Archive of Our Own

Michael Phelps didn’t mean to marry Ryan Lochte. It was an accident. A really awful, ridiculous, amazing accident that only happened because Ryan is a complete and utter douche and also has friends in fashion, and Michael was pissed Ryan had plans with people other than him during a fucking Olympic summer, and also Michael is an idiot, and also, it must be acknowledged, Michael is a complete and utter sucker for anything Ryan Lochte asks of him.

**

Michael felt Ryan before he heard him. The earphones were snatched off Michael’s head and Michael felt a slight rush of adrenaline at the sudden intrusion—people he was supposed to recognize had been clapping him on the shoulder all day— until he saw it was Ryan standing there in front of him in the hotel lobby, grinning.

“Bored already, bro?” Ryan asked, peering at Michael’s paper. “Omaha World Herald? Don’t you bring a magazine or some shit?”

Michael tossed the paper aside and stood, reaching out to grab his headphones back. “Fuck off, I don’t bring fashion magazines to trials like you do,” he said. “And dude, what is wrong with your hair?”

Michael reached out, patting Ryan’s shorter hair with his fingertips. Ryan swayed slightly and then dropped his duffel, wrapping his arms around Michael and then pulling away with a slap on Michael’s back. “Didn’t know I needed your approval for a haircut,” he said, scanning the room and giving a head nod to a group of guys that also trained with Gregg at the concierge.

He was tanner, too; Ryan always got darker in the summer. It’d been five months since the training session in Florida with Bob and Gregg. Michael wondered how long Ryan’s hair had been short, whether he was the last person here to see it like this.

“Yeah, well, now you know,” Michael said. “Fucking call me first. You look almost respectable now and we’re gonna lose the gangsta intimidation factor,” Michael said, his voice disapproving.

“Michael, hey!” called Tyler, who was waving next to a guy whose name Michael could never remember. Pulled a decent time in the 1500 at Pan Pacifics. Had freckles and that cheesy Koi tattoo Michael wished he didn’t find so appealing. Fucking distance swimmers.

Michael nodded, said, “’Sup,” and returned his attention to Ryan. He didn’t want just anyone thinking they could come over here, and cheesy tattoo dude can stay the fuck away from Michael; it’s just easier that way. And anyway, it’d been five months without seeing Ryan, and Michael didn’t need anyone interfering or distracting him. He pocketed his hands and rocked forward a little on the balls of his feet.

“Dude, you’re the only one I need to intimidate,” Ryan was saying. “We’re gonna blow by these fools and you know how it’s gonna be in L-town. You vee me, brah.” Michael smirked. Ryan straightened his blazer. “And Mike, preppy glam is in. Check out my shoes.”

Ryan’s whole outfit looked a little like a preschool girl had thrown up art supplies on a Ralph Lauren ad.

“Is that glitter?” Michael squinted at Ryan’s sparkling green sneakers.

Ryan chuckled. “Rhinestones, MP. I designed these. Fashion is all about definition.”

“Definition,” Michael repeated, laughing. “Jesus, Ry.” He wrapped his hand around Ryan’s upper arm and squeezed. “It’s good to see you, man.” Ryan grinned up at him.

Michael caught sight of Cullen and Nathan walking into the lobby and dropped Ryan’s arm. They were okay. “Guys,” he called out, waving them over and stepping closer to Ryan to make room for them in their little circle. Didn’t want Tyler and 1500 meter Koi guy to get any ideas.

They all gave their hand slaps and hugs hello and Michael said, “Lochte glitter bombed his own shoes, guys.”

Cullen frowned and said, “I don’t think that’s what glitter bombed is.”

“Whatever, these are awesome, and shut up, Adrian,” Ryan said.

“I said nothing!” Nathan exclaimed, hands raised.

“You all want in my clothes,” Ryan said, picking up his duffel and looking around. “What floor are we on?”

Nathan reached into his bag to look for his key and Cullen just stared at Ryan. “I think you mean, we want your clothes, not in them,” he said.

“For the record, I want neither,” added Nathan, giving up on the key and shrugging.

“Has anyone seen Schmitty?” Michael asked, looking for Allison.

Ryan rolled his eyes at Nathan and strolled towards the elevators as a group of girls walked by. The girls were trying not to look at them but failing, and Ryan made a gallant show of holding the elevator door for them and giving a little bow as the girls parted ways and the really tall one of them walked by him and into the elevator.

“Hey, Michael,” she said. She looked familiar, but also really young to be at trials. Bob had said there were some new girls this year who’d gotten too good for Juniors. “Missy Franklin, so honored to meet you,” she said, holding out a hand.

Michael smiled and shook it. “Uh, nice to meet you, and good luck,” he said.

“God, thanks!” she laughed. “Third floor, please,” she said to Ryan and then turned back to Michael. “Any tips?”

Ryan banged the button and pursed his lips. Michael knew it bothered him. But Peter was working on it; Ryan’d already filmed the AT&T commercial. Soon everyone would remember he, too, had won a bunch of medals in Beijing.

“I dunno, what do you think, guys? Ryan?” Michael asked. “Sleep? Calories? Or extra stroke practice?”

The girl—Missy—turned to Ryan as the doors to the elevator closed. “Oh god, Ryan Lochte!” She peered a little closer. “Is your hair different? Jesus, you’re probably all really great swimmers and I’m just having trouble recognizing you with clothes on.” She blushed a little and then added, “I guess that’s all going to change this summer.”

“If you make the team,” Ryan said, still looking straight ahead, like the little shit he was.

“Ryan,” Cullen said, chastising.

Missy just smiled again. “Well, of course,” she said. Michael couldn’t tell if she meant of course she had to make the team first, or of course she was going to make it. He studied her for a moment.

“Ryan,” Nathan began, exchanging a look with Cullen, his voice soft and incredulous. He shook his head and stuck out his hand. “Missy, Nathan Adrian. Congratulations on winning the FINA.”

She shook his hand. “Thanks,” she said, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“World record in backstroke, dude,” Cullen said to Ryan and Michael. He turned to Missy and shook her hand. “Cullen Jones. 200, right?”

“Yep,” she nodded, rocking forward and back on her feet. The door opened on the third floor. “Well that’s me! Good luck you guys,” she said over her shoulder, heading down the hall.

The door closed. “Fucking save it,” Ryan said preemptively, just as Cullen said, “You guys really are conceited assholes,” and Nathan said, “Missy Franklin, FINA athlete of the fucking year.” Nathan shook his head and shifted his duffel, rolling his eyes.

Whatever, Michael thought. He had a lot on his mind. He can’t be bothered to pay attention to every swimmer. And big meets are his only time with Ryan and Schmitty; he had little social energy for anything else.

Ryan leaned in toward Michael. “What floor we on, brah? Have you texted Allison?”

“Sixth, and she’s meeting us at dinner,” Michael said, and Ryan punched the button.

**

In the next few days, Ryan was on facebook almost as much as Michael had his headphones on, which was fine, because they both needed their own way of unwinding from head to head competition during trials. Ryan’d beaten Michael by a full second in the Individual Medly relay semis that morning and they were squaring off again the next day.

Michael tossed a tennis ball against the wall, and someone—Cullen, probably—slammed a fist against the wall from the other side, when Ryan looked up and asked him something that Michael couldn’t hear.

He pulled off his headphones. “What?”

“What are you doing after trials?” Ryan repeated, eyes on his screen.

“Training in Knoxville with Bob and Gregg,” Michael said, as though explaining something to a small child. “What the hell are you doing after trials?”

Ryan clicked something on his laptop. “Between, dumbass.” He let out an irritated sigh and muttered, “Fucking hotel wifi.”

Michael shrugged and tossed the ball again. “I dunno. Interviews. Peter wants me to talk to a Louis Vuitton rep.”

“Really?” Ryan said, looking up. “That’s solid, brah.”

“Maybe,” Michael said. “He says I should wait ‘til I’m retired to do fashion.”

“Is that ‘cause of me? Because Michael Phelps,” and then together they said, laughing a little, “The Brand,” and Ryan continued, “modeling high fashion is hot, dude. And totally different from me designing.”

Michael shrugged. He didn’t need one more thing to compete with Ryan over. Competing was sometimes a strain on their time together enough as it was.

“Want to come to New York with me?” Ryan asked, after a pause.

The ball hit the edge of the curtain and fell to the ground just as Cullen’s muffled voice came from the other side of the wall, "Don’t make me come over there, Phelps!"

“What?” Michael asked.

“My designer buddy I told you about, the one who’s helping me with the clothing line? The guy I’m moving to LA with.”

Michael frowned. “Yeah, what about him?”

“He says I can have an afternoon in his studio with him.”

“For what?” Michael asked, a little alarmed, reaching his arm to the ground to feel for the ball.

Ryan rolled his eyes. “So he can suck my dick. For designing the line, dickbag,” he said.

Michael tensed up and rolled over so that he could peer over the edge of the bed. He grabbed the ball and threw it against the wall again, a little harder.

Ryan didn’t elaborate and Michael didn’t say anything for a minute or two.

“You don’t think that shit can wait ‘til fucking after the Olympics?” Michael said, his voice as light as he could make it, considering Ryan was being fucking stupid.

“Well, he has this fundraiser thing in SoHo, or, I don’t know; it’s an event or some shit, and he wants me there. Like, to raise awareness or whatever.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “And you want me to come. To New York. After Omaha.”

“I’m asking you, dude. It’s this really important thing for him and his friends, and the line would get so much attention if you and I were there wearing the mock ups. You’d get to feel out what fashion modeling is like. It’s like two days, max. Then we can head to Knoxville.”

Michael rolled onto his side to face Ryan. “You’re serious. You want us to model a fashion line the day before training begins. Training for London.” His voice slowed down to enunciate every syllable. “As in, the Olympics.”

“Don’t be a fucking douche bag, Mike.”

“Don’t wear glitter sneakers, Ry.”

Ryan closed his laptop and went into the bathroom. When he came out, he stood at the foot of Michael’s bed. “Just be real with me. Are you being a dick because you think it’s gay to do fashion? Because I’m doing this, and it sounds to me like you’re being a douche cake.”

Michael caught the ball as it bounced back from the wall and put his hands behind his head, considering how to answer that. “I think it’s a little gay to wear glitter sneakers, yeah, but what the fuck ever, I don’t care what you do.” He paused for a beat. “I’m not going to a fashion show.” It sounded a little like he was equating going to the fashion show with being gay, which wasn’t fair. Michael wasn’t anti-gay, at least not for other people. He knew how to make sure he didn’t look gay, though, he thought with a flush of heat to his face. He was sure as fuck practiced at that. He’d been studiously avoiding the appearance of looking gay ever since he began to notice at about twelve that looking at other boys and knocking into them felt really, really good. Anyway, not looking gay definitely involved steering clear of fashion shows in SoHo.

Ryan sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I already have our tickets.”

Michael asked, “Did you ask Peter about it?” Peter watched both their facebooks like a hawk. If they so much as raced in a kids’ cancer 5k without checking with him, Speedo and Gillette would throw a fit.

