FroggTales

Title:  Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 1)
Author:  thefrogg
Beta:  None yet
Disclaimer:  Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people.  Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings:  weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary:  Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury.  Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach.  Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
Author's Notes:  Am only hoping that this isn't...wildly OOC given the timeframe and circumstances (and my current lack of non-fanon knowledge of the people involved).  Since when is this news?  I can't believe I'm posting this.  I really really can't.

The stylized dolphin charm wobbles slightly on its cord, gleaming dully in the artificial light of the hotel bathroom, and Johnny has to suppress the faint, sickening urge to clean it until the grooves have smoothed out, the black and grey tarnish vanishes from the silver beneath.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and pulls the cord over his head, straightening the charm between the wings of too-prominent collarbones with a splayed hand.  Then, stepping over the side of the tub and bracing himself - hard - against the chill tile with one forearm, he yanks the tap all the way to the left.

Water sprays over him, gradually warming, and the weird, disturbing, and weirdly disturbing painlessness of the lower half of his body rearranging itself in a cacophony of snapping bones and tearing flesh takes over his senses.

~~~

Stéphane slips through the door quietly, thanking whoever cares to listen for the existence of fans working in Sochi's hotel industry, then gives up on the half-hearted and pathetic attempt at stealth - GaGa's The Fame Monster is playing, though at a reasonable level, from somewhere across a mostly-hidden room already liberally splashed with pink and black and glittery somethings.  And the shower is running.

Neither is loud enough to cover up the sound of something heavy being peeled off the floor and thudding back down, repeatedly, or Johnny's tear-choked curses.  The former makes no sense, and Stéphane pushes the incoherent, multi-lingual cursing to the back of his mind for a moment as he tries to figure it out before giving up and edging into the bathroom.

Stéphane still can't figure out what the noise is, or make heads or tails of Johnny's silhouetted form behind the shower curtain.  It doesn't look right, it doesn't sound right.  "Johnny?"

There's no mistaking the yelp or the sudden chorded squeals of skin-on-tile.  Stéphane lunges forward before he realizes he's even reacting, sweeping the curtain aside and catching Johnny before he can fall, one arm across his upper back, one...lower...

"Johnny?"  He has no time to figure this out now, he's soaked, hair plastered to his skull, water raining down, Johnny getting heavier with each panicked breath...and there's a hard, convex something pressing against his arm, arcing its way out of Johnny's back.  The water-slick skin against his own is hard and rubbery, with little give.

He struggles to back up, dragging Johnny bodily out of the tub, and only tightens his arms as the broad, grey-black expanse of what had once been feet flops lazily over the edge to splat against the wet floor.

"No."  The protest is weak, mumbled into Stéphane's shoulder; he can feel the press of nails where Johnny's wrapped around him, one hand above his shoulder blade, the other next to his spine.  "Not, not supposed...not dry."  The last comes out as half whimper, half wail.

"I have you, Johnny."  The words come easily, somehow, whispered blind into Johnny's ear as Stéphane lowers them both to the floor.  Johnny's shaking in his arms.  He lets go long enough to swipe the water out of his eyes and glances down, just to see, to make sure...

Johnny's legs are gone.  He hadn't been seeing things.

"You.  Johnny.  You're--dolphin?"  Stéphane can't put together a coherent sentence any more than Johnny can, despite the curious lack of, well, of curiosity.  It's just one more difference about a man who insisted on being different, and being okay with that.

Only, it's all too obvious that Johnny's not okay with this.

"Don't--"  Johnny still won't look up, still has his face tucked against Stéphane's neck, so that Stéphane can feel the swallow.  "Don't.  Let it get.  Dry."  He stops then, licks his lips, and Stéphane can feel that, too, a quick rough-wet slide against his skin.

"Okay.  Okay.  We can do this."  Stéphane reaches up for a towel and thrusts it into the shower, holding it until it's sopping wet and his arm aches.  "Hold onto me," he says softly, and waits for the answering crush of Johnny's grip before easing his tail to the floor, using both hands to gently spread the dripping towel over charcoal and white.  "Is this enough?" Stéphane asks, voice gentle, even though he knows it isn't.  Johnny's bare tailflukes are still twitching against the side of the tub, and Stéphane wonders just how sensitive Johnny's skin is, now.

