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An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts	By : Alhazred Category: Individual Celebrities > Athlete/Sports Misc Views: 1362 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the people written about in this fanfiction. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 6
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- 8
The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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The punch he threw was a poor one, a desperate swing for the head with way too much curve and way too much momentum as he tried to attack while stumbling, clumsily, to his feet. And it sailed right by his target, missing by several inches, putting his back to his attacker.

For his troubles, Michael found himself with a hand reached around and planted firmly on his neck. He was in no position whatsoever to fight, no balance to keep him on his feet, and he wasn't entirely surprised to be dragged backwards by his neck, nothing he could do about his heels skidding across the tiles once his footing was gone completely.

He was surprised when he found himself dragged to one of the starting blocks and slammed into it. Several times, actually. Being held at the neck, the back of his head took the brunt of every hit.

He hardly felt the first one. It did nothing to distinguish itself from his other injuries. The second time, though, he knew his head was split open, another open wound to bleed from. And by the third time, what little resistance he was putting up ended.

There are limits to the human body, tolerances it can't be pushed beyond. That was a fact, and Michael's body had finally had it. For Michael, the thought of letting harm come to Ian would motivate him to push even far enough to injure himself seriously; permanently, perhaps. But there was a point where the abuse he'd taken over the last week, the physical injuries as well as the stress, finally added up with the hits he was taking here and robbed him of his strength. The switch had been turned off, and Michael was shutting down as a result.

He was still conscious when he was let go, allowed to collapse onto the floor like so many rag dolls. He pressed his palms to the floor and tried to push himself up, even if he knew it was futile. Futile or not, he wouldn't quit, not while he was breathing.

Quite bitterly, it occurred to him that he didn't need help staying down. In the few seconds he was allowed respite, he'd barely managed to heave his body an inch from the floor. Weary recruits driven to the brink by their drill sergeants didn't have this much trouble.

Still, he tried. If he was going to die, he would make his murderer fight for every bit of his kill.

Michael felt something he really feared worse than death right then; his antagonist had done his homework, it seemed. He couldn't remember ever reacting to pain beyond wincing or complaining or being frustrated. Maybe he'd fallen and been reduced to tears a few times as a little kid, like everyone else in the world.

But his now-classic injury had already been acting up lately, and from the first time Michael felt the heel of this man's boot crash into his lower back, he cried out.

---

One day before...

Michael was surprised when he opened his eyes the next morning only to realize he hadn't dreamt of blood during the night. He could still smell it, of course, and now it was even worse (in fact, he was quite certain the blanket he was buried under would need to be washed at this point,) but suddenly it didn't matter as much anymore. A smile formed on his face as he recalled the already fuzzy things his subconscious had cooked up while he slept...he had strangely, if not contentedly, dreamed that the night had gone exactly as it had, except with Ian cuddled up on the couch with him instead of elsewhere.

It was an oddly happy thought even after Michael woke up to it not being true.

"Must've been a happy dream."

Michael turned his head to see Ian walking in, and he was quite sure he turned pretty red at being caught smiling about him. "Kinda."

"So by 'kinda' you mean about me," Ian tilted his head, "But not raunchy?"

"Actually," Michael blinked, "Yeah."

"God, I was kidding, Michael," Ian sat down, looking much the same as he had sitting in that same chair last night. While Michael busied himself with getting out from under his increasingly warm and decidedly unclean blanket, Ian said, "I, uh...I wasn't dreaming last night, was I?"

"Nope," Michael said.

"So," Ian dragged the word out, giving Michael the chance to prepare for talking about water a little more. "You're still gay."

Stopping dead, wondering why he was still so completely mortified every time Ian said something like this, Michael answered, "Well...yeah. Unless I've been dreaming."

Waving one hand a little, Ian went on, "And you still...y'know, with water?"

Finally, this time, Michael couldn't help himself. "Why do you do that, Ian?"

For his part, Ian didn't know what Michael meant. "Do what?"

"Why do you keep asking in that order? I'm gay, I know magic. I get the feeling you think the magic thing is because of the gay thing, or something," Michael tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but he just ended up scratching his eyelids. "Okay, so...I guess saying 'magic' seriously every few words is kind of gay, but still."

"I just," Ian shrugged. "I don't know, I just...think it's easier that way."

That confused Michael. The irony certainly wasn't lost as he started to idly run his fingers through the fuzzy beard he'd been growing over the last several days. It took him a few seconds to realize it. "You have no idea how totally fucked up that sounds, Dude. And I really need to shave."