“No, dude, it’s a party. Not a commercial, and not a fashion show. Come with me to New York and party with me with my friends for one night. Jesus, it’s not like I’m asking you to suck my dick or something.”

Michael pulled his hands out from behind his head and tossed the ball to Ryan. Ryan trapped it against his chest.

“Dick sucking this and dick sucking that. You need to get laid, bro,” Michael said as Ryan collapsed on his own bed, stretching out. And stop talking about gay sex, he thought.

Ryan rolled over and tried to peg Michael with the ball, hard, but it missed and smacked against the wall.

“I will cut you Phelps!” came Cullen’s voice.

“Fuck off, Jones!” Ryan yelled, a little angrier than Michael expected him to be.

Ryan sat up against the headboard and pulled a magazine out of his duffel.

“Ryan,” Michael said. Ryan kept reading, the pages making a sharp sound every time he turned one. “Dude, we’ve got enough to focus on right now.”

Ryan let out a huff. “Just because you don’t know one fucking gay person doesn’t mean you get to be a complete bag of dicks about fashion. Thom’s my friend.”

Michael wanted to shake Ryan with how wrong he was. But then his mind picked up on the end of Ryan’s sentence and he furrowed his brow. “The fashion dude is gay? The guy you’re moving to LA with?” Michael had met Thom once and now he decidedly did not like him.

“Yeah.”

Michael grabbed the ball and turned it in his hands. He knew how Ryan would be. He’d wear a ridiculously stupid hat and those shoes, and he’d obviously drink something douchey like Perrier all night, and he’d be the most built dude Thom-with-a-T-h had ever had on his arm at a party, and all those guys would get on their knees for someone like Ryan in an instant, and they’d have a great time talking all night about everything Michael knows fuck all about.

He tossed the ball so that it lobbed on top of Ryan’s magazine. Ryan looked up, eyes sharp and mouth tight. “What’s your problem, Mike? Don’t come, fine.”

“Oh, I’m coming,” Michael said and Ryan’s mouth opened in surprise. Something sped up in Michael’s body, the way it always did just before he took off his headphones and stepped up onto the block before a race he knew he was going to win.

It was only a second though before Ryan was smirking and being the shit he always was. “You are going to make rhinestones look so incredibly manly, straight dudes in freaking Arkansas are gonna want to wear them.”

“Fuck the fuck off,” Michael said and turned back to the wall. His pulse, or the adrenaline—whatever it was that made his body feel tighter, stronger, better—settled slowly down in his system. It took a while, though.

**

“A fucking gay marriage rally?” Michael yelled over his shoulder as they wound their way through the club, red and pink heart shaped balloons everywhere and more eyeliner on dudes than Michael had seen in his entire life. And he’d partied in West Hollywood, for fuck’s sake.

Ryan kicked him in the back of his legs. “It’s ‘marriage equality,’ not ‘gay marriage,' brah. And it’s a party, not a rally. Enjoy yourself for fucking once, dude.”

Michael turned to tell Ryan exactly what he thought of enjoying himself in a crowd of fashion gays who probably didn’t even know the Olympics was happening in four weeks. The only thing Michael had in common with these dudes was something he couldn’t even talk to Ryan about. Not ‘til after London, at least, he reminded himself. But Ryan had linked arms with Thom and their heads were close and they were laughing together. Something burned hot in Michael’s chest. He glared at Thom until Thom blanched and released Ryan’s arm.

“I’ll just… go get us some drinks, alright? Martini, Ry?”

“Jeah,” said Ryan, “and just like, for Mike, some kind of, wait, do they have American beer here?”

“I’m not a fucking sixteen year old,” Michael tried to say, but another guy with glitter on his shirt was hugging Ryan, and Thom was already gone.

There was no one here who didn’t know Thom, and Thom was intent on making Ryan his popularity project like that blond chick in Clueless. Ryan looked the part: white slacks, red belt, cream-colored button-down short sleeve shirt and a hat that made him look less like a fashion designer and more like a hipster. And the infamous sneakers, of course. He looked as good or better than any guy there.

But it seemed that none of these guys gave a shit about swimming, in which case why in the fuck was Michael wearing glitter sneakers and a blazer over a t-shirt that had the British flag on the front but in bright green and yellow sparkles instead of the normal red and blue? No one ever looked past him like he was irrelevant when he was wearing just his racing trunks. These guys should have to compete with him with shirts off. See who’s invisible then.

“Mikey, Mike,” Ryan said, wrapping his arm around Michael and squeezing his neck. Michael let out a heavy sigh and leaned into the touch. “Let your tight ass hair down and have some fun. Have a drink. Have two—no,” he held up his hand as Michael started to protest. “Fuck Bob. Bob’s not here. Gregg’s not here. We have three days to recover and there’s a pool at the hotel. What happens in SoHo stays in SoHo.” Ryan said this very seriously, as though he was reciting something super profound. It was dumb, and it was so familiar, and Michael was suddenly, ridiculously glad he’d come to New York.

Michael wasn’t sure Ryan had ever been this close to his face for an entire conversation before. Unless he counted that one time after Nationals in 2010 when Ryan had blown a half a second lead to place second in the 4x100 IM the day after his grandmother died.

“Oh yeah? You gonna keep all my gay bar secrets, Lochte? ‘Cause—”

Michael was cut off by Thom’s return with the drinks.

“Ry,” Thom said, a purr in his voice and a little smile just for Ryan as he sidled up to them, causing Ryan to pull his arm back from Michael to grab the drink.

“Thanks, brah,” Ryan said and leaned in to kiss Thom’s cheek.

Thom giggled, Jesus, and then made a sad face at Michael. “They don’t serve Bud here, but this is the next best thing, Scout’s honor,” he said, smirking and holding up his hand with his fingers crossed in a mock salute.

“Like they’d let you be a boy scout,” Ryan scoffed, sipping his appletini or what the fuck ever. Thom laughed, big and loud, and Michael grabbed the outstretched Heineken from his hand with a sigh he hoped everyone could hear.

“I was a Boy Scout,” Michael said, remembering how he had to quit after his knot-tying badge because it interfered with his training schedule. Ryan and Thom cracked up even harder.

“Oh god, of course you were,” Thom choked out.

Michael rolled his eyes at them and then glared at the couple who had jostled him as they walked past onto the dance floor. He pulled out his phone to check the time. Fucking great. It was only 9:45.

“When are we free to go?” he asked Ryan.

Ryan’s laughter dropped off and he frowned. “There’s a thing at midnight, but dude, if you hate being here, no one’s forcing you. You don’t, like have to care about gay people.”

“Yeah, let me know if I can call you a cab, Michael,” said Thom, all sincere like he wanted to help in anyway possible, and Michael bristled.

“Nah, man, I’m fine. Just.” Michael turned away from them.

Maybe Ryan was right. Maybe a few drinks was all Michael would need to enjoy himself. Or loosen up enough to punch Thom in the fucking face.

He leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone to text Allison.

I’m at a gay thing with Ryan, he typed with one hand, sipping his beer and sending.

She texted back immediately. Define ‘gay thing’

Michael typed, a rally or a party for gay marriage? At a club in SoHo. Think Ryan’s trying to tell me something? Ha ha

She wrote back, uh Mike are you guys drunk?

Not yet he replied.

okay well you two crazy kids have a good time! And text me in the morning with any deets.

Michael rolled his eyes and typed, will do. xo

There aren’t going to be deets, he thinks, and looks around for Ryan.

**

“Oh, oh my god, Ryan, are you wearing eyeliner now?” Michael said two hours later, falling into the VIP booth Thom had scored for them after Michael went to the bathroom. He draped one arm around Ryan as he crashed into his side. Ryan had lost the hat ages ago, sometime after their third of fourth round, and he looked actually pretty like that, not, like, girly, but yeah, pretty. Michael shook his head and looked back at Ryan. Ryan was built in a way that could never be considered girly, and his jaw and everything. But his eyes were bigger all the sudden, and Michael didn’t know but it was pretty. Or maybe it was the way Ryan was just, like staring at him.

Suddenly Ryan was leaning into Michael, and their noses were almost touching. “Mike, do I look good like this? Be real, brah.” And then he pulled a face, twisting his mouth a little bit so that his bottom lip was caught in his teeth, and then Michael reached for his drink, looking away and taking a deep breath.

“Where’s Thom?” he said. The entire right side of his body was hot against Ryan’s torso.

“Why, you want him for something?” Ryan asked.

Michael turned towards Ryan again, who was leaning back against the booth, his arm loose around Michael’s back. Michael shivered. This was more like it. Michael didn’t have to be into fashion like those guys.

“Yeah, I want him to do my eyeliner too,” Michael said, letting out a small laugh and leaning back so their bodies were stretched side by side again.

Ryan sat up. “You serious, brah? I have it here. I got you, dude.”

There was a bright flash and Michael blinked, turning to see a photographer at the edge of the booth.

“Nicolette Johnson, New York Times,” a petite, pretty woman said, putting the camera at her side and offering her hand.

Michael shook it. “Hey,” he said, wondering what the hell the VIP section was for if security couldn’t give them privacy from reporters.

“So! What are you two Olympians doing here tonight?” she asked.

“Supporting gay marriage,” Michael said quickly, before Ryan could start. “Just like… all these fine people here.”

“I didn’t know you both were… advocates for gay rights,” she said.

“That’s right, we’re advocates,” Ryan said, the word a little awkward in his mouth; it almost sounded like avacates. He brought his arm around Michael and leaned toward her to shake her hand. “Here, get one of me kissing Michael.”

Michael froze but Ryan just pulled him close and laid a wet kiss on his cheek as the camera flash went off.

The reporter looked like she wanted to shove in next to them and do a full interview. Michael shifted to take up more room so she wouldn’t think she was invited. She took out a notepad. “Is there anything you want to tell your fans about your presence here tonight?” she asked.

Ryan cleared his throat. “When I’m not swimming, I’m doing fashion,” he shrugged as though that explained what he was doing there. “Mike’s here because of me.”

Michael thought that was a very incomplete answer. He rolled his eyes. “I’m here because it’s the right thing to do,” he corrected. “To stand up for the things you believe in, right?” Fuck it; it wasn’t giving anything away to come out as an ally, was it?

The camera went off and the reporter shook their hands again. “Thank you both so much; I wish you both the best!” she said, and took off.

Ryan pulled away a little, his arm heavy around Michael’s shoulders. His voice was dead serious. “Really, dude?”

“What, you think I’m all homophobic or whatever. But I totally am not; fashion is cool, and gay people are cool, and whatever, so I like appletinis.” He took a gulp of Ryan’s drink.

Ryan didn’t say anything, but just squinted like he was thinking hard.

Michael put Ryan’s drink down. “You gonna do my eyeliner or just stare at me all night?”

“I do your eyeliner and every guy here will be staring at you all night, dude,” Ryan said.

Well.

