Chapter 21 Stefan
Stefan
Fuck. I didn't mean to ask that. I don't want to break this perfect moment. Don't want to let him start thinking. Don't want to let myself start thinking. It just came out, and I hate my brain for it.
But now that it's out, I can't take it back. Because everything in me needs to know.
There was nothing casual, nothing easy, about what just happened. To an observer, maybe it would look like it. Two guys so hot for each other they can't even make it the last few steps to a bed. But it was more than that.
To me, at least—was it for him?
And if not, how am I going to live with that?
But if so, how am I going to live with that? The future felt so far away only an hour ago, but now it's everything. Evan is everything. I'll go public, find a way to find time for him, anything, if he'll just stay with me.
Even if it costs me my redemption?
The question sobers me. Am I willing to give it all up? If that's what I have to do to keep him?
What would it mean? There would be public fallout, the media, fans. My parents and their reaction. The biases of the judges. What would competition look like? Would skating authorities have an issue with us dating? Are there fraternization rules?
They're all important questions, questions that each, on their own, could be enough to derail my biggest goal. Is it worth it?
Am I getting too far ahead of myself?
He hasn't answered. Fuck, he hasn't answered.
I shouldn't have asked. I've gone over-the-top. I won't need to answer any of those questions because I've scared him off before I've even really got him. I should know better. One hand job isn't a happily ever after in the making. What was I thinking?
"Stefan." His voice is hesitant, and I hate it. I hate everything about it.
Before he can continue, I'm up, off the floor, moving away from him.
Gathering up my pants and trying to struggle into them.
Stumbling as Tea almost trips me when she streaks by, jumping over them in some inexplicable race to my bedroom.
I need a shield. Something, anything, to keep me away from the need that's coursing through me.
Making me weak. Making me breakable. "It's ok.
Never mind. Don't worry about it. I didn't mean to ask. "
I'm halfway to my shirt before he responds. "Stefan, I—"
"Seriously, Evan. No big deal. We're having fun for a few days. We both know that. It's fine. It doesn't mean anything. I just got carried away for a second." I'm not sure how I'm going to make it through this visit now, though. Will I fall apart completely? Beg at his feet?
Once my shirt is on, I feel better. More protected, somehow. As if clothing is a barrier for my feelings. Stupid feelings. I hate feelings. That's why I try to avoid them.
Luckily, Georgia is still with us, staring judgmentally from the top of the stairs, so I start toward her, looking for an excuse, any excuse, to get further away.
Evan doesn't bother trying to dress. Once he's managed to untangle himself from his pants, he moves to me, and before I can scoop up my cat and flee, his hand is on my arm, holding me still.
Holding me with him. "Stefan." This time his voice is firmer, and it calms me. A little. A very, very little.
"What?" My voice, on the other hand, is high. Shaky, even. As weak as I feel right now.
"We need to talk about this." His voice is filled with regret. He doesn't want to have the conversation any more than I do.
"We don't. It's fine. We both knew what we were getting into."
"Did we?" He starts petting my arm, as if he's trying to soothe a fucking horse or something. "We've never actually talked about it. Maybe we should have."
"There's nothing to talk about." I'm frantic, shaking. Why am I shaking? I need to be alone. I need to figure out how to get Evan away. Just for a few minutes. That's all I need.
Strong arms wrap around me, holding me tight against his warm body. "Stefan." His voice is next to my ear, calm, centering. "It's ok. You're ok. We'll figure this out, I promise."
I want to cry. That's ridiculous. I never cry. Well, ok, sometimes I cry. But not because of a boy. I cry because I skated poorly. Because I skated well. Because Evan skated the way Evan skates. But that's it. That's the only reason I cry. Skating.
Why does everything suddenly feel like the end of the world? "It's fine. I'm fine."
"I thought that was supposed to be a woman thing," he says, with a baffling hint of humor.
"What?" Crying? I didn't take Evan for a toxic masculinity type guy, but maybe I don't know him as well as I think I do.
"Saying you're fine when you're not." Oh. He's trying for levity. Trying to lighten the mood a little. That voice is his teasing voice.
It's not working. Am I capable of pretending it's working? I try to laugh, try to do something. Anything. But the sound I get out is a lot closer to a sob than a chuckle. Apparently not.
It’s a struggle to speak, but I finally manage. "Evan, I need a minute. I just... need a minute. Then I'll be fi— all right. I promise."
He just hugs me tighter. "I think this might be more than a question we've been avoiding, baby. Let's go lay you down." Baby. There it is again. I'd hardly noticed before, in the heat of everything, but I like the sound of it on his lips. The warmth it spreads through me.
Since he's so insistent, I let him lead me down the hall, to my room. The door is open, and he guides me through it, pausing for a moment on the threshold. The arm wrapped around my shoulders tightens. "Stefan Petryk, do you have a poster of me hanging on your wall?"
It was meant to be a joke, something to make him laugh.
Because if he came in here, it meant we were sleeping together.
But now it feels all wrong. Like I've been stalking him or something.
Too serious, too committed. Too all the things that he's avoiding.
"It was funny," I answer weakly. I'm such a jackass. Now he'll know I'm a jackass.
But instead of walking away in disgust, leaving me to my own devices, the way I want him to, he laughs. As if he gets it, understands what I was going for. Because of course he does. Perfect fucking Evan.
Shoulders still shaking, he leads me the rest of the way to my bed. "Now I need to get one of you for my wall. I think it might fit in between the glued-together puzzle and rusted pipes."
Was any man ever more perfect?
