he’s been trying not to think about it. Paris is, as always, not helping.

He feels himself deflate and leans his head back. “He can lift me with one hand,” he admits. “On ice.”

“Ugh,” Paris says, throwing his arms up. “It’s like porn without the sex. I can’t even—”

Yeah. Johnny can’t even, either.

Paris goes to bed soon after, leaving behind not only the dirty popcorn bowl, but also stray kernels all over the carpet—which Johnny won’t be able to vacuum at this hour. They will haunt him all night.

Resigned to a sleepless night, Johnny watches Stéphane win his Olympic Medal, and then pauses the DVD on his smiling face on the podium and just stares.

He finds even the goofy smile on Stéphane’s face sexy. He is so screwed.

~

“I wish we had more time. You learn so fast. It has been a pleasure.”

Johnny ducks his head, which is fucking ridiculous. When was the last time he couldn’t grin and accept a compliment? Was there ever such a time?

“You’re a good teacher,” he says.

Frankly, he’s making himself nauseous, acting like a teenage girl, but he can’t seem to be able to act any differently around Stéphane.

Thank God he’s leaving.

(Johnny wants to hug his legs and beg him not to leave.)

~

Johnny promised himself earlier in the week that he wouldn’t snap. He knows himself; his reactions are always instinctive. He does and says things without thinking and then finds himself regretting that he ever got out of bed that morning. He doesn’t want that to happen with Stéphane; he’s been hoping for at least a friendship when their lessons end and they part ways—and he’s been so good, focused and controlled, that when it finally happens, even he is caught off guard.

It must be the cumulative effect of all the touching all week, the shared smiles, that one shared water bottle that gave Johnny ideas—

Stéphane doesn’t even do anything different. He catches Johnny around the waist to congratulate him after a successful jump, and they spin together until they reach the board, where Stéphane bears the brunt of the impact with his back, and Johnny slams into him, arms instinctively hugging his torso.

When Johnny looks up, Stéphane is grinning at him; their faces are so close, Johnny can feel Stéphane’s breath brushing his cheek.

Johnny stares for what feels like an eternity, waiting for Stéphane to pull back, stop touching him, act like nothing happened, but Stéphane doesn’t, so Johnny throws caution to the wind, and leans even closer to say, “If you don’t stop touching me, I’m going to have to kiss you.”

That makes Stéphane let go, and suddenly left to stand unaided, Johnny realizes what he just did.

Fuck.

~

Johnny’s not good with laces. In fact, he doesn’t understand why boots even need laces. Isn’t it time yet to have digital shoes that mold themselves to your feet and tighten up where needed? He curses under his breath, trying to make sense of the tangle in his hands, and swears he will only wear ballet flats from now on.

“Let me help.”

Stéphane kneels in front of him, taking over the tangled mess. This is exactly what got Johnny into this madness in the first place. Stéphane needs to stop being hot and nice and kneeling in front of Johnny and touching him and fueling Johnny’s crazy fantasies—

Johnny takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. That—that was completely inappropriate of me. I never meant—I mean, I know—”

Stéphane rises up on his knees, hands braced on either side of Johnny’s thighs on the bench. Johnny’s speech comes to a stuttering halt, all breath abandoning his lungs. It’s suddenly way too hot in the room.

“I am the one who should apologize. I should not have been acting…”

“Like a straight dude who’s too nice for his own good?” Johnny offers.

“I am not straight,” Stéphane corrects him.

“Oh.” Now, there’s a curve ball.

“Johnny,” he says, reaching up to push back a strand of Johnny’s hair. “I would love to kiss you.” His hand trails down the side of Johnny’s face, brushing his lips before letting go.

“But?” Johnny asks with a small smile. There’s definitely a but here. He can see it in Stéphane’s eyes.

“I have a girlfriend,” Stéphane says, apologetic.

Johnny nods. He should’ve seen that one coming.

~

Stéphane leaves for Moscow and Johnny spends the next week cleaning the apartment from top to bottom. He even cleans Paris’ room, which he usually doesn’t even attempt, because it’s always a traumatic experience, but this time Johnny feels that he needs something more challenging, more exhausting—just more.

When he’s done with the apartment, he goes to the studio and dances—for hours. Day and night, he practices, even though he doesn’t have even an audition scheduled for at least a month. It’s good to get sweaty and tired and achy. It makes him feel better, and it doesn’t leave him any time to think and consequently mope.

Paris, on the other hand, has other ideas.

“You need to get laid.”

Johnny shakes his head, slicing the tomato on the board with a vengeance. “You know what’ll happen if I have sex with some nobody right now?”

Paris raises an eyebrow, tilts his hips, and crosses his arms. “You’ll have an orgasm? Release this frustration into something that’s not a poor tomato?”

“I’ll end up comparing him to Stéphane.”

Paris shrugs. “And?”

“And—have you ever met another guy who can compare to that?”

Paris sighs, loud and aggravated. “For God’s sake, he’s not Brad Pitt or anything. He was hot, he was fit, whatever. Get over it.”

Johnny grits his teeth and turns his back on Paris to check on the roast. Get over it. Stellar advice. Why didn’t he think of that?

“Or you can just close your eyes and imagine it’s him?” Paris offers airily.

Johnny shuts the oven door and throws one of his mittens at Paris’ head.

“What?” Paris says, rolling his eyes. “You think I think of Scott when I sleep with him? Puh-leease.”