And that’s how Michael ended up looking at Ryan’s mouth again while Ryan’s fingers held his jaw still.

“Okay, look up?” Ryan said, and Michael looked at Ryan’s eyes, which were narrowed, studying his work. Michael suddenly felt dizzy.

“Dude, no more appletinis, I think,” he said, leaning back a little. Ryan’s fingers held him close by the jaw.

“Don’t move, Mike,” he said, his voice a little rough from yelling over the loud music all night. “Let me just,” he said, bringing his finger up to smudge the eyeliner around Michael’s eyes. “I just want you to, you know, have, like, definition.”

Definition. Michael wanted to laugh; Ryan Lochte as a fashionista was such a ridiculous idea and he was actually selling it, and of course he was, because who can deny Ryan Lochte anything? Michael looked down at Ryan’s mouth and swallowed. “Definition. Right,” he repeated.

The music shifted and Michael looked across the packed dance floor.

There’s a place downtown where the freaks all come around…

It was Ke$ha, the first song he’d recognized all night. He caught the movement of Thom through the crowd, heading back their way. Something hot ran through his body, a burst of adrenalin, perhaps, that feeling of now, dive now, during a relay. He wrapped his fingers around Ryan’s wrist and pulled him out of the booth.

“Dude, what—” Ryan said, and Michael tightened his grip, taking big strides through the throngs of dancing pairs. Ryan smacked into him when he stopped abruptly and they both almost fell to the floor.

“Whoa,” Ryan said, and Michael laughed and pulled him up against him in the middle of the dance floor.

“Stay,” Michael said, and Ryan kind of clung to him and started dancing a little. He thought he’d have to work to keep Ryan there, thought he’d have to say something, do something, but Ryan pressed closer, ran his hands across Michael’s shoulders and laughed, singing along with the music.

“Got my drunk text on, I’ll regret it in the morning but tonight I don’t give a— don’t give a — don’t give a —”

Michael was a terrible dancer; this he knew somewhere in his head, but he was drunk enough that the beat was kind of swelling up around him, and he swayed and held onto Ryan’s hips and sang along, too.

“Lose your mind, lose it now, lose your clothes in the crowd,” he called out, and Ryan shoved his hands up under the lapels of Michael’s blazer and dragged it down and off his shoulders with a smirk. It hung on Michael’s elbows, trapping his arms in the sleeves behind him, and Ryan pulled him close.

“Where they go hardcore and there’s glitter on the floor,” Michael called, and started laughing into Ryan’s shoulder because of Ryan’s signature glitter rhinestone sneakers. Ryan’s skin at the edge of his shirt tasted salty.

“What, mother fucker, what?” Ryan said, his hand in Michael’s t-shirt as the music wound down to the voices of the crowd shouting, “EVERYBODY TAKE IT OFF!” Michael just shook his head, giggling. Ryan tasted like he came from the fucking ocean.

Ryan pulled away to clap with the crowd as a man got up onto the stage and said into the mic, “Who here is happy they can get married in New York?”

The crowd roared, and Michael clapped and yelled, turning to the stage but keeping his shoulder pressed against Ryan’s. Five months was a long wait, and it was always, always, fucking worth it.

“And who’s here to take a stand for gay marriage tonight?” the man shouted into the mic.

The crowd cheered, and Ryan raised his hands over his head and clapped. His eyeliner was messed up from the dancing and sweating, and it was kind of making him look a little, well, Michael thought it was kind of a morning after look, and his face got hot. He swallowed and looked back up to the stage.

“Well, now’s the time, you guys! I have with me our guest of honor, the Honorable Judge Sharon Quan, who helped us win marriage equality and who has married over seventy-five gay couples this year alone!”

Michael looked at Ryan, who shrugged and cheered with the crowd.

“Okay, my friends!” Judge Quan called into the mic. You all signed in when you arrived, right? My clerk has your names?” She smiled as people cheered. Michael remembered the complicated form Thom’s friend had shoved at them after they’d had a few drinks. Fill this out if you two are serious about gay marriage, he’d said, and Michael worried for a moment that he should have told Peter that they were going to, like, go on the record or whatever, but then Thom’d come back with another round of appletinis and Michael just completed the form.

He’d texted Peter just in case, though:

Ry and I are pro gay marrige oficially just fyi

Quan’s voice boomed over the crowd on the dance floor. “Okay, then this is the moment you get to stand up and claim your right to marry whomever you want! Your line is, ‘I do,’” she said with a laugh. “Okay, do you want the right to be married?”

“I do!” everyone shouted.

“And do you want to marry the person of your choosing?”

“I do!”

Ryan turned and rubbed his forehead on Michael’s shoulder. “Michael, thanks for coming, dude,” he said into Michael’s ear. “I know this is, like, really, really gay.”

Michael grinned at him. “You shoulda mentioned Ke$ha in your pitch back in Omaha. And you taste like the ocean,” he added.

Ryan laughed and wrapped his hand around Michael’s forearm. “I will totally do that the next time I want to get you on a gay dance floor in New York.”

“…wedded partner?” Judge Quan was saying.

“I do!” Michael yelled, along with Ryan and the others on the dance floor.

Ryan turned to Michael. “Wait, though, like the ocean? That’s, like, wait.” He pulled Michael toward him and suddenly Ryan’s tongue was on Michael’s neck and Michael couldn’t even hear what Judge Quan was bellowing over the pounding of blood racing through his ears.

The crowd roared and Michael felt everything go numb except for the small patch of skin Ryan was fucking licking at on his neck. Then Ryan’s lips were mouthing at his jaw, and Michael snapped back to life. Everyone around them was kissing, as though Judge Quan had told them to or something, and Ryan pulled his head up. “You taste like vodka, dude; you’re fucking delicious,” he said, smiling, his tongue taking a small swipe across his bottom lip.

Michael’s head was fuzzy and he wanted to sit down. He looked down at Ryan’s face, at his big, smudged eyes and that wet, red bottom lip, and he leaned in, his hand fisted in Ryan’s shirt pulling him close.

Their mouths touched, and Michael could feel Ryan trying to say something against his lips. It sounded—or felt—like Michael, Michael, and something hot coursed through Michael’s body. He opened his mouth a little and sucked on Ryan’s lower lip, pulling it from Ryan’s teeth, and Ryan let out a tiny surprised sound.

Ryan’s hands were in little fists rocking against Michael’s chest and it registered somewhere in Michael’s foggy brain that he should probably pull back but he didn’t want to, so he compromised by ending the kiss and pressing his forehead to Ryan’s. “Ry,” he said, trying to get air. “I’m pro-gay,” he said, which was as true a thing as he could say on the matter.

Ryan reached up and kissed Michael again, his tongue wet and dirty inside Michael’s mouth. Michael’s pulse stuttered in his chest as Ryan tucked his fingers into Michael’s waistband. “Yeah?” Ryan said against Michael’s lips.
“Yeah,” Michael tried to say, but it came out as a whispered rush of air, because Ryan’s hand was moving lower like he was going to fucking touch Michael.

Ryan pulled his head back to look at Michael properly, not removing his hand from Michael’s waist. “Wait, you’re down, aren’t you; like, for real.” He sounded sober and shocked. “Jesus Christ, MP.”

Michael couldn’t remember what the source of the confusion was; he just wanted Ryan back in his mouth, making his limbs feel liquid and moving toward touching his hardening dick. He leaned in to kiss Ryan again but Ryan pulled further away. Michael straightened. “What, you want me to prove it to you?” he said. “Take me home.”

Ryan was looking at him with such a serious expression and Michael couldn’t look away. He didn’t know what Ryan was looking for, but he hoped he’d find it. “Ry, please—”

But Ryan interrupted him with a sigh, saying, “Come on,” and pulling him off the floor towards the exit.

Michael remembered the cool air outside, waiting for the cab, and Ryan pulling him inside it. He remembered crossing the hotel lobby and really wishing he could just piss in the planters while Ryan walked ahead of him, texting someone, probably fucking Thom-with-a-T-h. He remembered trying to let them into their room but not being able to work the key. He didn’t remember anything after that.

**

There was a ringing so loud in his ear that Michael pulled a pillow over his head and said with as much energy as he could muster, “Fuck the fuck off.”

Almost magically, it stopped, only to start again about five seconds later. “Ryan, Jesus, please make it stop,” Michael said, and pushed at Ryan’s back. Ryan groaned and sat up.

Michael could hear Ryan rustling around for his phone, and then he was speaking to someone who must work at the hotel. “Yeah, hi, this is room 482, can you please block all calls? Yes. Yes, thank you.”

“I love you, man,” Michael said from under his pillow.

Ryan groaned. He was sitting on the edge of Michael’s bed without a shirt on. Or pants. He was in boxers. It seemed, like, well, Michael remembered Ryan being there for a while, like, maybe all night? Definitely. He’d, they’d… They’d cuddled. He took a deep breath and frowned.

Ryan turned towards Michael and Michael gaped at him. “Ry, did you get into a fight?” he sat up to look at Ryan’s black eyes, and winced at the pain. He forced his eyes back open to get a better look at Ryan.

“Are you kidding me with this?” Ryan said. “It’s eyeliner. Remember the eyeliner?”

Michael groaned again, reaching his arm out to get the glass of water on the bedside table. “Maybe?” He did seem to remember Ryan’s lashes up close, Ryan’s lips. Holy shit, Ryan’s lips. There was something having to do with Ryan’s lips that happened the night before; he was almost sure of it.

He took a small sip and spilled a little on his shirt. He was still wearing the Union Jack shirt and the black slacks from the party. He passed the glass to Ryan and fell back down on the bed with a moan. Last night, Jesus. Eyeliner. Appletinis. Bob and Gregg were going to kill them. But that wasn’t the worrying part. There was something Michael was supposed to be worried about. It was just beyond his reach.

He fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. And there it was. Ryan’s neck, salty and tangy, Ryan’s tongue against his, the rough way his stubble had felt… And this, this was what had been just beyond Michael’s reach. He couldn’t follow it, though; it just sort of blacked out after the feel of Ryan’s mouth on his.

Ryan seemed to be remembering the events at about the same rate as Michael, because he said, “Mike, uh, did we…? Oh, god, do you think people saw us?”

Michael opened one eye. Ryan’s hand was shaking around the water glass. Michael took the glass, placed it on the nightstand, and wrapped a hand around Ryan’s wrist.

“Ry.”

Ryan looked up, his lip caught in his teeth. Fuck, how long had Michael wanted him and not known? He knew he’d been dishonest with the rest of the world about dudes in general, but how long had he been lying to himself about Ryan? “Come back here,” he said.

Ryan fell sideways onto the bed in desolation, and Michael shoved the sheets over. He pulled Ryan’s back to his front, and yeah, this was how they’d slept; he remembered now; his body remembered. He kissed the back of Ryan’s neck where his hair used to be long and shaggy. Michael thought he’d kissed there a lot already and wondered how far things had gone. And then he remembered more. Ryan’s hand tucked into his pants, Michael sucking on Ryan’s tongue; the memories and images should have jolted Michael awake but he just wanted Ryan hot and close.