"No," Johnny manages, and Stéphane can feel him choke up, nose and forehead scrunching close and dragging the skin of his own neck with them.  "I can't, I have to--"  Whatever he was going to say gets lost in the sob he can't suppress hard enough, fast enough.

"I have you, Johnny, shhh," and Stéphane pulls him impossibly closer, holding the wet towel in place against Johnny as he slams his tail against the tub over and over in his distress.  It doesn't take long for Johnny to cry himself into exhaustion, for the loud thumps of his tail to dwindle to soft pats, and Stéphane is thankful for it.  This new form - new to him, at least, and judging from Johnny's condition, not all that old to him, either - doesn't have a pelvis, is nothing like Disney's mermaids ("And wouldn't Johnny love that?" some small voice adds unhelpfully), and has no way to really sit on anything; his back is just one long curve into his tail, broken only by the sharp blade of a dorsal fin Stéphane still hasn't managed to look at properly.

"Can you tell me about this?" Stéphane asks finally, when Johnny's fallen still save the panting breath against his neck, hot and moist.  He can tell Johnny's not asleep - there's no way he could be asleep, not with the death grip he has on Stéphane, digging furrows in his shirt and leaving bruises beneath, sharp crescents of pain filling with blood beneath neatly kept nails.

"I--"  Johnny tries, he really does, Stéphane knows, but his shoulders hitch, and there's another thump of his tail, and Stéphane's half afraid he's going to dissolve into tears again when his brain decides to start working.

"This is why no one's heard from you in months."  Stephane hears himself speak, recognizes his voice, but not the blandness of it.

"No."  The denial is sharp; Johnny finally raises his head the little he can in his position to give him a watery glare.  "This--" and he slams the tub again for emphasis, "I can deal with.  I think.  It's...more complicated than that."  The words fall to a pained whisper, mumbled against Stéphane's shoulder again as what little strength Johnny dredged up fails him.

Stéphane has to laugh - has to, because otherwise he'd join Johnny in breaking down in tears.  "They always are when it comes to you."

Johnny doesn't answer him, just nuzzles Stéphane's shoulder and allows himself to relax - as much as he can, since his grip is about the only thing keeping him from rolling off of Stéphane's knees.

Stéphane lets him, listens to Johnny's breathing slow, feels his lashes brush his own skin, all the while crooning soft comfort in Swiss until his own body is screaming retribution. "Johnny?"

"Mmm?" Johnny rocks his head a little, looking up just enough to give Stéphane a flash of eye contact.

"You know I would hold you as long as you like, but my body, it is getting old, and this new body of yours, it is…awkward."

Johnny chokes out a laugh at the obvious avoidance. "You'll have to help me roll over, well, half over," because if Stéphane let go, he'd go face down into the floor, but his tail's all twisted to one side, and really, that can't be comfortable.

"Yes, yes, we need more towels," Stéphane mutters, peeling wet cloth from wet skin and helping untangle their arms, easing Johnny to the floor in the process.

Johnny catches his breath when Stéphane helps turn his tail right-side down, hands firm; he flinches when the towel is dragged up his body, past where his hips would have been, and hooked over the grey-streaked dorsal fin at the base of his ribcage.

"Johnny? I did not hurt you? I am sorry, I do not-"

"No, no, I. Just." Johnny just shrugs helplessly and flips his tail, refusing to look up.

"You will tell me if I hurt you? Johnny." And that comes out more scolding than Stéphane had wanted, but he can't help it. They're figure skaters. Pain is a given, but only done to themselves in the pursuit of their craft, never to one another.

Johnny's breathing is rough and uneven, audible over the shower and the music still playing out in the main room as Stéphane painfully kneels next to him. He stays silent, half-propped on his elbows.

"Johnny?"