~

The first box arrives two weeks after Stéphane leaves. It’s red and rectangular, simple but elegant, and inside, there are thirty pieces of individually wrapped chocolates, each one a different flavor. The card on it says,

These are my favorites. I hope you enjoy them. – Stéphane

Paris eats half the box in one sitting; Johnny, on the other hand, just runs his fingers over the red crinkly wrappers and doesn’t even taste them.

After a night of tossing and turning, he decides not to call Stéphane. He figures the chocolates are probably his way of apologizing for what happened, and Johnny should let the matter drop completely. It’s not like it’s a big deal.

And Stéphane’s girlfriend wouldn’t appreciate his calling anyway.

Johnny feels much better after making that decision; his cleaning habits go back down to only slightly compulsive levels, and his training schedule starts to ease up.

Until the second box arrives.

This one is gold and full of truffles. Paris is not home when it arrives, so Johnny sits alone at the kitchen table, staring at it for an hour straight; the new card in one hand (which has nothing but Stéphane’s name on it) and his phone in the other. In the end, in a flurry of movement, he gets up, stashes the card in his underwear drawer, throws his phone on the couch to be swallowed up by the cushions, and eats all the truffles.

He throws up three times that night.

He doesn’t call Stéphane.

~

“Who was it?” Johnny asks, his head stuck in the turtleneck he’s trying to fit into. Either it shrunk, or his head has been swelling; there’s no other explanation for this.

“Your Prince Charming sent more chocolates.”

Johnny gives up and throws the turtleneck on the bed. His eyes land on the box in Paris’ hands. It’s a black box with gold trimmings. Stéphane has impeccable taste.

“You think maybe he’s trying to fatten you up?” Paris asks, leaning against the wall and looking down at the black box with suspicion.

“And then what? He’s going to eat me?”

Paris shrugs. “Do you have another explanation?”

The thing is, Johnny really doesn’t.

Paris puts the box on the dresser. “So, do I need to get out the nurse’s outfit, or are you doing the cleaning thing this time?”

“Shut up,” Johnny says. He’s not that neurotic… is he?

(That night, he ends up drinking himself stupid like a normal person. Paris tells him that it’s decidedly non-neurotic of him.)

~

On Tuesdays and Fridays, there’s a group of kids that take skating lessons at the rink. Their teacher, Kate, lets Johnny help out when he’s there. Johnny loves children when they’re not his responsibility. They get him much better than adults do.

“You’re getting too big for me! We’re going to need a giant to partner you,” Johnny tells Sandra, making a show of picking her up and twirling her a couple of times. She’s one of his favorites; an eight year-old with spirit and an amazing talent to boot. She’s one of the instinctively artistic kids, her every move a joy to watch.

(And she has perfect taste in jewelry. She made Johnny a BFF bracelet in dark blue and neon pink which he hasn’t taken off in weeks.)

She giggles and protests. “Put me down! Johnny!”

Johnny releases her and she lands gracefully on her feet, spinning a couple of times before she stops and bows. Someone starts clapping.

“Nice partnering work.”

Johnny knows that accent.

A chill reaches down all the way to his toes. It feels like he won’t be able to move at all, but he does, and when he turns around, Stéphane is standing there, just off the ice, looking tired but just as beautiful as the last time Johnny saw him.

(Heart-stoppingly beautiful, Johnny would say, but then he’d have to die of mortification, so he doesn’t.)

“Hello,” he says instead, boring and meaningless. That’s the best he can do with his heart doing acrobatics in his chest. He takes a couple of automatic steps towards the door, but stops short of going through it.

“Hello.” Stéphane looks happy. Johnny has no idea what that means.

They stare at each other for a beat, silent, and then Johnny says, “What are you doing here?”

“Paris told me you would be here.”

“No, I mean,” Johnny shakes his head, “what are you doing in the States?”

“Oh.” Stéphane smiles, showing teeth. Johnny loves his teeth. “I am doing a show in Orlando tomorrow.”

Johnny blinks. “You know you’re not in Orlando, right?”

Stéphane sticks his hands in his pockets. “Can we talk?” He looks around nervously. “In private?”

Johnny shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Of course they can talk in private. What could possibly go wrong? It’s not like Johnny’s going to throw himself at Stéphane, or pass out, or throw up or anything.

He steps off the ice and heads straight for the bench by the side, sitting down and hiding the slight shake in his fingers in the tangle of the laces. This is good; he doesn’t even have to look at Stéphane while he’s fiddling with the skates. He can take a couple of minutes to relax and have his nervous breakdown facing the dirty carpeting on the floor.

But he should have remembered that this is his life and nothing goes according to plan when his path crosses with Stéphane’s. Two weeks ago, his laptop crashed when he tried to load up Stéphane’s website. That’s how dire the situation is.

So it’s only normal that Stéphane ends up on his knees in front of him again—close enough that Johnny can smell him—and stills his hands, taking over the impossible task of unlacing the skates. He’s done in what feels like seconds, but this time, he doesn’t let go and get up. He takes off Johnny’s skates one by one, then holds his right foot in his hands, rubbing along the sides of it. Johnny’s toes convulse from nerves.

“Nice socks,” Stéphane says, his lips curving up in his usual charming way.

Johnny doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s wearing his dancing hippo socks. Wonderful. And he was hoping to look less of an idiot this time.

“You wanna talk about my socks?” he asks, only slightly bitchy.

Stéphane’s smile falls off his face.