These were definitely deets. He had to text Allison. Later. Later, he’d text Allison.

“Five months was too long, dude,” he said, his lips against Ryan’s salty skin. It was getting clearer for Michael. Not just the events of the night before, but the feelings that were years in the making. He hadn’t known about them because he’d been working so, so hard to not let anyone see the truth.

“Michael,” Ryan began, but Michael brought his hand up and placed it loosely over Ryan’s lips.

“Sleep. Then water, then coffee; no, you said we’d have three days to recover and I will need coffee so stop; Bob doesn’t have to know. What happens in SoHo, or whatever. You said.”

Ryan reached up and pulled Michael’s hand away from his mouth and brought it against his collarbone. Ryan was staying hot and close, just like Michael’d wanted. His chest felt fuzzy and happy. Michael grazed his teeth against the back of Ryan’s neck. “Then, we swim. And only after two hours in the pool do we say one more word about any of this. And for fuck’s sake, phones off. The last thing we need is Peter panicking.”

“Oh god, Peter, what if there are pictures,” Ryan said with a whine, and Michael bit him sharply on his shoulder.

Ryan gasped. “Fuck, Michael,” he said, and it was a little breathless, and Michael had never heard that sound out of Ryan’s mouth before. “That hurt,” Ryan said in his normal voice.

Michael sucked at the spot where he’d bitten; the skin was already reddening, and that was going to be a problem, probably, but no need to freak Ryan out about it yet.

“This okay?” Michael asked, his tongue swirling over the teeth marks.

Ryan shifted, bending his head forward. “S’better,” he said, still holding Michael’s hand to his chest.

Michael dragged his mouth from the reddened teeth marks to the center of Ryan’s neck, sucking there lightly until he felt Ryan sigh and relax into the pillow.

“Good,” Michael whispered, and they both fell back asleep.

**

“I’m not fucking racing you, brah,” Ryan said, pulling on his goggles and stretching his arm across his chest.

“Are too,” Michael said, shuffling through his bag to find his swim cap.

They’d arranged for the pool to be closed to the other hotel guests several days before their arrival, so the room was empty. Ryan jumped in the water and Michael shook his head, finally grabbing the swim cap and pulling it on.

They swam without breaking, Ryan working his freestyle kicks and turns, and Michael doing back and then free to limber up before the fly, three lanes over to be clear of direct drag. He devoted himself to the activity, everything else pushed out and away with each stroke. Michael pulled up an hour later when he saw Ryan hanging on the lane line.

He swam across two lanes and leaned on Ryan’s, next to him.

“You get a clear thought? ‘Cause I still don’t,” Ryan said, pulling off his goggles and panting a little.

Michael pulled his goggles up, too, and looked at the mark on Ryan’s shoulder. “Might have done,” he said.

“Don’t be shy, Phelps. Give it to me.”

“I’m fucking glad it was me who pulled you onto that dance floor, and not Thom,” Michael said, and Ryan smiled with his mouth closed. “Like, if there’s gonna be gay gossip about you or whatever. He’d have loved it to be him. But I won.” Michael couldn’t help it. A huge smile spread across his face.

“You can not stand to lose, can you?” Ryan said, eventually, like an accusation. There was still a quirk in his mouth, though.

Michael hooked a leg around Ryan’s underwater. “I never do lose, not when it’s something important,” he said. “You should fucking know that by now.”

Ryan shook his head at him, trying to hold his smile in and failing hugely. “If I didn’t know what a moron you are about everything except swimming, I’d think you somehow planned it.”

“Dude, I’m smart about a thing or two besides swimming,” Michael said, letting a little innuendo slip into his voice.

He was rewarded when Ryan ducked under the lane line and emerged on Michael’s side, his chest sliding against Michael’s and water rolling off his face. Michael couldn’t help it; he leaned in and nipped at Ryan’s mouth, sliding their wet lips against each other and alternating bites with licks until Ryan opened. Michael felt a groan vibrate in his chest as he swept his tongue inside Ryan’s hot mouth.

Ryan surged forward, turning them and pushing Michael back against the wall of the pool, bracketing him there with his hands on either side of Michael’s head. Michael braced his feet on the bottom of the pool and ran his hands up Ryan’s back while they kissed and kissed.

“I’m smart about a few things too, babe,” Ryan said into Michael’s mouth. “I watch Redtube.”

Michael had wondered about Ryan and guys; he’d wondered a lot. Hearing that Ryan’d been exploring it made him hot all over. He broke away to mouth at Ryan’s jaw. “How ‘bout you,” he asked in between bites. “Any revelations?”

“I’m having one right now,” Ryan said, moving his eyebrows in the cheesiest douchebag innuendo possible.

Michael rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m taking you up to the room, is what,” Ryan said, running his hands down Michael’s sides and dipping his fingers under the waistband of his swimsuit.

Now it was Ryan’s mouth on Michael’s neck, scraping marks into his skin, and Michael asked, a little breathless, “Did you know?”

“Know what, asshole?” Ryan said in between bites.

“That you wanted this?

Ryan paused and then licked up Michael’s skin to his ear. “Jeah,” he said, low, like a secret. “Sorry, man, I didn’t think you— I just kind of hoped it would pass, I guess,” he said, and then pulled back. “Did you?”

Michael thought. It was a little hard to believe how much he wanted Ryan, now that they’d kissed, considering he hadn’t known at all, not even as recently as yesterday afternoon. But suddenly a lot of things made much more sense. Not wanting anyone to infringe on his time with Ryan. Not wanting Ryan to hit a gay club in SoHo with Thom without Michael there. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know, not about you. About liking dudes, though, I, yeah; I’d been meaning to tell you, but.” He swallowed. “But now I do. Know it, I mean, about you. I think I wanted you for longer than I knew it.” He shook his head to clear it of the words twisting in his mouth. “Like, I hate being apart from you, you know that?”

Ryan pushed at Michael’s chest. “Can we get the fuck into a bed already? I seem to recall you saying you’d prove how down you were last night, and all I got as proof is a hickey,” he said, smiling big and bright, and hauling himself out of the pool in one fluid motion. He grabbed one towel and threw another at Michael, who’d followed immediately.

“Fuck you, I’ll give you more than a—”

“First one to the room sets terms,” Ryan interrupted, pulling on his t-shirt and racing to the door.

“Mother fucker,” Michael said under his breath, and took off after him.

It was good in the elevator, Ryan’s hands sliding under Michael’s t-shirt, and Michael pressing Ryan against the mirror, kicking his legs a part a little bit and pressing their hips together.

It was good laughing and trying to muscle past each other when they reached their floor.

What wasn’t so good was Peter on a cell phone in front of their hotel room door, looking like he hadn’t slept at all, holding about six different newspapers, and glaring at them like he was two seconds from ending them completely.

Michael felt the blood drain out of his face. All that effort to keep these feelings a secret, all those years of not touching other dudes, even when guys here or there made it clear he could. Gone in a single stupid night. He waited for the panic to wash over him.

Ryan grabbed his hand and squeezed. “Hey,” he said, stopping and pulling Michael to face him before they reached Peter. He didn’t say anything, just looked at Michael and pressed his fingertips along Michael’s wrist. Michael felt the blood return to his face, felt the sharpness in his chest settle out.

“Hey,” Michael returned, weakly.

Ryan raised his eyebrows as if to ask, are you okay? Michael nodded, slowly, and they turned and walked toward Peter together.

If Ryan was freaked out, he’d totally recovered in the five seconds it took to reach Peter. “Playful, drunken, over-enthusiastic kissing at a gay rights party?” he suggested. “Come on, Pete, don’t tell me you can’t make this—”

But Peter held up a finger as he spoke into his phone. “No, they’re here. Yes, together.” His eyes raked over them. Michael thought he paused at the mark on Ryan’s shoulder. Peter raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, definitely real. I’ll call you in twenty.” He hung up and stared at them. “Dance floor make-outs are no problem. You all know how I’ve spun that thing with Allison and the Black Canary cosplay, and that wasn’t simple, let me tell you. But do you really think the marriage part will be easy to gloss over, Ryan?”

Michael felt his mouth fall open. Marriage part?

“What the actual fuck,” said Ryan, dropping Michael’s hand.

Peter thrust a newspaper at them. It was the society section of the New York Times, with a full color photo of Ryan kissing Michael’s cheek in the booth at the club, his hand wrapped around Michael’s neck and Michael almost smiling.

“And that’s a fucking continuation from the effing front page article, boys,” Peter said. “Of the New York Times. Front page.”

“Oh, oh god,” Michael said as he scanned the headline. This was… this wasn’t just getting outed. This was… a scandal, his brain supplied.

“Open the door,” Peter said, and they filed inside, Ryan settling on the bed and Peter in the bathroom doorway, looking around as though checking for paparazzi.

Michael fell into the office chair and took a deep breath. He began to read.

“Olympic Swimmers Phelps and Lochte Tie the Knot.” He stopped, looking up. “This isn’t… is this real?”

Peter nodded. “Keep reading, champ.”

Michael continued. “Olympic gold medalist swimmers Michael Phelps and Ryan Lochte surprised the swim world and friends and family alike last night as the two were married at a marriage equality celebration at Club Leo in SoHo. The two were thought to be in attendance to support Lochte’s upcoming fashion line (Club Leo’s has long been a hotspot for designers in the city), but as Judge Sharon Quan took the stage to officiate a mass nuptials, the two swimmers were in each other’s arms on the dance floor and broke apart only to shout “I do!” with twenty-two other couples who’d registered with Quan’s clerk as they entered the party.”

Michael broke off and looked up at Ryan. “Shit, I had no idea those forms were for, like, officially wedding, um.”

“Marriage certificate applications?” Peter said slowly and clearly. “Is that the term you’re looking for, Michael? Jesus, how could you be so stupid.”

Michael looked up, the anger rising in his chest. “Why aren’t you telling Ryan he’s stupid? He’s the one who brought us there!”

“Hey,” said Ryan.

Peter fixed a frank look on Michael. “Come on, Mike. When has Ryan ever read the fine print to anything. He skims fashion magazines and calls it reading, for fuck’s sake. You’re the one who knows how to read a fucking contract.”

“Hey, I’ve read a contract, asshole,” Ryan says without much bite.

“Shut up, Ryan, we all know you have corporate sponsors, Jesus,” Michael said.

Ryan lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. “Just, just go on,” he said, his voice tired.

Michael cleared his throat. “Phelps, who won a record eight gold medals in Beijing in 2008,” (Michael mumbled through that part,) “then reportedly bent down and gave his new husband their first married kiss.” He raised his glance just enough to see Ryan with a small smile on his face, eyes still closed. It was so stupid that Ryan would be smiling over their dance floor kiss in the midst of such an epic disaster, only one day before Olympic team training in Knoxville, for crying out loud, and it was equally stupid that it made something in Michael’s chest flutter a little bit. They clearly were both fucking idiots.