The look Johnny turns up to him should never be seen, never be needed, Stéphane thinks, plaintive and confused and pained and somehow hopeful despite all of that. "I've never…No one's…No one's ever…I only…" He breaks off, blushing a deep red and ducking his head as if trying to hide.

Stéphane blinks. "No one's ever touched you in this form before."

Johnny shakes his head frantically, water spraying from his hair.

The realization, the intimacy implied drags a sigh from Stéphane, and he brushes a hand over a hunched shoulder. "I am honored, my friend." Johnny shrugs again, as if to say "No big deal," and Stéphane swallows hard, eyes burning with his own unshed tears. "You will tell me if I hurt you, yes? If I do something you are not comfortable with?" he adds, hesitating, because Johnny can't be that comfortable with this, not yet, and he might not have been responding to pain.

"I don't know-"

"Johnny."

Johnny looks up so fast Stéphane can almost hear his neck crack in protest. Fury burns in his eyes, but the anger is only for himself as he finishes. "I don't know how anything's supposed to feel."

"Then start with what you know and tell me as we go along. Johnny, please," Stéphane adds as Johnny tucks his chin to his chest and stares at the floor, muscles bunching in his shoulders; there's no accompanying thump of his tail and Stéphane isn't sure how to interpret the lack. "You have been there always when I needed you, with open arms and open heart. You never rejected the same from me. Don't start now, Johnny. Don't start now."

There's another suppressed sob, and a sniff, and a swallow as Johnny forces his breathing to steady. "I. Okay," he finally says, almost inaudible over the hissing of the shower and GaGa wanting his love in the background.

"Bien. I will be gentle as possible." Stéphane runs a soothing hand over Johnny's back, scratches a little under the hair lying in matted curls at the base of his skull, the way he knows would normally turn Johnny into a pile of purring mush.

This time, Johnny only hiccups and relaxes a little, but it is a start, and for the next little while, Stéphane only concentrates on keeping his promise as Johnny periodically writhes and twitches under his hands, and ignoring the squeaks and giggles and protests of "Not THERE, please, god-fucking-damn," even as he ducks the reflexive swipe of Johnny's tail and winds up half sprawled across his upper body, dorsal fin digging into his ribs. By the time they finish, they're both breathing hard. Johnny's red-faced in embarrassment, color fading slowly; his tail's wrapped in all but one of the hotel towels, flukes still bare, Stéphane's hands rubbing them almost hypnotically-he's finding that it's as good as a backrub for making Johnny melt into whatever flat surface he's lying on.

"You are all right?"

"'M not doin' that again," Johnny mumbles into the floor.

"Tired?" Because Stéphane knows that tone, knows that nothing short of Galina on a rampage is going to get him to move, much less actually do something.

"'M not moving," Johnny says, stating the obvious, and then adds in the same half-dead monotone, "Y'can keep rubbing, though."

"I could, yes, but I was thinking I would make phone calls. We should move you to the bed. Yes? Much more comfortable. There are pillows!"

"Stéphane. I have a tail. I have to keep it wet." Apparently the prospect of offending the hotel is almost as bad as the threat of Galina.

"Yes, yes, I have a plan!"

"God save me from crazy Swiss men with a plan," Johnny whines in Russian, but it doesn't sound like he really means it, and a moment later he shudders and goes absolutely limp as Stéphane digs his knuckles into his flukes and rubs and rubs and rubs until Johnny's half-dozing on the pleasure. He barely notices when Stéphane slows, then stops, and whispers a soft "Dors bien, mon ami," on his way out of the bathroom, swiping the last towel.

After giving himself a cursory drying off and borrowing one of Johnny's t-shirts, Stéphane places a call to housekeeping on the hotel phone, then takes out his thankfully still-working cell.

"Tanith?" And then he has to stop, completely incapable of telling her what's going on. "Merde. You will have to see. And keep open mind. This is…this is magical zebras in winter. But for real."

***

Translations:

I would have done the web-translation on the Russian, but I couldn't get two of them to agree, so.  Bah humbug.

Bien - good
Dors bien, mon ami - Sleep well, my friend.
Merde - shit