“No. I…” Johnny waits for him to release his foot, but Stéphane seems pretty fond of it. “I wanted to ask you something. I know I have no right, so you can tell me to go away and I will, but—I had to ask.”

“And you couldn’t use the phone?”

Stéphane shakes his head. “I thought about calling, but—it is better in person.”

“Okay,” Johnny says, taking a deep breath. “Shoot.”

Stéphane looks confused.

Johnny waves his hand. “I mean, go on.”

“Oh. I… Last time we were here, you said you wanted to kiss me. I was wondering if you still did.”

Johnny waits for the punch line; it doesn’t come. “It’s been three months.”

“I know.” Stéphane stares at his foot, tracing the line of hippos down the front. “I do not have a girlfriend anymore.”

“This is a booty call?!” Johnny exclaims, louder than he intended. Stéphane looks around, worried, so Johnny lowers his voice. “You came all the way to New York for sex?”

Stéphane’s eyebrows (he has beautiful eyebrows) draw together. “Not for sex. A kiss.”

Johnny blinks. “A kiss?”

“Yes.”

This is either very romantic or very stupid. Johnny doesn’t know which one he’d prefer. He leans in, watching Stéphane’s face for a sign that this is a joke or a mistranslation or something, but Stéphane looks nervous, almost holding his breath.

And then their lips meet, and it’s like magic.

Stéphane’s lips are soft, and his hands are warm and sure and strong. They release Johnny’s foot to grab his arms, and then work even higher to cup his face. Johnny’s mind blanks out; he forgets everything but this feeling, lips and tongues and hot breath. He can’t even remember why he was scared, why he was pissed, why he had doubts. This is perfect; why would he ever doubt it?

Pulling back, Stéphane beams at him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Johnny says, laughter bubbling inside. This man is surreal. “So, do you want a second kiss or…?”

Stéphane looks at his watch, frowning. “My flight leaves in four and a half hours.”

Johnny’s heart skips a beat. “You really did come here for a kiss.”

“I told you,” Stéphane says. “I will not have time after the show. This was my only chance.” He runs a hand through Johnny’s hair. “I did not want to wait another month.”

“To kiss me.”

“Yes.” Stéphane steals another soft kiss.

Johnny grins. “And you thought I’d just let you go?”

Stéphane’s eyebrows climb up in surprise. “You won’t?”

“No way in hell.”

~

Johnny doesn’t even bother putting on his shoes; he just grabs his bag and leads Stéphane out of the rink and into his car. It’s a twenty minute drive, but they make it to the apartment in ten. When Johnny opens the door, the sight of Paris on the couch in his pajamas greets them.

“Well, hello,” he says, looking Stéphane up and down, and raising an eyebrow at their joined hands.

“Hello,” Stéphane says, always the polite one.

Johnny just waves him away. “Hello, Paris. Goodbye, Paris.”

He pulls Stéphane into his room and shuts the door behind them. Then on second thought, he pulls it open again—only to find Paris standing right in front of it.

“Can I watch?”

“No, you can’t.” Johnny says. Paris can pout all he wants. “And you’re not allowed to bother me for the next four hours unless there’s a fire. A major fire. And even then, only if you can’t put it out yourself. Understood?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Paris says, snapping to attention.

Johnny shuts the door in his face.

~

Stéphane is sitting on the bed, a soft and shy smile adorning his face, playing with his own fingers nervously. Johnny doesn’t have time for niceties, there’s a ticking clock in his head, so he takes off his jacket and t-shirt in one go, and drops himself into Stéphane’s lap.

“Hi,” he says, rubbing their noses together, his hands finally—finally—buried in Stéphane’s wild hair.

“Hey.” Stéphane’s voice is rough, and he’s breathing fast, chest rising and falling against Johnny’s rapidly, eyes fixed on Johnny’s lips.

Johnny’s stomach muscles clench—from excitement, or fear, or nerves—and shutting his eyes tight, he lets himself fall into Stéphane, losing himself in lips and arms and hands he’s been dreaming about.

He doesn’t come up for air for a long time.

~

“Johnny.”

Johnny smiles, too comfortable to wake up fully.

“Johnny, I have to go.”

That makes Johnny frown. “No, you don’t,” he rasps, reaching back to grab whatever part of Stéphane’s body he can reach and pull him closer with it. Stéphane’s still naked; that means he doesn’t want to go yet himself, doesn’t it?

“I can’t miss my flight,” Stéphane says, plastering himself all over Johnny’s back and brushing a kiss on his naked shoulder.

“You won’t,” Johnny lies. He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t care; surely God couldn’t be cruel enough to let him wake up to this, only to take it away so quickly.

Stéphane groans, biting Johnny’s neck and sucking kisses down to his shoulder, where Johnny’s probably already covered in bruises. “Johnny,” he mumbles, urgent and gaspy, making Johnny rock back into him—and again and again.

Johnny’s sore all over, but the fire engulfs him one more time, and he doesn’t care if he won’t be able to sit for a week. He waited a long time for this, and he’ll probably have to wait another couple of months before he can touch Stéphane again; he’s going to wring every drop out of this experience.

Reaching under the pillow, he grabs a condom and puts it in Stéphane’s hand lingering on his chest.

“Are you sure?” Stéphane whispers against his ear.

Johnny arches his chest, pressing his ass backwards. “Yes. Yes. Come on. Hurry.”