He cleared his throat. “Times reporter Nicolette Johnson spoke to the couple just minutes before they were married. ‘We’re advocates,’ Lochte said with his arm around his fiancé. ‘When I’m not swimming, I’m doing fashion. Mike’s here because of me.’ For his part, Phelps said he was there ‘to stand up for the things you believe in.’ The couple had spent the evening socializing and dancing in each other’s arms before the big moment.”

Michael let the paper drop into his lap. “God, I fucking knew we shouldn’t have talked to her!”

“Will you just read?” Ryan said from the bed.

Michael spun around and around in the rolling chair and continued. “This is the second secret celebrity wedding this month, as Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg and long time girlfriend Priscilla Chan wed in a surprise, secret ceremony at their Palo Alto home earlier this month. At least with the Zuckerberg-Chan wedding, there were friends and family present.”

Michael rubbed his eyes. “Hillary and Whitney are going to kill me. Fucking crucify me.”

He resumed reading again. “Neither Phelps nor Lochte had family in attendance last night, save one friend of Lochte’s, Thom Dearborn, a fellow fashion designer from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. ‘They’ve been very romantic all night,’ Dearborn said after the couple rushed off to their hotel.”

“Wait,” Michael said, looking up. “Thom gave them a comment? Your fucking friend, dude.”

Ryan just huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “At least one of us had a friend at the wedding.”

“Oh my god, Ryan, it wasn’t a real wedding!” Michael exclaimed.

“It actually really was,” said Peter in a tired voice from the bathroom doorway. “Go on.”

Michael cleared his throat and tried to find his place. “…rushed off to the hotel… okay, here: ‘I suspected they were together even though Ryan’s actually quite private. Tonight, though, it was clear to anyone around that Ryan only had eyes for his intended.’”

Michael broke off again and glared at Ryan. “Jesus, your intended? This fucking guy. He couldn’t keep his hands off you all night and then he says this bullshit.”

Ryan rolled his eyes. “Could you finish the fucking article brah and quit with the whining? I went home with you, not him.”

Michael colored and looked up at Peter, whose eyebrows were raised. He bit his lip and continued, speeding through the boring swimming details. “Phelps and Lochte recently earned spots on the US Olympic Swim Team after trials in Omaha, Nebraska last week,’ blah blah blah, ‘set to join Team USA for training on July 9th in Knoxville, blah blah blah before heading to London... Their coaches, Bob Bowman and Gregg Troy, both declined to comment at this time,’ thank God, ‘and no other family members could be reached for comment at the time of publication.” Michael’s voice slowed down to take in the next part. “When told of the marriage, fellow Team USA swimmer Cullen Jones said, ‘What? Oh my God, no comment,’ and he shook his head, apparently astonished.”

“Cullen, good on you, man,” Ryan said from the bed.

“It is unclear how long the pair has been an item, and whether or not their marriage was a spontaneous decision. One thing that isn’t a mystery, however, is how much attention these two dashing superstar athletes will draw upon their reemergence in Knoxville, and all bets are off when they arrive in London.”

Michael put down the paper when he was done and swiveled towards Peter. “I’m assuming you checked. The marriage certificate is legit?”

“Yeah,” Peter said.

“Look, Peter,” Michael began. “I’m sorry; I know dealing with the press is going to suck—”

“It’s not the press, Michael. My office intern could handle a fucking celebrity marriage,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “You know whose messages are burning a hole in my phone? I’ll give you a hint, it’s not fucking Nicolette Johnson from the New York Times.”

Michael swallowed. Whichever it was, Gillette or AT&T or Speedo or all three, they wouldn’t be happy. “We didn’t know,” he said quietly. They might as well come clean about their douchbaggery to Peter. “We didn’t know it was a gay marriage thing; I mean,” he broke off to let out a small self-deprecating laugh, “we knew it was a gay marriage thing, but we didn’t know it was a thing where gay people were actually getting married.” Or that we were gay for each other, he didn’t add. Ryan sat up a little, propping himself on his elbows. His shirt was wet from the pool. Michael swallowed. “Right?” he asked.

Ryan nodded. “Also? I didn’t know my boy MP here was down for me,” Ryan said, and then Michael winced as Ryan kissed the air in his direction in a way that Ryan clearly thought was affectionately sexy. “But like, dude,” Ryan continued, looking pointedly at Peter. “He’s so down for me, it’s not even funny. Did you see this?” He was pointing at the bite mark on his neck.

Michael groaned and put his head in his hands.

“Well.” Peter said, a pained look on his face as he walked to the foot of the bed and clapped his hands together. “It is possible I am overestimating my intern’s ability to handle a celebrity wedding when the celebrity in question is Ryan Lochte, and he is about to represent the fucking United States of America in the Olympics with shit like that.”

Michael nodded his agreement, his head still in his hands.

“I’m assuming that since Michael is… down,” Peter continued, “that you don’t want to annul this thing? Either way, we have to deal with it, and with Ryan’s unique disregard for appropriateness--”

“I can be fucking appropriate!” Ryan said, sitting all the way up.

“Oh my god,” Michael said, looking at Peter.

“You’re sleeping with him; don’t look at me.”

“Hey,” Ryan said, a little injured. “There has been no sleeping with, except actual sleeping. I think I for one want to take MP for a spin before I drive him off the lot, if you know what I mean.” His eyebrows were waggling as he spoke.

Michael didn’t know what to do with his face. Or his hands. He shook his head slightly, pulling his lip in between his teeth.

“Couldn’t have picked Adrian or Allison, could you,” Peter said to him under his breath.

Michael looked over at Ryan, who was taking a long drink of water. The mark where Michael bit down the night before was purple against Ryan’s golden skin. Michael sighed. “No, I really couldn’t have,” he admitted. He looked up at Peter. “Sorry?”

Peter put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Why don’t you two talk about things for a couple hours. I’ll move your flight to this evening and hold off inquiries until then.” Michael nodded. “Here’s what you need to be ready to tell me when I come back at 3. Are you going with the story that you’re in love, had a spontaneous wedding, are happy to be trail-blazers as gay Olympic athletes, and are more excited than ever to hit the Olympics as a married couple?”

In love. Michael thought of the thrill in his chest when Ryan pulled Michael’s hand over his skin in bed that morning. “Or what?” he asked.

“Or, are you going with you were drunk and dumb and were playing a joke and it got out of hand and it’s over, annulled, no questions permitted about your sexualities, and you’re ready to focus on the Olympics.”

Drunk and dumb and out of hand. That was all true, too.

Ryan cleared his throat from the edge of the bed, looking at Michael. “What if it’s legit something in between those?” And Michael smiled a little; he wanted to kiss Ryan and his stupidly perfect way of saying what’s real, even when no one else will. Ryan held his gaze, something serious coming over his expression.

“You’re not just representing some companies, boys; you’re representing the country. You don’t get to go halfway. Talk about it; call your moms and your sisters. Consult your dogs; I don’t care. Give it a spin,” he stopped with a small shudder; “whatever you need to do. Just pick one, and then we’ll get to work on the publicity.”

He walked towards the door, and then turned around as he opened it. “And this should go without saying, but don’t leave this room again until I come back at 3. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Michael said, just as Ryan said “Jeah.”

Peter stopped in the doorway, looking back. “I’m sorry it’s like this.” His gaze swept from Michael to Ryan and back to Michael. “I wish you had all the time you need to figure this out. Or go halfway. But you just can’t. London’s in two weeks.”

Michael nodded. It was their own dumb drunk-ass fault. Peter gave them each a firm nod and left, letting the door close behind him.

Ryan put the water glass down, and Michael rubbed his eyes. He took a deep breath. “So, what, we have, like, three hours to figure this out? Do you want to—”

“Come here,” Ryan interrupted, taking off his shirt.

Michael sighed. “We need to think clearly, Ryan,” he started.

“I know, and how can we think clearly about information we don’t have? Get over here.”

Ryan had a point. Plus, his hair was drying in little gold curls close to his ears. Michael didn’t even know what he wanted to do; he’d been aware of how much he wanted Ryan for all of ten hours. He just knew he wanted.

He walked over to where Ryan’s legs hung off the bed, nudging them apart and situating himself in between Ryan’s knees. Ryan brought his hands to Michael’s hips and began tracing his fingertips along his waist.

“Somewhere in between, huh?” Michael asked, resting his palms on Ryan’s shoulders.

Ryan grabbed the hem of Michael’s shirt and lifted it up. “Come on, man; get this off.”

Michael pulled it off and looked down at Ryan, whose eyes were raking over Michael’s torso. Ryan licked his lips and looked up at Michael’s face through his lashes. “How about it, Phelps, you still down for me?”

He was. Michael was stupidly so, so down for Ryan Lochte. He pushed Ryan back onto the bed and yanked his own trunks off. “Yours too,” he said, and Ryan lifted his hips to help. Their pool make-out session and a sense of urgency came crashing back to him.

Ryan, however, began singing Ke$ha. “Everybody take it off, everybody take it off,” he chanted as Michael climbed up between his legs on the bed.

“Stop singing. I want you to blow me,” Michael said, pressing in close and letting out a huff of air when their torsos made contact. They hadn’t done this last night. They hadn’t ever done this.

“Lose your mind, lose it now, lose your clothes in the crowd,” Ryan sang, and Michael crawled up his body and shoved his hardening dick against Ryan’s lips. It wasn’t elegant; Michael had imagined dudes on their knees for him but never this: kneeling over a guy’s--Ryan’s-- chest and demanding he open up.

Ryan did, though; Ryan’s eyes got dark and he sucked Michael right the fuck down, choking a bit when Michael grunted and thrust too hard into Ryan’s wet mouth. Fuck, it felt good; Michael’s skin was on fire where Ryan was gripping his hips tight enough to bruise, and Michael’s dick was filling out and straining into Ryan’s mouth.

“Ry, Ry, you look so good like that,” he said, trying to thrust shallowly and slowly. Ryan was adjusting and sucking when he could now, and it was so, so good. Ryan was messy about it; there was spit dripping down out of his mouth as he worked Michael’s dick.

Fucking into Ryan’s mouth had got to be the best thing Michael’d ever felt. He bit his forearm resting against the headboard and groaned when he felt the back of Ryan’s throat and Ryan gagged.

“Come on, Ry,” Michael said, thrusting shallowly to give Ryan a moment to collect himself. “Want you, Jesus, come on, suck me down,” he said, he voice breaking over the words.

Ryan pushed his body up a little for better control and then did exactly what Michael wanted. Michael felt his dick sliding tightly to the back of Ryan’s mouth and then there was a tight flutter across the head of his dick as Ryan fucking swallowed.

Michael groaned and stilled his hips, knocking his forehead lightly against the headboard as Ryan pulled his mouth off.

Ryan coughed and then said, “What,” in a wrecked voice. And fuck if that wasn’t hot. Michael wanted to kiss him, lick into his mouth, suck at his Adam’s apple, bite Ryan’s throat while jerking him off hard and fast. He would; he’d thank Ryan later; he’d do anything. But right now he needed Ryan to listen.