"You kind of need to shower, too, Michael." Ian actually looked a little damp; Michael hadn't noticed it before, be he must've just gotten out of the shower himself. "I, uh, hope you don't mind, I kind of used your razor, actually. To be honest, I was thinking of what this shit is making you look like and I...yeah."

"Yeah, I feel like shit, I probably don't look much better," Michael laughed. "Ugh...I don't wanna move...I know it's gonna suck."

"Aw, c'mon, Mikey," Ian chided him. "Wiggle your big toe."

And Michael did so. "Even that hurts. I distinctly remember kicking him in the knee with this foot..."

"Oh, get over it, Beatrix. Haul your ass up," Ian started laughing.

It just confused Michael even more. "What the hell are you smoking, man?"

"Never mind, never mind," chuckled Ian. He forced himself to treat the situation seriously again, and said, "Kidding aside...do you need a hand?"

"I think I can manage." Michael forced his legs over the side of the couch, forcing his knees to bend despite all of his joints staunchly resisting his will to move. "Well, so far, so good."

His back wasn't screaming, and he was thankful for that as he ripped his T-shirt off; he couldn't stand the smell any longer, and he couldn't wait to wash the dried blood and grime off. Ian was staring at him now, and for a second, Michael was wondering why. He was the one supposed to be staring at Ian when he took his shirt off, not the other way around. "What?"

"Uh, that, uh," Ian swallowed hard, "That's a lot of bruises."

Remembering the little matter of his fight last night, Michael looked down at himself. True to Ian's word, or perhaps Ian's shock, he really was black and blue all over. Complete with a few cuts and scrapes to add some angry red color and grime just for flair. His arms were worse, he'd absorbed more blows there, and Mack had gone for his head when he could, but Michael's upper body looked like every picture of abused children on overly-dramatic news specials. It was actually scary. Michael was used to his body reflecting the work he put into it, not looking like rotten meat. "Yeah...it is..."

With no more words, Michael managed to haul himself off the couch and hobble to the stairs, and fortunately, he managed to make it up them without Ian's help. The longer he was in Ian's sight, the more he hated Ian seeing him like this. He wasn't sure if he could handle Ian touching him while he was like this, either.

Pulling clean clothes out of his drawers and getting the dirty clothes off as fast as possible once he was in the bathroom, Michael wasted no time in hauling himself into the shower. He knew right there that, right at this moment, feeling hot water soothe his muscles was the most euphoric thing he'd felt since winning his first gold medal in Athens. It was almost better.

Almost.

But being able to move more freely and with less pain was enough of a reward for making it up the stairs, and Michael was equally fast in washing the dirt off. His cuts stung under the soap, especially the one next to his eye when he rinsed the shampoo out his hair, but he could hardly bring himself to notice.

Shaving in record time once he was out of the shower, Michael got dressed and felt entirely like a new man. He looked like a new man, he thought...Michael figured he would be entirely willing to get back in the pool right now and not worry about how friendly his bruises would be to anyone's eyes, even the worst black and blue marks looked less violent now that they were clean.

The first step he took back down the stairs and the subsequent throbbing of pretty much his entire leg reminded him that a hot shower was just a quick patchwork fix, but it was a good fix, and he couldn't complain. Well, he could complain about the little piece of toilet paper adorning his chin, stained with a spot of blood...but everyone cut themselves shaving sometimes...probably.

Finding Ian in the kitchen, Michael was slightly surprised to find him with a broom, carefully sweeping the mess of broken glass into a dustpan. "You didn't have to bother with this..."

"I was going to make breakfast," Ian promptly dumped the pointy shards into the empty Ramen box on the counter that no one had seen fit to toss away, before tossing the whole thing into the trash. "I don't really have anything to work with, though. Do you not believe in groceries?"

"Don't really have time for them," Michael shrugged. "My metabolism kind of makes me a human bottomless pit. If it's edible and not gross, I really don't mind just going meal to meal. Unless Bob says otherwise."

"Obviously," Ian said, more dumbfounded at Michael's ability to defy the world in yet another way than anything else. "Can we go out again or something, then? I'm starting to feel a distinct need for breakfast."

Chuckling, Michael answered, "I can handle that, I think...since when do you cook, anyway?"