Once he's got me on my bed, he goes about stripping me again, but it's not sexual this time. Even though he's still naked. Then he goes to my thermostat, turns up the heat in my room, and disappears into the en suite.
A minute later, he's back, washcloth in hand.
It's a bit too late to clean me, after I smeared our come all over the place when I threw my clothes on.
But he does his best, dabbing away at my body until I'm as clean as I'm going to get.
The washcloth is warm, and it feels... good.
Surprisingly good. Even when he cleans off my cock for me, which should be embarrassing. Shouldn't it?
Instead, I'm just warmed all over, taken care of.
What is it about Evan that makes me feel all these things I haven't felt before? That I don't have any experience with? Am not sure how to process?
When he's done wiping me down, he goes back to the bathroom for a moment, then returns without the washcloth.
Our eyes meet, and he stares at me for a few seconds before circling the bed.
I lose sight of him, which is almost painful for a moment, but he slides onto the mattress beside me and pulls the blankets over us.
"Ok," he says, "how are you feeling? For real. "
I'm not shaking anymore, so that seems like a good sign. I still might burst into tears at any moment, though. "I'm not sure." It's as honest as I can be.
"That's fair." He wraps himself around me, his head on my chest, an arm and a leg circling over me. I thought I wanted to be alone, but this is better. He's still here. Maybe I didn't fuck everything up.
When a warm weight presses against my other side, I relax a bit more. The cats are here, too. They’re always here when I need them.
Evan’s hand skims over my chest, back and forth. A soothing gesture, not a sexual one. Even though having him wrapped around me is starting to send those little sparks darting through me everywhere we touch. Already. Will I ever get used to being around Evan? "Ready to talk?"
Nope. But will I ever be? Not after I made such a fool out of myself. "If we could just... never talk again, that would be great."
Evan laughs, and it's a light huff of air onto my shoulder.
It's nice. Steady. Secure. His body holds very little tension. Unlike mine, which is nothing but knotted muscles. I make an effort to try to let the tension go, to take a few breaths and relax on the exhales the way I’ve been taught, but it doesn't go far.
Years of meditation training must not be enough.
"You don't need to be embarrassed," he says, and his voice is kind. Kinder than it has any right to be.
Because I do. I should be embarrassed. About everything that's happened in the past few minutes.
Hour? I've no idea how long it's been. How long I've been laying in bed, shaking.
How long before that I was all but collapsing in on myself in the hallway.
"You don't need to be nice. I totally overreacted to literally everything. "
"I think there's a reason for that." His hand is still running over my chest. I try to let myself melt into it, but I can't. I can't trust it. "This might sound crazy, but have you ever heard of sub drop?"
"Sub drop?"
"I'll have to do more research, but I think it might be part of it. It's something about endorphins wearing off and leaving you more—I don't know. Depressed? Vulnerable?"
"I don't know." I'm frowning up at the ceiling.
I should pay attention to his ideas. Somehow, Evan knows me better than anyone else, with the possible exception of Jacques.
Even Jacques hadn't known my sexuality—except he did, didn't he?
Before I did. Given that revelation, if Evan has a theory, no matter how much it doesn't feel right, it's worth thinking about.
"If anyone's used to endorphin rushes and comedowns, it's me. "
"That's a good point." He hasn't stopped stroking me, and I appreciate it. Even if I'm nowhere near relaxed, at least I'm somewhat comforted. "But maybe it's different? I wish I'd researched more."
"I don't feel depressed, though. And it's not like we did anything hard core or whatever." I may not have experience with much of anything about what he's unlocked in me, but I do know that. I'm not completely naive to the concept of rough sex.
"No, but I don't think that's a requirement. It's individual for everyone, what gets them in sub space. And you looked pretty blissed out." Evan curls around me more, as if trying to protect me from myself.
I give a sort of half shrug, not committing to the idea. I appreciate that he's trying to come up with an explanation other than I'm an asshole who overreacted, but that's what it is. I got carried away in the moment and then fell to pieces over his response.
After a minute or so of silence, his thumb starts tapping on my chest. Steady. Comforting. An attempt to calm me down or just what he does when he thinks? I've never noticed it before. "Another thought. Are you prone to anxiety?"
"Isn't everyone skating at our level?" As far as I'm concerned, it might as well be a prerequisite for the job. If I weren't anxious all the time, I'd never work myself so hard.
"What if it was a panic attack?"
"I don't get panic attacks." The response is immediate.
Surprisingly defensive. I don't think any less of people who do, but me?
No. I've spent my entire life under a pressure cooker of expectations.
No way I'd fold just because Evan doesn't want to stay with me forever.
Or whatever stupid, impossible dreams I had in that moment.
"Ok." That was too easy. I push his head off my chest so I can see him, narrowing my eyes as I try to read his face. Is he humoring me?
He blinks innocently at me. Yep. He's humoring me. "I don't."
"Maybe just moments of extra anxiety?" Another oh so innocent blink. How did I never notice how long his eyelashes are? They're not particularly thick, but when they come down over his cheeks, they fan down like he's wearing fake ones.
"I don't know. Maybe." Because—Well, maybe he has a point. Sometimes the anxiety gets a little overwhelming. And in the hallway, my chest had been awfully tight. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, either.
In fact, it's the exact feeling I get before I lose my temper and fly off the handle.
Interesting. The same tightness, but with opposite results.
Instead of fighting Evan, I'd crumbled. Why?
At no point had I considered using my anger management techniques, because—I wasn't angry at him. Not even a little. Just at myself.