“Just, like, lick it; can you stop sucking and lick it for a minute? Or I’m gonna come,” Michael said.

Ryan turned his head and ran his tongue up Michael’s length and Michael shuddered. No one had ever been this lucky, ever. Ryan looked as good as he felt, his tongue wide and lazy against Michael’s dick, and Michael blushed hard with how embarrassingly into it he clearly was. When Ryan dipped his head to mouth at the other side, Michael was suddenly completely over holding off. He got his hand on Ryan’s jaw and repositioned himself to fuck his mouth again.

“Fuck, fuck, Ryan,” he said as his dick slid back into Ryan’s hot mouth. Ryan made another choking sound, but when Michael groaned and tried to pull away, Ryan’s fingers dug into Michael’s hips and pulled him closer, getting his mouth around Michael just how he wanted and then sucking the shit out of Michael’s dick.

“Uhhh, uhhh, uhhhh,” Michael moaned as his hips pushed forward into Ryan’s face. He pressed his fingers hard into Ryan’s jaw, trying to tell him, trying to warn him. But all it ended up doing was giving Michael more leverage to fuck straight into Ryan’s mouth, and he came with a silent breath, so deep in Ryan’s throat that Ryan pushed hard at him, shoving Michael off so that he could cough and breathe.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mike,” Ryan choked out while rubbing his jaw. Michael flopped onto the bed next to him and threw an arm over his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Michael said, his heart racing.

Ryan sat up and drank some water, swishing it around in his mouth a little and spitting it back in the cup.

“Oh god that’s gross, Ryan,” Michael said.

“Fuck you it’s gross. You’re gross,” Ryan returned. Michael thought of how this was the first time they’d done it, and how he’d choked Ryan with his dick. He felt awash in shame. He rolled onto his side to face Ryan.

“You can seriously, like. Do something to me, now,” he said, swallowing.

“Do something to you,” Ryan repeated.

Michael looked down Ryan’s body. His dick was only half hard. Michael closed his eyes and flopped back onto his back, groaning. “I’m new, I don’t know, and I’m so sorry. But you can, like, if you still want.”

“Baby, I’m gonna be gross all over you,” Ryan said, and it sounded like he was smiling, so Michael opened one eye to check. Ryan was grinning, his eyes roving down Michael’s body. Well, that was promising. Ryan lifted his hand to Michael’s face, and Michael blushed, unsure what Ryan wanted him to do. “Lick my hand, baby,” he said, and Michael had no explanation for why it apparently gave him chills when Ryan called him baby. He stuck out his tongue and licked up Ryan’s palm.

After a few seconds, Ryan brought his hand down to rub against his dick, and that made sense, and of course Ryan knew how to do everything. Michael felt a competitive burst of inspiration. No way he was going to be a shitty boyfriend -- husband, oh god, in bed. He pulled on Ryan’s upper arm, his hand curling around Ryan’s bicep, and yanked until Ryan’s hand was up at their faces again.

Holding Ryan’s gaze with his own, he licked the length of Ryan’s fingers wetly, letting his spit drool messily around Ryan’s knuckles and down to his wrist where Michael was holding tightly.

“Fuck, Michael,” Ryan said, and Michael paused to smile just a little before sucking Ryan’s fingers into his mouth.

Michael liked things in his mouth; he sometimes hooked a thumb around the side of his mouth while he jerked off, imagining someone making him suck on it. But right now his goal was to get his and Ryan’s hands sopping wet. Ryan was staring at Michael’s mouth, watching his knuckles disappear between Michael’s lips and Michael felt a lot better already. After all, there had been a time he was so uncoordinated he’d had to take swimming lessons, had to be taught how to sync his breathing with his strokes. People were always so shocked and charmed to learn he hadn’t been born swimming the fly.

He brought their hands down to Ryan’s dick, which had gotten pretty fucking solid in the last minute or so, and he slid his wet hand along Ryan’s length.

“Show me how you like it,” Michael said, reaching out with his fingers to pull Ryan’s hand close as he moved up and down Ryan’s dick.

Ryan gave his head a little shake and got with the program, joining Michael and beginning to jerk himself off. Michael had watched his fair share of porn and was no stranger to deleting his browser history, but nothing he’d watched really compared to Ryan’s Olympic-ready body tensing and rocking just slightly as their hands slid together over his dick.

Michael sat up and opened his mouth above their hands, drooling more spit onto their knuckles. Ryan let out a groan. “Babe, you are fucking gross,” he said, and in that strained voice it sounded like gross was the hottest thing Michael could be.

Ryan sat up from the headboard and got his mouth on Michael’s mouth, and Michael sucked at Ryan’s lips. They were red and swollen and Michael felt a renewed flush of arousal, remembering how they got that way. He wanted to kiss Ryan for fucking ever. Ryan pressed Michael back and climbed on top of him, knocking his hand out of the way and thrusting his wet dick across Michael’s stomach. He stretched down to bite at Michael’s jaw as Michael brought his hand up to tangle his fingers in Ryan’s curls, saying, “Come on, Ry.”

Ryan’s hand was in Michael’s mouth all the sudden, and Michael choked, trying to get his mouth around the knuckles on Ryan’s fist.

“You like it in your mouth,” Ryan said, his hips pressing his dick against Michael’s abs. His voice was a little smug, like he’d figured out a secret. Michael could only make little breathless sounds as Ryan pushed his knuckles past Michael’s teeth. “I don’t, you know, like stuff in my mouth.”

Oh god, he hadn’t liked it. “Mmmmwyan,” Michael tried, wanting to pull back but being trapped between Ryan’s body and the headboard.

“No, but like, I fucking liked taking it from you like that, baby.”

Michael whined a little around Ryan’s knuckles, drooling everywhere and wishing Ryan were jerking them together. Maybe that could be round two.

Ryan hauled himself up onto his knees so that he could get a hand around his dick again. Michael caught a glimpse of his balls as Ryan fisted his dick and the thought of getting to know him there, getting to have them in his mouth made Michael almost drowsy with lust. Maybe that would have to be round two.

“Mike, fuck, fuuuck,” Ryan said, drawing out the words as he came in spurts across Michael’s belly and rib cage.

He pulled his fist from Michael’s mouth and dropped down beside him on the bed, panting and squeezing the last drops of come out of his dick.

“You came all over me, dude,” Michael said, staring at the stripes of white on his torso.

“Fuck, baby, everyone should see you like this. You look fucking good, Mike.”

Michael shook his head and reached for a tissue. “You’re a freak.”

“You liked it,” Ryan said, relaxing and closing his eyes. His mouth twisted into a small smile.

Michael just watched him for a moment and then felt a cold rush of panic wash over him. “God,” he groaned. “We’re fucking married.”

“In the State of New York. So what. Stop whining,” Ryan said, his eyes still closed.

“What the fuck does it matter that it’s New York; we’re on the cover of the New York Times!”

Ryan opened an eye and leveled a look at Michael. “What matters is come the fuck here.” He opened his arms. “Come to papa.”

Michael groaned at what a horrible person Ryan was but went anyway, settling into the crook of Ryan’s neck.

“Was that so horrible, huh? Appletinis and making out and your dick down my throat?” Ryan ran his fingers through Michael’s hair, soothing.

Michael made a choked sound.

“Shh, babe. No one’s gonna tell me your dick down my throat is a bad thing. Are you? Are you gonna try telling me that?” Ryan grabbed Michael’s hair and gave his head a little shake.

“No,” Michael said obediently into Ryan’s neck, his voice very quiet.

Everyone was going to know. They were all going to know that Michael was married to a horrible person who says horrible things and makes kissing faces at the camera like he’s in the Italian mafia. Ryan wears a grill.

“That’s what I thought,” Ryan said, and stretched, his hipbone jutting forward a little and his thick but softening dick pale against his tan thigh. Michael allowed himself a small smile. The world is also going to see Ryan almost naked for two weeks straight and know Michael got to sleep with him.

Michael allowed Ryan another minute of cuddling before shoving him off the bed and saying, “Shower.”

When Michael stepped out of the shower fifteen minutes later, Ryan was at the sink making what he probably thought were modeling faces in the mirror at himself. “It could be good for the sponsors. It will definitely gain me fans in certain circles, if you know what I mean,” he said.

Michael didn’t follow. “What will?” he asked while toweling off.

“Being gay for you, Phelps. People knowing I suck your dick. That I know how to please a man’s man like you, that—”

“Oh my god, stop talking,” Michael said, heading into the bedroom and casting about for his clothes. Something was making his pulse quicken and his stomach was suddenly in knots.

Ryan entered the room. “What’s wrong, baby? Don’t you think gay America is ready for this?” He gestured to his naked torso, and Michael felt a burst of anger ricochet through his body.

“Gay America? What? Ryan, It’s regular America that concerns me.”

Ryan let out an incredulous huff. “What the fuck does that mean: regular America?”

Michael pulled on his pants. “You can get away with anything; you’re in fashion, for fuck’s sake. I’m,” he broke off. “I’m, I don’t like gay things.”

Ryan barked out a laugh. “Are you for real, brah?” He gestured to the bed. “I was there, Mike; don’t front that you don’t like gay things.”

Michael let out an exasperated sigh. “That’s not, I mean.” He swallowed, his cheeks getting hot. “I obviously liked that. I just don’t like what other people think being gay means. I don’t want anything to do with that. With the thing they think it means.”

“News flash, Michael, that is what being gay means,” Ryan said, pointing to the bed, his voice angry and his chest a little pink. “Whatever the fuck else you do with your life is unrelated. You want to rub your dick all over me? I’m a dude, Mike. Being gay doesn’t have to mean anything more than that.”

Michael didn’t know what to say. He wanted Ryan. But he didn’t want to claim any other piece of being gay. “They’ll look down on me. I’ll have to answer their questions. I… I just, I just can’t,” he said.

“Look down on you. Look down.” Ryan’s face was hard and he took a quiet breath. He turned to his duffel and pulled on his clothes. Michael wanted to explain more, about how careful he’d been, how well that had paid off for him. For them, for swimming.

“Ryan, I still want to do this with you, I want really, really badly to still do this,” he began.

Ryan zipped up his duffel and shoved his laptop in its case. “I don’t,” he said, his voice flat.

Michael’s legs threatened to fall beneath him. He sat on the end of the bed. “Wait, what?”

“I want a lot of things, Michael. You, this. Me.” He took out his phone, scrolling through something. “But not if you can’t bear for people to know. They’re gonna know. And if that’s not cool with you, then this,” he gestured between them with his phone, “isn’t cool with me.”

He lifted the phone to his ear and waited while Michael put his face in his hands, rubbing his eye sockets so hard it hurt.

“Hey, fine. You? Good.” Ryan was saying. “Yeah. We decided on we’re allies who made a drunken mistake at a gay rights party, and an annulment.”

Michael’s pulse began to settle. This was all going to go away. He’d, they’d, they’d get back to normal soon. After they trained. They’d be distracted with training and with people and travel and London. And later things will be like normal. And this will go away. And he’ll retire. Then, then maybe he could have Ryan.

“Thanks,” Ryan was saying into the phone. “Yeah, no, the mistake was that we were there as allies and didn’t know it was a wedding thing. Right.” Ryan lifted his bags over his shoulder. “Nah, just say we were drunk and playful. It was barely a kiss anyway. We were just dancing. Yeah. Meant nothing.”

Michael shivered and he turned to pull on some clothes. Well, Ryan was right in a way. It didn’t have to change anything. The press would buy it; Peter was the best, after all. And everything would go back to normal.

Michael ducked into the bathroom to gather his toiletries and when he returned to the room, Ryan was gone. He glanced around the bed, looking for any leftover items, and his eyes stopped on the glass of water that now had his spit-out come floating in it. A wave of nausea washed over him and he ran to the toilet, heaving up coffee and toast until his eyes burned and his face was wet.

**

Michael tossed his duffel down on the bench next to Allison at the training pool with probably a little more force than was necessary. Fucking lawyers. He pulled out his phone and composed a reply to Peter.

But we were drunk when we said I do

Peter was quick with a reply: Doesn’t matter. You aren’t related, or under 16, or married to other people. No one forced you to do it. You weren’t mentally incapacitated when you got there and filled out the paperwork. You can’t just get an annulment because you regret it. Turns out.

“Hey, Mike, nice to see you too, so glad your phone got fixed as it must have been broken the last three days I’ve been texting you,” Allison said.

Michael exhaled and turned to her, pulling his headphones off. “I’m sorry,” he started, and she put a hand on his knee.

“It’s okay. You look like shit. Gay marriage really is gonna be our downfall.”

Michael laughed in spite of himself. “It’s marriage equality, not gay marriage. That’s what Ryan said.”

“Well whatever it was, I maintain you look like shit.” A coach blew a whistle across the pool from them and they looked up. Allison stood. “Lunch later?”

“I kinda want to be alone, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“Oh, I mind. I’ll get your room number and meet you there at 1.” She smiled and walked to the blocks, stretching her arms behind her.

Ryan walked in from the locker room, laughing at something Tyler was saying. Michael couldn’t see if the mark was still there from across the pool. He scowled and returned to texting Peter. Fine. How long does it take to get divorced?

His phone rang. “Yeah,” he said to Peter.

“It’s going to have to wait til after London,” he said. Michael rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “I’ll need you with the lawyers in New York. You also need to think about the fact that there was no prenup. The lawyers will explain more, but basically your previous wealth is yours, and any income you accrue while married is technically half his. Not that you’re supposed to earn anything during the Olympics but the Louis Vuitton deal goes into effect in August. Ryan will get half unless you break contract with them. He already got paid by his sponsors so none of his income is slated to go to you for now.”

The thought of cutting Ryan out of his assets, his life, caused a tightening in Michael’s gut. “I don’t, I don’t care about any of that. It doesn’t matter.”

Peter was silent for a moment. Then he said, “You both keep saying that.”

Michael grabbed his goggles. “Saying what?”

Peter sighed. “That it doesn’t matter. Whatever I’m talking about, you say it doesn’t matter and the thing is, all of these things actually do matter—”

“Listen, Peter, I gotta go. Session’s starting. I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up and tossed the phone into his bag and stretched his arms, breathing deeply. Tyler and Koi tattoo guy were definitely teasing Ryan by the blocks and motioning like they wanted Michael to come over. He pretended not to see or hear them; the headphones helped with that all the time. This was exactly why Michael had arranged to arrive that morning and not the night before when the team was having dinner together. He couldn’t avoid it forever; they still shared a room, for fuck’s sake. But between his headphones and late arrivals he could skip a lot of it.

He took off the headphones and jumped in the water before anyone could say hello. If anyone wanted to, that is. Ryan’s laugh rang out, echoing against the walls. Michael carried on wondering what rooming together would be like for half a length, and then his muscles kicked in. And like it had since he was eight years old, the water washed his mind blank, and he yielded to the training.

**

“Michael, what’s it like seeing Ryan again after your wedding night?”

“Are you planning to go through with your divorce?”

“How did it feel to be outed right before the Olympics?”

Michael pushed past the reporters by the door of the training center and headed towards the bus. There was an excited murmur and then a new burst of questions.

“Ryan! Ryan, are you still rooming with Michael?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. Michael tensed. He couldn’t believe Ryan was answering their questions. Didn’t they agree that Peter would handle everything? “Why would we change that? We’re still friends,” Ryan was saying. Michael turned down his music to listen but kept walking forward.

“But we haven’t seen you together since those pictures in New York; how has this affected your friendship?”

“Well the most important thing right now is the Games,” Ryan was saying. “Who does what drunken thing and who’s avoiding who is kind of none of your—”

Michael reached back and grabbed Ryan by the wrist. “Come on,” he said, pulling Ryan close and walking towards the bus as a bunch of cameras clicked around them.

Cullen and Nathan flanked them and stood at the doors to give them a cushion of space. Michael felt a twinge of guilt for having ignored them all day; they were his mates, too, but it wasn’t personal; he was just ignoring everyone. It seemed easier to let no one in, this time. But there they were, all broad swimmers’ shoulders and sharp elbows, making sure Ryan got safely on the bus, and Michael had to swallow something that felt like it could make things messy if he tried to say it right then.

He pulled Ryan to a seat near the back. Michael sat in the window and turned his back to the reporters, using his shoulder span to block Ryan from their view.

Ryan was paler than he’d been in New York and his lips were chapped. Michael hadn’t thought about having to sit next to him, look at him, talk to him, when he pulled him from the journalists. He’d just wanted Ryan to stop talking. But now Ryan was looking at his wrist, the wrist Michael still had his fingers wrapped around. Michael released it and slumped back into the window as the bus pulled out of the aquatics center parking lot. He thought about the chapstick he had in the bottom of his duffel, and his chest got tight.

Ryan looked like he was about to say something but then settled into his seat, looking out the window past Michael.

“Don’t talk to them; they’re only going to harass you,” Michael began.

“Oh, are you talking to me now? ‘Cause I didn’t realize that from all the not arriving last night, and the not talking to me,” Ryan said, folding his arms across his chest.

Michael huffed out a brittle laugh. “You’re talking enough for the both of us, thanks.”

Cullen popped up over the seat back in front of them. “Musta been a very short honeymoon,” he said.

Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Fuck off, Jones,” he said, but Michael held up his fist.

“Thanks, bro,” he said. “For back there. Also for not commenting.”

Cullen bumped it and then whacked Michael upside the head.

“Ow!” Michael said, surprised.

Cullen was scowling. “Don’t fuck this up, Phelps.” He held Michael’s gaze and then broke away, ruffling Ryan’s hair and then plopping back down next to Nathan.

Ryan ran his fingers through his hair to fix it.

“Stop, you look fine,” Michael said.

“Do I, Mike? I look fine, is that right?” Ryan asked, still fiddling with his hair.

“Don’t be an asshole. You look like you always do,” Michael said, blushing a little and grabbing Ryan’s wrist from his hair to hold it close in his lap.

Ryan leaned back in his seat. They didn’t talk the rest of the way to the hotel. But at the parking lot, when Nathan turned around with a stretch to ask about dinner plans, Michael withdrew his hand quickly, and Ryan grabbed his things and stormed off the bus.

“That thing you just did? Is what I told you not to do, Phelps,” Cullen said. “I said do not fuck this up,” he said, punctuating the last words. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Nathan knocked his shoulder into Cullen. “Come on, leave it.”

“No, dude,” Cullen said to Nathan, and then turned again towards Michael. “You do not give him everything he’s wanted since effing Athens, and then be this indecisive.”

Michael stood, stepping into the aisle of the now empty bus. “It’s not like that; he hasn’t—”

But Cullen looked like he was about to lay into Michael, and Nathan put a hand on Cullen’s chest. “Stop,” he said, his voice soft and his gaze holding Cullen’s.

“Fine.” Cullen took his duffel and left the bus. Nathan gave Michael a small nod, and then followed him.

**

Michael spent some time talking to a line of fans that were waiting in the lobby, and by the time he got to the room, Ryan had come and gone, probably out to lunch with Conor.

He tossed his bag on the bed and dropped onto the bed. Ryan’s green sequined shoes were out of his suitcase on the floor, and the thought of Ryan taking them out trying different outfits on was so familiar, and so ridiculous and so charming, that Michael had to put his arms over his face.

His phone beeped and he pulled it out of his pocket.

a. schmittster 12:24 pm
I’m heading to your room to flush your head in a toilet. <3

a. schmittster 12:24 pm
This is not a drill and you can’t hide forever Phelps.

He bit his lip and typed back.

uh yeah I can

No.

says who

What is your room number.

Michael laughed and was typing out a reply of suck it schmitty when there was a loud rap at the door.

He tossed his phone on the bed and rubbed his face before getting up to let her in. “Thought you didn’t have my room number.”

She swept past him and looked around, grabbing his wallet and his phone and dropping them in her purse. “Your boy Lochte sold you out for the promise of delivered Starbucks in the morning. And come on; we’re going.” She headed back to the door, walking out into the hall. “Got a room key?”

Michael snorted at the mention of Starbucks but walked out with her. “Yes, in my pocket, and that’s a lie. He’d rather get wasted at lunch before pm swim than drink caffeine in the morning during training.”

Allison raised her eyebrows and hit the call button for the elevator, reciting. “Decaf warm nonfat mocha, extra whip, sugar-free, double cupped. Now tell me that’s not your boy’s order.”

Michael swallowed. “About him being mine,” he began, but the elevator opened, and there were lots of kids with shirts and hats and posters. He gave her a little smile and a shrug.

“Five minutes; I’m timing you, MP,” she said, reaching down to sign a poster for a little boy.

“Schmitty, we can’t deny these Americans the chance to—”

“Four,” she said, and Michael got to signing.

**

Michael reached out to search for a hip-hop station when they settled into Allison’s rental car, but she slapped his hand.

“Stop. ‘Aint nothing wrong with Journey and you will not touch my radio.”

Michael scooted his seat back so that he didn’t have to fold his limbs on top of each other in the tiny car. “Come on, dude, don’t make me ride in a Ford Escort and listen to 80s music.”

Allison pulled out of the parking lot. “I think you’re confusing me for Ryan, who rented a Range Rover ‘for the leg room’ and is almost certainly listening to Ke$ha right now.”

Michael closed his eyes. “He did not. He doesn’t even have long legs.”

“He did too. And gee whiz, Mike, I wonder who Ryan knows that needs a little extra leg room. You can see it for yourself when we get there.”

Michael’s eyes flew open. “We are not joining those guys.”

“Are,” she said with a cheerful smile and shrug.

“Al, no, I can’t, I—” But Michael’s phone buzzed in her bag. He pulled it out to read the text.

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:04 pm
can u tell schmiddy we chose chillis.

Michael dropped the phone into his lap. “Ryan wants me to tell you they’re at Chili’s.”

“Okay, sweet, google map that shit for me, will you?” she said.

Michael searched for Chili’s on his phone but it was still loading a minute later when Allison said, “Come on, Mike, where’m I going?”

“It’s not loading; I think Knoxville is, like, a dead zone for Verizon.”

She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “Will you just call them, then? Jesus.”

Michael knew he had Conor in his phone, but after Ryan had been the one to text, he felt it would be really weird if he called Conor instead. Plus, it’d been a pretty shitty morning, and Michael was stupidly cheered that Ryan was texting him again. His finger hovered over the call back button. He decided to text.

to lochtedy schlocktedy, r. 1:06 pm
my internet’s not loading. Where is chili’s?

Then he added: fucking Knoxville. No internet and all 80s radio. and hit send.

“Don’t stop, believin’” Allison sang, as Michael knocked his knuckles against his leg, waiting. It was so stupid for his heart to be racing like this. It was just Ryan. And Ryan was texting only because Michael was with Allison and they were meeting for lunch; it was nothing.

But a minute went by and then another, and Ryan hadn’t texted.

“Phelps I am not pulling another random U-turn. I’m hungry.”

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:10 pm
it’s by a bomb auto dealership with a car hanging from a crane

“Oh my god,” Michael said, rolling his shoulders back and dropping his head. “What was I even fucking thinking.”

“What?” she asked.

Michael cleared his throat and read it aloud, his voice getting slower and more incredulous as he went on. “Ryan says it’s by a bomb auto dealership with a car hanging from a crane.”

Allison let out a laugh.

“No, like, that’s what he said when I asked where they fucking are.”

“Wait!” Allison said. “Wait, no, we drove by that place; it’s sick. It’s just a couple…” She gestured over her shoulder and moved into the left lane to make a U-turn.

The Camry hanging from a huge crane above the auto dealership was, admittedly, bomb. Michael shook his head and smiled as he reached to open the car door. There’s actually very little Ryan’s ever wrong about. Even if he is ridiculous.

“Hey,” Allison said, her hand on his knee. Michael turned his head toward her. “Why did you do it?”

He swallowed. “We didn’t know what it was; we were drunk and not paying attention—”

“No.” She cut him off. “Why are you saying that, like you’d have gone to a gay party in New York for anyone else, and accidentally gotten too wasted to notice you were making out with your best friend, the day before Olympic training,” she said, making air quotes over accidentally and letting her voice rise at the day before.

Michael let out a breath. When he didn’t answer, she went on. “And why are you getting divorced? I don’t understand why you’re not talking. You’re not mad at him, are you? You don’t seem mad; you seem…” she took a moment to pick the right word. “Lost.”

Michael reached for the door handle again. “Schmitty, I don’t know what to say.”

She locked the doors and turned her whole body so that she was facing him in her seat. “He’s lost too, Mike. Can you, can you just talk to him?”

Michael felt a painful zing in his chest. He swallowed. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me. Because he’s wanted you for fucking ever, Mike. And you’ve been, like, platonically in love with him for as long. And I saw the pictures, and his hickey, so…”

Michael blushed and cut her off. “What does that even mean? I’m not, platonically or whatever, in love with Ryan, I—” The zing that had dulled in his chest burned brightly again at these words. They just weren’t true, and Michael knew it.

“Shut up, Mike, seriously. I can’t take it. I’m not a reporter. I’m not even Peter.” She slowed down. “I’m not even fucking Ryan.”

Michael’s phone buzzed.

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:19 pm
455 s 70th you guys coming?? I can order for u

Then it buzzed again.

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:19 pm
awesome blossom is all im saying

And then:

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:20 pm
jk chefs salad for realsies but u want soup? Chik n00d

Michael groaned. He could see Ryan ignoring Conor and whoever else was there and texting at the table like an asshole. It’s how Ryan always is when Michael walks into a gathering: his phone out, then flashing Michael a huge smile and putting it away after sending one last line of ridiculous bullshit, like your flies open, for Michael to get later when he leaves the table.

Why was Ryan doing his normal thing when things were as they were? Michael wondered briefly if Ryan put his phone away and flashed that smile for anyone else but he knew the answer to that already, and thinking about that turned the burning in his chest into a steady dull ache. The more complicated question was whether the way it made Michael feel mattered more than… well, just. Mattered. Did it matter that it gave Michael a rush of affection that Ryan couldn’t spell Schmitty but always knew what to order Michael? Did it matter that Ryan rented a car with legroom because even in the midst of this awfulness, he wanted a place Michael could fit?

“Mike, I think maybe,” Allison began, but Michael cut her off.

“Hang on,” he said, and began typing, his fingers shaking.

to lochtedy schlocktedy, r. 1:23 pm
Why’d you buy me a plane ticket to ny?

r. lochtedy schlocktedy 1:23 pm
what?

“Fuck,” Michael said. His hands were hot and his palms sweaty as he hit and gave Allison a look. She nodded and got out of the car.

Michael imagined Ryan’s Call Me Maybe ringtone going off at the table and Conor throwing things at him. On the fourth ring, probably after Ryan’d stepped into the hostess area, he picked up.

“What?”

Michael rubbed his hand on his thigh. “You had a ticket next to you on a sold out flight. Why.”

There was a rustling sound like Ryan had his hand on the receiver, and then Michael saw him step out of the restaurant, tucking his phone into his pocket. Ryan stood against the railing of the ramp, next to a family waiting for a table, and Michael rolled his eyes and opened the door. “Oh my god, get in.”

Ryan folded his arms across his chest. “I am not getting in a Ford Escort with you, Phelps. Come on.”

Michael sighed and stepped out of the car, tucking his hands in his pockets and walking to Ryan’s Range Rover.

They were both tucked into their seats and Ryan began playing with the radio, and Michael grabbed his wrist again. “Did you, did you want me there?” Since Athens, Cullen had said. He swallowed. “Did you know?”

Ryan shrugged.

“I’m serious, Ry. Did you know.”

Ryan turned and blinked, his face reddening with emotion. “Of course I didn’t! I didn’t fucking trick you into marrying me, Jesus, why would I trick a homophobe into being together, that’s—”

“Stop saying that,” Michael said. “I’m not, I just.”

Ryan’s expression hardened. “Can we not? Because we already talked about this and it’s not like it’s going to go any differently three days later, so.”

“Can you stop?” Michael said, raising his voice. “Everything changed in three hours; why can’t three days matter?”

Ryan closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, knuckles going white. “Because you are looking down on yourself for a thing I love about you. And you’re looking down on me, too. For the thing you love about me.”

Michael opened his mouth to speak but Ryan said, “Shush, you do love me so don’t deny it.” Michael sunk into the seat. “You love me, but you’re a hater about being gay.”

“No. I, I lo-ove you,” Michael started, voice shaking. “I do love you,” he said again, more softly but also more solidly, and Ryan turned to look at him. “I love you but I’m scared about being gay and this wasn’t how I wanted to do it.”

Ryan’s eyes widened. “You had a plan? Holding out on me, brah.”

Michael turned in his seat to face him. “Yeah, I was gonna retire and then after people stopped caring about me, I was gonna—not come out, exactly, but you know. Stop trying to hide it. Little by little.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is not little by little.”

Ryan laughed, reaching to take Michael’s hand in his, and there was that zing of excitement to be with Ryan again. “Got news for you Phelps. People are never gonna stop caring about you. You’re,” Ryan bit his lip. “You’re really fucking special, you know that?”

"This is just a lot," Michael said, lacing his fingers with Ryan's.

"Yeah, but baby we're together; isn't that what you want? Five months is too long, you said. I say five minutes is. Come on, Mike." He squeezed Michael's hand. "It's not your timeframe but we'll be together."

Something eased in Michael's chest at that. "Since Athens? Really?"

"Dawg, it's been forever."

Michael thought about the rented Range Rover with leg room. He thought about how much Ryan wanted him to come to New York, the plane ticket he bought, the space he was making in his life for Michael. Michael couldn’t help it any longer. He leaned down to put his forehead against Ryan’s shoulder. “Can we elope?” he said against Ryan’s tshirt.

Ryan laughed and reached to rest his hand on Michael’s hip. “Know where’s fuckin’ romantic?”

“Mmmm?”

“Knoxville.” Ryan pressed his cheek against Michael’s hair, and Michael lifted his head.

“The Chili’s next to the bomb car dealership seems to be a pretty nice date spot,” he said.

“Mike,” Ryan breathed, leaning in to kiss him. Michael brought his hands up to cradle Ryan’s face, their lips opening and brushing each other’s mouths as they tasted each other again.

“London’s nice, too,” Michael said, mumbling against Ryan’s skin.

Ryan’s hands were under Michael’s shirt as they kissed, and he said, mid-kiss, “Very romantic,” and then he brushed his thumbs over Michael’s nipples and Michael gasped.

“Fuck, Ry,” he said, and Ryan did it again.

“Jeah, Mike. Fuck jeah, let’s fuck.”

**

When they walked into Chili’s holding hands, a little disheveled, Allison said loudly, “I want babies named after me.” Conor and Nathan both hollered, “Ohh!!!!” and Cullen just hung his head and looked up at Michael.

“You gonna be more careful from now on?” he asked.

Michael pulled Ryan’s hand up to press it against his chest. “Jeah,” he said with a grin, and while everyone else laughed and threw things at them, Cullen just nodded, smiling.

“Jeah is right, Mike.”

**

What with one thing and another, the London Games passed, and Michael and Ryan found themselves in wedded bliss in California. Ryan was parlaying his fashion experience into being a reality show guest star, and Michael was spreading his legs obscenely in photo shoots for Louis Vuitton.

“Errybody has already seen my husband naked and dripping,” Ryan told the set director at the shoot, hands gesturing here and there. “Have you considered putting him in the tub fully clothed? Check him out in this suit. And spread his legs, yeah, go down baby; go down like you know how.” Ryan gave Michael an awful exaggerated wink and Michael colored, settling into the tub, his now-wet clothes pulling awkwardly over his skin.

The director looked at Michael numbly, clipboard in hand, and Michael just lowered his eyes and gave his head a small shake. “I’m, I’m sorry about him?” he said.

Ryan knelt in front of the tub. “Babe,” he said, smiling and showing his grill.

Michael heaved a sigh. “What.”

“Babe when we’re done here we’re gonna get lunch at that gastro pub in Santa Monica and also, hey Mike, I’m gonna eat you out later.”

Michael’s mouth dropped open and Ryan stood, clapping his hands together. “Okay, cameras, where you at. Get shooting. He’s good and ready.”

Michael dipped his head under the water, eyes closed. He emerged and opened his eyes, floating light and happy.

Michael didn’t mean to marry Ryan Lochte. But he has to admit it’s worked out pretty well for them both so far.

The End