"Oh, yeah, well." Ian's tone was one of confusion. It sounded like he was trying to make an excuse for it. "Since I realized Brendan and Aaron can't. And you know, if I were more of the preachy religious type, I'd probably compare the way they make noodles to an act of Satan."

"How do you mess up noodles?" Michael actually scratched his head as he said that, more because of what he wanted to say next. "And thanks for that, by the way."

"For what?" Ian said.

"For, you know," Michael suddenly turned shy and awkward again, "Not being preachy."

"Only if you want me to be," Ian held up his hands, "Kind of silly to talk on ears you know are deaf, I say."

"But I wish you would stop doing that," Michael sighed. He didn't have the strength to be angry. For that matter, he didn't have the willpower to be angry; wishing Ian would act differently wasn't hard, but being angry with him...it probably would have been the best answer when Ian had asked Michael how he knew he 'loved' him. Because he loved him so much, Ian couldn't make him angry.

So, he just wished while he went back into the living room and picked his sword up off the floor. But he'd said his thought on the matter out loud, and now, Ian wanted to know what he was talking about. "Doing what?"

"Treating me like I'm second class, Ian," Michael didn't turn to look at him, he unsheathed his sword halfway and carefully looked down the blade, making sure the fight hadn't left any grime on it. He was faking a distraction, really; the blade's enchantment made it stainless. "I don't need 'help.' Don't save me."

If Michael had been looking at Ian, he might've thought that Ian had actually listened and understood his point. And he probably would've believed that Ian suddenly felt really awkward, like he wasn't sure what to make of someone flat-out refusing the merits of his faith. Still, Ian's words were pretty sobering as it was. "So...uh, you probably won't like the idea that I prayed for you last night?"

Michael's reaction to having no response whatsoever was to shove his Wakizashi violently back into the scabbard as he turned, the metal clanging and resounding through the room.

When someone knocked on the door at the same time, the sounds mixed nicely. His face falling from one kind of shock to another, Michael stayed still and said nothing even as Ian looked like he wondered if he should open the door. He hoped that it would just go away if he ignored it...who would have a reason to visit right now?

The knock came again. Ian started to move, and then he stopped, looking at Michael for permission. Figuring he really had nothing to lose, Michael nodded. Just as Ian reached the door, he remembered he was holding his sword and briefly contemplated throwing it behind the couch on top of the blanket he'd used last night...but if this was someone looking for trouble, he would need the thing.

So, at the last second, just as Ian swung the door open, Michael turned the sword behind his back and held it there, perfectly out of sight. It was probably obvious he was hiding something, he thought, but it was still hidden.

And it stayed hidden when Ian opened the door wide enough for Michael to see who it was outside. "Uh...Cal, hey."

Before Cal answered, he looked at Ian with the biggest bout of suspicion Michael had ever seen anyone look at friendly ol' Crocker with ever. It was pretty obvious that Cal knew exactly who Ian was, and as such, that it was anything but normal for him to be here right now. Still he pretended not to notice. "Good afternoon, Michael...how are you feeling?"

"Afternoon?" Michael blinked. It was afternoon? "Oh, yeah, it is, isn't it? Heh heh, barely noticed."

He shot a look at Ian; Ian, in turn, gave him an innocent shrug as a response, and it was really cute, so Michael once again failed to be angry with him. And the logical part of his thought process told him that he'd gotten into a fight the night before, so Ian had let him sleep until the crack of noon because he'd needed it.

Cal virtually ignored Ian beyond a cursory nod as he stepped inside. "Michael, is something wrong?"

More than a little aware of the sword behind his back, Michael was careful to stay facing Cal at all times, hoping he looked like a soldier standing at parade-rest. "No, nothing's wrong...why? This is Ian Crocker, by the way...you probably know of him."

"Of course." Michael was hoping to make Cal less attentive, but it didn't really work all that well. He shook Ian's hand and said, "Nice to meet you."

"Same here," Ian half-smiled. It wasn't fake, but he wanted the guy to leave as much as Michael did.

Unfortunately, Cal went right back to his interrogation, making Michael feel a little stupid for wondering why he'd think something was wrong in the first place. "Michael, you haven't been in the pool in days...and hell, even when your back acts up you still come in and work...and Bob, by the way, went ripshit when I asked about you...he was already pretty raw when Mackenzie didn't show..."

Michael made the connection right away, but Ian asked, "Mackenzie?"

"The team captain," Michael tightened his grip on his sword behind his back, "I'm sure he's fine, maybe he just went out clubbing last night, can't get out of bed?"

