Title: Prologue
Author: adlove
Community:olympic_slash
Fandom: Gymnastics
Pairing: Fabian Hambüchen/Jonathan Horton/Alexander Artemev
Rating: R
Disclaimer: This story is completely fictional. I'm borrowing the Crying German, Shit Talker and Sasha entirely for the purpose of literary entertainment.
Summary: “The concept of his…situation…seemed to him more lecherous than it actually is. And he is by no means a pervert. Or gay. In fact, he is very much of a traditionalist when it comes to relationships. He likes movie nights and cuddling on the couch. He likes saving his girl from the occasional mouse. He likes…boobs and butts and legs. A lot.” Which…leads to the question of how Alexander Artemev had managed to fall for, not one but two, men.
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“My dear son, the only constants in this sport are injury and retirement. When you are older, you’ll see.”

That was his father’s way of comforting him. Alex was ten and the results of his début junior competition had been disastrous. All he wanted was to melt into the floorboards forever when he felt his father’s large callused hand on his shoulder. The older man’s familiar tenor echoed in his ear and he had nodded half-heartedly, apathetic to any console.

It wasn’t until the 2004 Summer Games in Athens that he realized the wisdom in his father’s words. It was an arid day in Colorado, if memory served correctly. He was draped on his living room couch, cuddling a bowl of Frosted Flakes in front of the television set. The spoon traveled mid-way to its intended destination when Yang Wei of China had fallen off the parallel bar like a sack of potatoes. The milk dribbled a meandering stream of white on his lap. It went noticed.

The Forever Favorite. The Medal Mugger. The Annoyingly Undefeatable Old Fart.

He fell.

Alex had heard rumors about the Chinese team. Things like how they were taken away from their families when they were three. Like how they see their parents only once a year. Like how they live at the gym. And how they drink fresh monkey blood every night to sustain their bone density.

But, at that moment in front of his television screen, the only thing he heard were his father’s words reverberating in the halls of his mind.

“The only constants in this sport are injury and retirement.” No outcome is ever guaranteed. Not even for The Yang Wei.

Because, when the spectators critique a gymnast’s performance, they don’t feel the elephant named Pressure teetering on his shoulders. They don’t see the metallic shopping carts filled halfway with band-aids, pain killers and those lacy gauzes packed in tight rolls. They don’t hear the ex-girlfriends crying on the phone, complaining of his constant neglect. They don’t taste the blood on his dried, cracked lips that he never has the time to take care of. And most of all, they don’t see his scarred palms, the ones that he hides so cleverly out of view.

Because, when the judges critique a gymnast’s performance, they strip away his identity. He is no longer 6 golds, 4 silvers and 1 bronze. He is no longer 16 years of experience multiplied by 8 hours spent at the gym each day. He is simply 5 minutes of imperfections and vulnerabilities made all too clear in automatic replays.

Because, a gymnast can drink a gallon of monkey blood every night, but he will still go to sleep knowing that he can only minimize, but not eliminate that margin of error.

So Alex trained, finally forgiving himself for being human and for the occasional fuck up.

But this.

This is not the kind of fucking up the Belorussian expected to do. And he doesn’t think that any pearls of wisdom can improve his current predicament.

From his position on the bed, he can see his neglected belt curling on the beige carpet next to Jon’s navy boxer briefs and a random sock. The window had been opened for some time, but he could still detect the faint acrid odor of sweat and sex in the ill-ventilated village dorm room.

To his right, Jon slept as loudly as he spoke. Alex never thought that such a small person could be capable of such a wide range of acoustics and snores until he meet the American. And when he isn’t busy making sounds, Jon is weaving himself into a human cocoon of blankets, leaving Fabian, who dozed on the opposite side of the bed, completely exposed.

The German lies haphazardly on his stomach with one arm dangling freely off the edge of the small bed. The toned muscles of his shoulders blend seamlessly into the smooth panes of his back, where his Olympic tattoo resides. The soft slope of his spine traces the gentle expansion of his ribcage and dips into well-rounded buttocks that the Belorussia finds comparable to a woman’s.

The full moon throws a shaft of blue shadow across the Fabian’s slumbering visage. The mischievous light bounced off his flaxen hair and long eyelashes, creating an ironic halo around his head.

Alex gnawed on his lower lip until the pain blunted the laughter he tried so desperately to conceal. The German may have the face of angel and the smile of a cherub, but that’s where the similarities end. When that man has his mouth on the Belorussian, he can make Alex forget that God exists.

Fabian likes to please and who was he to deny him?

As if telepathic, Jon turned on his side and suddenly flung his arm across the blond’s chest. The owner of the said flying projectile did not wake.

“Bastar...” Jon mumbles incoherently in his sleep and snuggled into his pillow until half of his face was swallowed.

Alex gave a sigh so deeply that his ribs threaten to collapse. He is awake, but he’d rather be asleep to hide from his naked conscience.

The concept of his…situation…seems to him more lecherous than it actually is. And he is by no means a pervert. Or gay. In fact, he is very much of a traditionalist when it comes to relationships. He likes holding hands and eating ice cream in the park. He likes movie nights and cuddling on the couch. He likes saving his girl from the occasional mouse. He likes…boobs and butts and legs. A lot.

Which…leads to the question of how he, Aleksandr Vladimirovich Artemev, had managed to fall for, not one but two, men.