Stéphane is a gentleman, no doubts about it. Johnny had expected as much. He’s also a strange mixture of sweet and rough once he gets going, which makes Johnny wish that he had time to draw more of that out of him.

Johnny gasps soundlessly as two fingers slide into him, reminding him just how much he’s going to be feeling this in the coming days—which is not exactly a bad thing—and then Stéphane is pushing inside, wrapping one large hand around Johnny’s left thigh to lift it to make himself a place between his legs. His thrusts are torturously slow, though Johnny can tell how hard it is to keep them that way by the clench of Stéphane’s teeth on his shoulder and the way his hands grip his thighs, and it’s not like Johnny can argue with the pace when it’s keeping Stéphane there for the moment.

The stretch and the burn keeps Johnny grounded for a while, but there’s no fighting the inevitable. Stéphane’s breathing grows shallow, and his thrusts become shorter and faster, hitting spots inside him that turn all the muscles in Johnny’s body liquid, inside and out, and then he starts whispering in French—which is a sign Johnny learned to recognize in the last couple of hours—and he’s coming, pressing Johnny into the bed until he can’t breathe anymore, until he doesn’t even want to.

Helpless to resist, Johnny follows soon after.

~

Johnny watches Stéphane getting ready, admiring the way his jeans hug his thighs, the way his muscles move in his arms and back. He should have recorded this, he thinks with regret, it would have come in handy when Stéphane isn’t around to bend over for him. He doesn’t bother getting dressed himself. It’s not like he’s going to be able to do anything today. He’ll probably roll around in bed until Paris throws a bucket of water on him.

He wouldn’t normally mind walking around naked in the apartment, but he’s covered in bites and bruises, and possibly even come, so he fishes out a robe and puts that on. Then he leads the way to the door, reluctantly opening it. He feels a pout coming. He doesn’t want Stéphane to go. He just doesn’t.

Stéphane looks rumpled and apologetic and adorable.

“I wish I could stay,” he says, running a tentative hand down Johnny’s cheek.

Johnny grabs it and licks his finger.

“Johnny, don’t.”

“Or what?” Johnny taunts him—and then finds himself lifted up and pushed against the wall. Stéphane kisses him hard, sucking the breath out of his lungs and leaving him dazed. “Okay,” Johnny says, back on his unsteady feet. “Go before I change my mind.”

Stéphane steals one last kiss and leaves.

~

“So, is he your boyfriend now, or what?” Paris asks through a mouthful of cornflakes.

Johnny shrugs. He has no fucking idea.

~

The next month is a blur.

Johnny loves being in a relationship. He’s a hopeless romantic. That’s not exactly common knowledge, because he spent most of his early twenties sleeping around, fucking every guy that shook his ass at him—which is a lot when you’re among dancers all day. But that wasn’t the real him, that was the hurt-and-scared-Johnny (according to Patti), or the slutty-Johnny (according to Paris). Whatever you call it, it was a phase. But Johnny’s not sorry it happened. He learned a lot during that time—though it could be argued that there are ways of learning shit without throwing yourself into STD-ridden people.

The thing is, he does know what it feels like to have something casual and what it feels like to be in a serious relationship. And the lack of physical contact aside, this thing with Stéphane is as serious as it gets.

Stéphane calls every day. Johnny doesn’t call him, because it’s impossible to keep track of Stéphane’s schedule, or even know which city he’s in at any given time. Johnny, on the other hand, has a couple of students at the studio and his little sessions at the rink, and aside from hanging out with his friends, that’s about all he has going on.

What Johnny loves most about relationships is the easy affection. Even with Stéphane so far away, hearing the affection in his voice at the end of the day is enough to make Johnny melt. Every time they talk, he finds himself trying to keep Stéphane on the line for as long as he can, just so he can keep hearing that tone. (He never said he wasn’t needy. He just prides himself on hiding it relatively well.) Sometimes Stéphane sounds dead tired and keeps slipping to French, and sometimes he falls asleep in the middle of a conversation. Some days, he spends hours telling Johnny about whatever city he’s in, down to the smallest detail, so Johnny almost feels like he’s right there with him. And some nights—some nights, Stéphane is downright frisky and makes Johnny come by whispering things in languages Johnny doesn’t speak.

Johnny has been in a grand total of three relationships before, and none of those were as complicated as this one. This time, everything feels amplified. He wants more, he needs more, and he always ends up settling for less, which makes him even more clingy. It starts to bother him after a while, and he tries to pull back, but then Stéphane thinks something’s wrong, and Johnny can never stand hearing the hurt in his voice.

Paris jokingly says he’s falling in love with Stéphane already after just one fuck. Johnny flips him off, but secretly thinks that he’s probably already there.

~

Johnny imagined his reunion with Stéphane many times. Most of the scenarios he came up with were X-rated, and in some of them Johnny saw them crying and confessing their love to each other. Once or twice, he imagined them dancing on ice and kissing softly, romantic music and mood lighting setting the scene. Never did it occur to him that he’d be slightly tipsy and wearing a nurse’s outfit when it happened.

(It probably should have. This is his life, after all, and that’s way more realistic than making love on a bed covered with rose petals.)

“Um. Hi,” Stéphane says, looking perplexed.

Johnny bursts out laughing. “I can explain this,” he says, taking off his hat and gesturing down at his short skirt with garter clips peeking.

Stéphane raises an eyebrow, looking amused. “Really?”

Johnny opens his mouth and then closes it again, shaking his head. “Okay, no. I really can’t.”

“I thought so.”

~

If Johnny ever doubted how much Stéphane missed him… well. He doesn’t doubt it anymore.

Stéphane, the cool and collected and polite guy everyone says is too nice for his own good, ignores Johnny’s guests, manhandles him into the bedroom, and fucks him without even taking either of their clothes off. Before he knows what’s happening, Johnny finds himself in Stéphane’s lap with his skirt hiked up around his waist, clinging to Stéphane’s shoulders and riding him with quivering thighs.

It’s fast and rough and—judging by the catcalls—loud. When it’s over, Stéphane falls back on the bed, with Johnny collapsed on top of him, riding the waves of his rapid breathing.

“I missed you,” Stéphane says, running his fingers through Johnny’s hair and raising his head to drop a kiss on Johnny’s head.

“Yeah,” Johnny says, shivering. “I got that part.”

~

They have three days this time around, which makes Johnny cancel all his lessons, send Paris packing to a friend’s place, and take Stéphane out grocery shopping, because he doesn’t want them leaving the bed until they’re completely fucked out.

It’s kind of like a date, Johnny thinks, strolling through the aisles holding hands, discussing junk food and Johnny’s love of chocolate ice cream.

“I don’t know if I can be with someone who isn’t allowed to eat chocolate,” Johnny says. “Was that why you kept sending me those chocolates? Were you satisfying yourself vicariously through me?”

Stéphane laughs, shaking his head. “I just did not want you to forget me.”

Just when Johnny thinks Stéphane can’t get any more charming…

Johnny beams at him, feeling his face heat up—more as a result of the overwhelming urge to kiss Stéphane than embarrassment. “I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

They’re the same height, so all Johnny has to do is tilt his face just a bit so their lips can meet. He doesn’t expect Stéphane to turn his head at the last moment, making Johnny’s lips brush his cheek instead of his mouth.

“Not here,” Stéphane mumbles, looking down.

This time Johnny’s blush is from embarrassment. “Oh,” he says. “Right.” He goes back to picking oranges as if nothing happened.

They never discussed this, because there was never any reason to. All they ever do is talk on the phone and have sex anyway. That’s hardly a relationship, and it certainly doesn’t require a proper set of rules. Johnny knew Stéphane wasn’t out from the start. He just let himself get carried away a little.

“Johnny, I—” Stéphane begins, and Johnny winces. He does not want to have that talk. He’s not a fragile china doll; he can handle the famous, closet-case boyfriend thing. Thankfully, Stéphane is interrupted by two girls who fawn over him and ask for a picture. Johnny, being the good friend, smiles graciously and takes a couple of pictures of them fondling his not-really boyfriend. It’s all so very pleasant and fake.

The drive home is mostly quiet, during which Johnny gives himself a good ass-chewing for being a baby. He’s fucking awesome at sabotaging himself. It’s rare enough that he gets time with Stéphane—it’s rare enough that Stéphane gets time off, period. This is not how he wants them to spend their time together.

“Johnny, we need to talk,” Stéphane says, putting the groceries on the counter and turning to face him with a serious look.

Now, that won’t do.

“No,” Johnny says, shaking his head and throwing his keys on the table. “That’s not what we’re gonna do.”

“No?”

“No.” He kneels in front of Stéphane and nuzzles his cock through the denim of his jeans. “Now you’re going to hold on tight,” he says, putting Stéphane’s hands on the counter so he can grip the edge, “and I’m going to suck you off.”

Stéphane gasps.

“And then you’re going to fuck me with your fingers.”

He pulls Stéphane’s zipper down.

“How does that sound?”

His only answer is a hand at the back of his head, pulling him in.

~

In the next three months, Stéphane visits twice, staying a couple of days each time before he has to be somewhere else. Johnny makes the best of his visits and then stops thinking about it once Stéphane leaves, because when he starts thinking, he gets all girly and sniffly and wants to cry about wanting his boyfriend, which is not helpful in the least, so he just talks to Stéphane every night and keeps busy during the day.

Keeping busy is key, and luckily, Johnny suddenly finds himself busier than he’s ever been in his life. In addition to his students and general responsibilities at the studio, he gets offered Kate’s job while she’s recovering from a broken arm—to which he can’t say no—and as if that’s not enough, one day, out of nowhere, one of his ex-boyfriends calls and offers him a job co-choreographing a runway show. Ethan knows very well that Johnny has never worked in fashion, but he also knows that he’s always wanted to, and he damn well should know that he can.

Johnny spends weeks living and breathing fabrics and designs and models, sleeping on top of his laptop and forgetting to eat. But when it’s all done, it’s a work of beauty. He doesn’t remember the last time  he was so proud of something he put together.

Stéphane is in Paris the day of the show, doing a photo shoot, so he can’t be there. He sends a dozen roses as an apology, which Johnny reassures him were completely unnecessary. He understands about Stéphane’s commitments.

When Paris asks him what to do with the flowers, Johnny tells him to put them outside in the hallway. They’re making him sneeze.

~

“Ethan invited us to a club opening tonight,” Paris says, staring down at the phone in his hand in disbelief.

“Mmm,” Johnny says, busy checking his email. He’s already in his pajamas. His plans for the night consist of Stéphane, a bubble bath, and TV.

“Why is he sniffing around you again? Doesn’t he know you already have a boyfriend?”