"Maybe," Cal nodded.

If only he knew, Michael couldn't help but think. Ian understood too, and he didn't say anything more on the subject.

Realizing he'd been distracted, Cal shook his head twice. "Look, Michael, what's going on? And why do you look like you've been in a fight?"

Michael turned white.

"Because...he's a goofball with two left feet," Ian spoke up, pointing his thumb into the room. He gave himself a little roll on his heels, sounding oddly cheery. "And he fell down the stairs. Made me come up here thinking he needed a hospital visit, heh heh."

"Two left feet?" Cal raised an eyebrow. It had to be the weakest bullshit story anyone had ever heard. Michael knew it, Ian knew it, and more importantly, Cal knew it. "Fell down the...Michael, have you been drinking?"

It wasn't even the accusation that angered Michael, and it was an accusation, disguised quite cruelly as a question. No, Cal had every right to go down this train of thought, considering what he'd been presented with. What angered Michael was his own stupidity at giving him a reason to think these things. "What...what makes you say that?"

"You fell down the stairs, Michael?" Cal crossed his arms, "If you fall down the stairs hard enough to look like someone's been punching you in the face, I'm surprised you're standing up...I know you always say you feel like a dork out of the pool, Michael, but this isn't clumsy. Thorpe falling off his block, that was clumsy, one way or another. Falling down the stairs like that takes fucking skill."

The picture painted for Cal was one of Michael slowly turning into an alcoholic and Ian trying to cover it up. He didn't want to send Cal packing, even if he couldn't convince him otherwise, because it would just make him more suspicious. And the more suspicious Cal got, the more likely he would be to bring more people in on his completely wrong, but believable theory. "Look, why don't you sit down?"

Certainly, Cal didn't expect to be invited in for conversation after leveling accusations of substance abuse in Michael's direction. It was a little inconvenient, true, but Michael thought dispelling his suspicions was worth the effort.

When Cal went for the couch, Michael saw his chance to hide his sword a bit more effectively. The bottle of water he'd has last night was still sitting on the coffee table and it still had an inch or so of water inside it. The second Cal walked by the table, Michael raised his hand and poked at the liquid enough to send the bottle toppling off and into Cal's leg on the way down. It only made Cal think it was his fault even more. "Well, shit."

Being a responsible young man, Cal crouched down to at least pick the bottle up, even if the water had long since soaked into the carpet. Michael took the chance to lean behind the chair Ian had made a habit of sitting in, laying his sword on the floor behind it before he sat down. Further helping, Ian stood behind Michael after he sat, pretty much ensuring that while Cal would be looking in that direction the entire time, he'd never actually go over there.

"Stuff happens," Michael shrugged. "You know."

"Clearly, so do you," Cal said. He glared at Michael, right through him, hoping to scare him into talking or at least refusing to believe anything he thought was sugar-coated bullshit. "What the hell’s going on, Michael?"

Having every intention of answering (with more bullshit, of course,) Michael was a little surprised when Ian leaned over him, just enough to notice, really, and put a hand down on his shoulder.

Had Michael not been very, very confused, he would've melted into a little puddle of goo under Ian's hand. As it was, he really wanted to know why Ian was touching him. Cocking his head back just enough to see Ian behind his chair, leaning over slightly, Michael listened to him say, "Ain't no one’s business but ours..."

And then Michael realized why this felt so weird.

This was his fantasy.

And Cal caught on. Almost, anyway. His face was a mix of shock and caution, seeing what Ian was implying, having nowhere near the courage to ask if he was reading it right or if Ian was just much more girly and affectionate than he'd ever been portrayed in media. "I..."

The look of horror on Michael's face made it worse, really. Until Cal startled, almost jumping off the couch as he yelped, his hand flying into his pocket and coming out with a cell phone. Catching his breath, he flipped it open and clicked it on. "Forgot the damn thing was on vibrate...hello?"

It couldn't have been better timing, as far was Michael was concerned. He was still absolutely shocked and appalled at what he thought Ian was doing, and all he could do was stair at the back of Ian's head when he moved from his perch behind Michael and sat cross-legged on the floor just in front of him.

Cal had momentarily forgotten his train of thought on the subject as he talked over the phone. The static was audible from where Michael and Ian sat, sometimes. "Bob? Sorry, bad reception...say that again? What about Mack? The news?"

Shrugging at his impromptu hosts, Cal found the television remote on the coffee table, turned the TV on, and went right for the local news channel.