“I don’t think he believes me,” Johnny says. His secret boyfriend is a joke among his friends now.

“Well, tell Stéphane to get his ass over here. I don’t want you to fall into the clutches of slimy evil assholes.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. Paris has an irrational hatred of Ethan.

“Seriously. He needs to get on his white charger and save you from the dragon.”

“Do I get to wear a pink frilly dress in this story?”

Paris snorts. “Of course. And you’ll have long blonde hair that sways in the wind but never gets tangled.”

“We don’t have a long blonde wig,” Johnny says absently. He’s checking his Google Alerts folder, which never fails to give him the latest on Stéphane before Stéphane even gets a chance to tell him, and today there’s an article in French that Johnny can’t really understand, but the pictures kind of speak for themselves.

The first thing he thinks is: fabulous handbag. The second: she looks like his ex.

Stéphane has a type, it seems.

“What’s that?” Paris asks, resting his chin on Johnny’s shoulder. Registering what’s on the screen, he gasps, appropriately melodramatic.

“Is that his ex-girlfriend?”

“No,” Johnny says, clearing his throat. He’s feeling uncomfortably hot. “But they seem to have the same impossibly long legs.”

Paris squeezes his hand reassuringly. “I’m sure it’s not what it looks like.”

Johnny doesn’t even know what it looks like. They’re not naked, that’s something. But still, there’s a girl in Stéphane’s lap, and he has an arm wrapped around her waist. In the second picture, it looks like he’s whispering something in her ear, brushing back her long blonde hair—the kind Paris was just talking about; sways in the wind but never gets tangled.

Johnny can’t help but admire the beauty of the two of them together. They look perfect. The camera seems to love the contrast they make; blonde/brunet, male/female.

“Honey, you okay?” Paris asks, hugging him from behind.

Johnny pats his arm. “I’m fine. I’m just.”

“Jealous?”

“Tired,” Johnny says.

This isn’t really important. He has friends he’d sit with and touch like that, and that never means anything but affection. Aside from the jealousy that’s never rational anyway—and which is always worse when it’s a woman and not another man—there’s nothing in this picture that should bother him. It’s what the picture represents, more than what it shows; the fact that Johnny isn’t there with Stéphane, the fact that even if he’d been there, he wouldn’t have been able to touch him like this woman did, the fact that Johnny has a boyfriend, but not really.

“Let’s go out,” Johnny says, shrugging Paris off and getting up. He heads to his closet and starts sifting through his more fabulous outfits. He can look fabulous, even if he doesn’t feel it.

“Okay, I’m borrowing your shirt,” Paris says, grabbing a red shirt off the hanger before leaving.

“Call Ethan!” Johnny yells after him. He can use being a little flattered tonight.

~

Johnny drinks. A lot.

The night starts out okay. The club is packed and the music is awesome; Johnny figures he’ll leave his anger on the dance floor and go home with a clear head. Then around 10 PM, his phone starts vibrating, and Stéphane’s face stares back at him from the screen. After that, Johnny kind of… loses it.

The vodka always goes easier after the first three shots, and when he makes it to the ninth, Johnny can barely stand on his own two feet, let alone feel anything. There are enough people wanting to dance with him that he can sandwich himself in between them to stay up, and Ethan is always helpful when he stumbles, so he stays on the dance floor, feeling safe inside the crowd.

“Is it time to sleep yet?” Johnny asks Ethan, because it feels like he’s getting sleepy. His eyelids keep wanting to slide shut.

Ethan pets his hair, pulling his head down to rest on his shoulder. “Not for a while yet.”

Johnny sighs and snuggles closer. Ethan has the kind of chest that was made for snuggling. They used to snuggle a lot when they were together. Johnny misses waking up with his head pillowed on Ethan’s chest. “Ethan,” Johnny says, nudging him with his nose. “Why did we break up?”

Ethan shrugs. “You tell me, sweetie. You were the one that broke it off.”

Johnny tries to raise his head, but it’s way too heavy to move. They’ll need a crane to take him home. “I was? Why would I do such a thing?”

“You said something about us going in different directions? I don’t know.”

Johnny considers this. It sounds like bullshit to him. “That sounds like bullshit.”

Ethan laughs. “That’s what I thought at the time.”

“At the time?” Johnny asks, catching the change of tone in Ethan’s voice. “What about now?”

Ethan takes a deep breath. “Now I think maybe you were too good for me.”

Johnny realizes suddenly that he has stopped moving. He’s standing in the middle of the dance floor, wrapped around his ex-boyfriend, and as if that wasn’t enough, he’s about to start crying. “That’s not true,” he says, sniffling and shaking his head. “You are good enough. You always were.”

“Yeah?” Ethan says, beaming down at him, and Johnny wants to kiss him so much—

“There you are.”

A pair of familiar scrawny arms wrap from behind him, pulling him away from Ethan’s chest. Goodbye Ethan’s chest, Johnny thinks regretfully, it was nice seeing you again.

“Paris?”

“Yes, honey.”

“I think I’m drunk.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“Good,” Johnny says, nodding. Paris will take care of things. He’ll at least make sure that they make it home—though there’s no guarantee that they’ll still be dressed when they get there. Last time they weren’t, and neither of them knew what had happened to their clothes.

“Now, say goodbye to your little friend,” Paris says, getting under his arm to hold him up.

“Bye, Ethan,” Johnny waves dutifully.

Ethan smiles at him wide and happy. It’s good that Ethan’s happy. Johnny likes seeing him happy.

“Keep your clothes on,” Johnny advises as Paris whisks him away.

“I will,” Ethan promises.

~

His phone rings again and again the next day, but Johnny has the headache to end all headaches and does not want to deal with Stéphane until he’s at least had a good night’s sleep.

After the third time he calls, Johnny hands his phone over to Paris to answer. He doesn’t even care if Paris tells him about Johnny’s pathetic attempts at forgetting the long-legged chick sitting in his boyfriend’s lap.

He just hopes Paris won’t tweet anything too embarrassing from his account.

~

There’s no more avoiding it the next day, and Johnny’s strangely resigned to his fate anyway. He calls Stéphane, which is something he’s done only a handful of times before, and says,

“I need to talk to you about something important. If you have the time.”

There’s silence at the other end of the line.

“Hello?”

Stéphane clears his throat. “You are breaking up with me, aren’t you?”

“I—” Johnny thinks about it. He has avoided that phrase while planning this talk, but… “Not exactly, but. Kind of? I guess.”

“How can you kind of break up with someone?” Stéphane asks drily.

Now that pisses Johnny off. “I guess it happens when you have a kind of boyfriend.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means…” Johnny takes a deep breath, calming down. “Seeing each other once every two months is not a relationship. I need more than that, and I know I can’t ask you for it.”

“If this is about the pictures—I know you saw them—”

“No,” Johnny rushes. “It’s not the pictures. It’s… what you’re willing to give and what I’m willing to settle for. I don’t want to make it into this thing, okay? It’s not a big deal, we never really said what this was exactly, we didn’t even promise to be exclusive—”

“I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t—” Johnny sits down on the bed, suddenly feeling weighed down. “I didn’t either, but I don’t know if that was the right thing to do.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I love you. I never said it, but I do. But we can’t keep doing this. What we have is nothing more than a friendship with benefits, and we should probably acknowledge that.”

“You want to see other people.” Stéphane sounds heartbroken. Johnny wants to take everything back and fly to Finland to kiss it all better.

But he won’t.

“I’m not exactly seeing you, am I?”

~

Much to Paris’ disappointment, Johnny doesn’t mope after the breakup.

“But I bought all this chocolate ice cream,” he says. “What are we going to do with all that if you’re not even moping?”

He doesn’t try to clean Paris’ room or scrub the floors with a toothbrush either. He tells himself to use this opportunity to drop all the deadweight from his life, starting with his managerial duties at the studio. He asks Ethan to introduce him to a couple of designers and behind-the-scenes guys from runway shows, and starts getting involved in small projects to learn the process. He feels more excited about work than he has in years, and realizes that he’s been sitting on his ass for a long time, waiting for things to come to him, like the way he waited for Stéphane as if he was a good little housewife.

That’s not in Johnny’s nature. It makes him feel empty and worthless. He needs to be up and running towards something. He needs speed and movement and bright lights blurring past him. Even when he’s doomed to fall down, he wants to go down burning like a shooting star.

The only part of his life he doesn’t feel like moving fast in is his love life.

He doesn’t date for a whole month, and even after that, his first and only date is with Ethan—which, predictably, ends with them deciding whatever they once had is long gone. They do make good friends though, which drives Paris to near-insanity.

“It’s in the eyes,” Paris says, pointing at his own eyes. “He has evil, beady eyes.”

Johnny stares at him, amused, until Paris waves a hand in annoyance.

“You don’t get it. You’re just not that sensitive. I can sense the evil coming off him.”

Work keeps Johnny happy and satisfied. One of the designers Ethan introduced him to, Nicole, lets him help with the design of a dress on his third show with her. Johnny’s full of ideas—even considered taking a class or two in fashion design back in the day—and Nicole is not too stuck up to ask for his opinion, so it works out great for both of them. The dress is black silk, with a tight corseted bodice Johnny gets them to detail with silver threads running up and down the sides with serpentine curves in uneven lengths. It looks old-fashioned and slightly gothic and fabulous when it’s done.

Nicole calls it Be Weir’d.

Paris cries as they watch the model walk down the runway wearing it. Johnny can’t stop grinning.

~

Stéphane doesn’t call for sixty-three days. (Not that Johnny’s counting.) When he finally does, Johnny’s at an after party and can’t really hear him. From what he can hear, Stéphane sounds stilted and awkward.

“I will let you get back to your party,” Stéphane says.

“No, no, no,” Johnny says, finding himself a balcony and slipping out. “It’s okay, we can talk.”

“I don’t—” Stéphane sighs, frustrated. “I just called to ask how you were.”

“I’m fine. I’m doing okay.”

“Good,” Stéphane says inanely. “That’s good to hear.”

“How are you?” Johnny asks. He has been itching to call and ask all this time, but couldn’t. He has no idea why the thought of talking to Stéphane has been so impossible.

“I am okay. I am…” He pauses, then says, “Are you dating anyone?”

Johnny’s heart trembles. It’s a scary feeling. “Uh.”

“You don’t have to answer—”

“I’m not,” Johnny says. “I’m not dating anyone.” He holds his breath, waiting to hear the words I will be in town—he doesn’t know if he can do that; it was one thing to say it on the phone, it’s another thing completely to see and touch and taste Stéphane only to let him go again—but the words never come.

“Okay. I—You should go back to your party,” Stéphane says again in a hurry. “I will call again soon. Goodbye, Johnny.”

Johnny says bye to a dead line.

~

Two weeks after that, Paris falls in love. He says he’s in so deep that he can spontaneously give birth to their lovechild. To anyone who doesn’t know how to read him, it probably looks like any one of his dozens of past boyfriends, but Johnny knows him. He can tell this one is for real.

That’s why he takes the guy aside to give him the talk—which is a first for him, so he gets a little nervous. Ethan helps him plan it. It’s made up of three parts: (a) the congratulations, (b) the threats, and (c) the care and feeding of Paris Childers.

Jerry not only accepts the talk with good humor, but also takes notes.

Johnny honestly couldn’t be happier for Paris.

The downside of this development is that he feels a bit like a third wheel with the two of them constantly joined at the hip, and feels lonely at home, with all the time Paris spends at Jerry’s. He goes clubbing with friends, hangs out with Nicole, works more than he ever did before, but with no one at home to leave dirty dishes everywhere and drop crumbs all over the carpet, there’s surprisingly little cleaning to do, and playing dress up when you’re alone is just depressing.

It’s also problematic, because some items of clothing, like the thigh-high lace-up stripper boots he’s wearing right now, have laces. Lots of them.

The black leggings are his, but the golden wraparound skirt and the lace-up boots of doom, Johnny appropriated from Nicole’s last show. They look fucking awesome on him, but he can’t even imagine how he’s going to get out of them. It’s going to take him forever, and there’s no guarantee that the boots won’t need new laces by then.

He’s considering just cutting them off when his phone rings. He answers without checking the caller ID.

“Hi.”

It’s Stéphane.

“Um. Hi,” Johnny says. He tries to lean against the counter, but misses and almost breaks an ankle. “Shit.”

“Are you okay? Is this a bad time?”

“No, no,” Johnny says, perching on a stool. “It’s just my shoes. Long story.”

“Oh. Okay. I sent you an email. Do you have your laptop?”

“Uh. Sure.” That’s odd. Stéphane doesn’t email him a lot, and certainly never calls to tell him when he does.

Johnny walks into his bedroom and wakes up his laptop. He switches the phone to his other ear and clicks the tiny email icon. The email has no subject and not much of a body either. “It’s a link?”

“Yes.”

Johnny clicks it. It’s a YouTube link to an interview. It must be a new one, because Stéphane’s hair is shorter than Johnny’s ever seen it. The interview is in French with English subtitles, so Johnny turns down the volume and focuses on Stéphane’s face; his mouth, his chin, his eyebrows. It’s physically hurting him to watch this after all this time spent turning his head away every time he saw a picture or a video of Stéphane.

“Wait. Where are you moving?” Johnny asks, catching the tail end of a subtitle.

“Watch,” Stéphane says. He sounds nervous.

The bottle blonde on the screen says:

Are you moving because of the coach change, or are you changing your coach because of the move?

Stéphane looks at the woman, and then down at his hands. When he raises his head, he seems determined.

I’m moving because of a personal reason. I had to change my coach because of the move, not the other way around. I’ve been training with Peter for a long time. We are family. It’s going to be hard to leave him behind.

Johnny realizes he’s literally clutching at his bosom and makes himself let go. On the screen, the interviewer gets a glint in her eye.

Can you share your personal reason with us? Is it that someone in New York stole your heart perhaps?

Stéphane nods, oddly serious.

Yes, you could say that I did leave my heart in New York. I’m going there to reclaim it.

The interviewer laughs. Johnny wants to strangle her.

How romantic! When do we get to meet this young lady?

Stéphane smiles, stealing a glance at the camera as if he knows Johnny’s watching.

He’d be very amused to hear you calling him a lady.

Johnny gasps. “What did you do?”

“I arranged to move to New York.”

“And came out in the same breath!”

“Yes,” Stéphane says, suddenly all Zen about this whole thing. “I guess I did.”

“You idiot—”

The doorbell rings and startles Johnny who promptly manages to trip over his own feet. Fucking boots. “Shit. Hold on.” He’s going to kill Paris if he forgot his keys again.

He gets to the door without breaking an ankle and automatically fixes his skirt, just in case it’s someone else. He throws open the door and—

It is someone else.

“You’re here,” Johnny says into the phone in his hand, before realizing what he’s doing and just dropping it.

Stéphane nods. He looks as uncomfortable as Johnny has ever seen him, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a grim line.

“I don’t know if I am still what you want, but I want to be able to give you what you need. If you—”

It’s not easy to jump with high heels on, especially when the boots also cover your knees, but Johnny manages. Stéphane stumbles and takes a step back to lean against the wall, but stays standing. His hands grip Johnny’s thighs hard enough to bruise.

He grins wide—he looks so happy, it gives Johnny butterflies in his stomach—and says, “I love you, too.”

Johnny kisses him long and wet and desperate, making love to his mouth right there in the hallway.

They scandalize at least two neighbors. Johnny makes a mental note to add that to Paris’ little scoreboard on the fridge.

~

Johnny’s on his back on the bed with his feet dangling over the edge, when Stéphane stands over him and asks, “Should I ask about the boots?”

Johnny shakes his head. “Probably better if you don’t.”

Stéphane nods—like the good and understanding boyfriend that he is. Johnny’s very proud of him.

“Do you want help getting out of them?”

Johnny smirks and raises his right foot to rest the heel on Stéphane’s chest.

“Always.”

The End

March 3rd, 2010