Michael had wondered how long this would take. As he looked at the news correspondent's background and the caption reading "College Athlete Murdered in Downtown Ann Arbor," he figured it wasn't much of a surprise. Dead bodies usually don't go all that unnoticed.

Michael wasn't surprised, but he pretended to be, or at least tried, as soon as the reporter gave Mack's name. They even showed a picture, and Michael found it especially tacky when the person he'd fought with had been so vile and vindictive (and was also immediately an incarnation of Satan, because he'd threatened Ian) while the school picture they showed was the typical portrait of a perfect. The all-American boy, like he really was a victim of a vicious crime.

Cal stood up, moving with speed that made it seem like he would die on the spot if he stayed on the couch, but he stayed fixed to the TV the entire time the news story was recapped. They gave off Mack's age and the fact that he'd been shot, they showed his parents crying and demanding justice, they listed off an abridged version of his athletic accomplishments. It really wasn't fair for Cal or anyone else Mack knew outside of any other magi he might've harassed, because they didn't know he wasn't innocent like normal people.

Michael was less oblivious than Cal to the noises his cell phone was making, as he'd never hung it up while he stared at the television. Bob was getting restless, understandably so.

Eventually, Cal just turned the phone off, and, every bit as casually as he'd turned the TV on, he turned that off too.

Feeling like he shouldn't be silent, Michael spoke up. "Cal...I don't know what to say."

"I, uh...I should go," Cal shook his head. He was calm; Michael knew Cal and Mack were good friends, he figured the news was going to take awhile to settle in. "We'll get harassed for this, you know? Tabloids will say it's the swimmer killer or something silly..."

Michael stood when Cal walked to the door, but Cal was leaving too fast for it to really seem like seeing him out. "Look, if you need anything..."

"Uh huh," Cal closed the door on his way out, and that was that.

Michael waited ten seconds. He felt bad for Cal, sure, but he gave no sorrow to the subject matter. It left him free to glare at Ian. "What the fuck? What the fuck, dude, did you want him to think I got bruised because we were having crazy violent sex before he walked in?"

"Well, not really," Ian shuffled his feet around, clearly more embarrassed over Michael's absurd visuals than anything. "I wanted him to think we might've been. You know, something he'll shrug off as a silly though later."

"Why? Why? Why?" Michael threw his arms up, flat out demanding rational explanations for what Ian was saying. "Why in the world would you do that? He's going to think I'm gay!"

It was an odd thing to be put off over, but Ian couldn't help himself. His eyes narrowed a little as he stared Michael down, never wavering in his certainty that his actions had been a good idea. "Michael, you are gay."

Flailing even more, Michael half-yelled, "That's not the point!"

"Okay, think about it, it made him stop asking questions, right?" Ian said.

Calming down, Michael had to admit that, yes, if he absolutely had to choose, taking his sexuality out of the closet was a lot better than taking his sword out of the closet. "Okay...right."

"So, what's he going to do? Squeal on 'us?'" Ian laughed, making quotes with his fingers. "By the time anyone who matters sees you again, they won't be able to tell you didn't fall down stairs just by looking at you. So you took a header down here from upstairs, thought you threw out your back again, got too scared to tell Bob or your doctor, and called me in a panic, so, being the good friend I am, I actually flew up. If he goes to any media, Peter would slaughter him."

Having no more arguments, especially once he realized that Ian was much, much cleverer than he'd ever given him credit for, Michael just calmed down and stared at him. It made him feel more than a little warm and fuzzy inside that Ian would do that for him; he was a lost, scared little puppy getting kindness from someone who probably had better things to do than take care of him. "I...guess you're right..."

It wasn't the first time Michael had an awkward silence with Ian since his arrival, but during this one, he wondered about something. "Speaking of you flying up, what'd you tell Brendan and Aaron, anyway?"

"Oh, I didn't tell them a damn thing," Ian's eyes went wide. When the color drained from his face, it was obvious he was thinking of the same possible scenarios Michael was. "I kind of just up and left with a note on the table saying I'd be back. They're probably freaking out. I was trying to make them think I just needed to get out of town and clear my head for a few days."

"So while everyone here thinks I'm on something, they're going to think you're on something. If they end up on my doorstep too," Michael chuckled, "I'm going to shoot myself."

"You and me both," Ian said.

Wondering if God just might be feeling particularly bored today, Ian couldn’t help but look at the door, expecting to hear a knock.
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An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts