Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 4)
Jun. 14th, 2010 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thefroggTitle: Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word (part 4)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thefrogg
Beta: None yet
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people.Although sometimes I wish I did.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
“Johnny?”
Tanith can’t answer Tara, words stuck in her throat with dull horror and impotent rage at Johnny’s condition.
“Johnny, are you there? Do I need to send help? Oh, god, I can’t leave right this minute, but I can have—“
“It’s Tanith,” she chokes out, and has to clear her throat.
Tara doesn’t answer right away; Tanith listens to her breathe, listens to her force herself to calm down. “Is Johnny all right?”
“That depends on your definition of all right,” Tanith says flatly. “I need to know what kind of bullshit diet he’s on, because he looks like a damn skeleton.”
“He’s not on a diet.” Tara’s voice is sad, and under other circumstances, Tanith might call even call it griefstricken.
“Then tell me.” The rage hardens to a knot of white-hot pain and can’t find any other outlet. “How the hell—“
“Do not give me the eating disorder bullshit, Tanith!”
“What else is there—“
“YOU WEREN’T HERE!”
Tanith yanks the phone away from her ear at Tara’s roar before gingerly listening again.
“…be forever grateful to you and all the others who came and dragged Johnny around the rink and made sure he didn’t kill himself doing it, but you aren’t here for the hard stuff! You were here for the grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it, smile-for-the-cameras, it’s-only-pain crap he shows the whole fucking world since the accident! There’s been a new ruler in Johnny’s life, and it’s not even skating! It’s his fucking leg, and we count ourselves lucky to get six good meals in him a week!”
“Tara—“ Tanith tries to interrupt.
“Listen to me. Listen to me!” It sounds like Tara’s fighting back tears, or maybe a panic attack. Maybe both. “I’ll give you the Care and Feeding of Johnny Weir post-accident, and email you the rest of the manual, but listen to me! He’s not on a fucking diet. He eats what he wants, when he wants, and I do mean when he wants. Try and get him to eat when he’s not hungry and he’ll throw up. Pain flares make him nauseous. He won’t even take water after training because he hurts too much to keep anything down.”
“Wait.” Tanith jumps in when Tara pauses to catch her breath. “There’s a manual?”
“Yes, there’s a fucking manual. Johnny knows about it, he helped write the damn thing. It’s me, Galina and Viktor taking care of him now, because half the time he can’t and he hasn’t spoken to his family or Paris in months.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m, I’m. I have no idea what’s going on, obviously. I’m sorry.” Tanith bites her lip, tasting blood. “Can you tell me—“
“E-triple-S. Eating, Sleeping, Skating, and Scars. Got something to write with?”
“Hold on,” and Tanith scrambled for the hotel notepad. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Eating. No coconut. No raspberry anything. Nothing really hot-spicy. They upset his stomach. If he’s hungry, and he’s due to train or do PT in the next four hours, call me. I’ll rearrange his schedule. Do not tease him about how much or what he orders. The whole point of this is to get as much nutrition into him as possible, not watch him starve to death. He’s under the care of a nutritionist and a doctor, and yes, he’s borderline dangerously underweight. We do the best we can with it within Johnny’s limitations, you got me?”
Tanith swallows hard. “I understand.”
“Good. I really do mean it about not talking about how much he orders – if he can’t decide on what he wants, he’ll order half the damn menu and graze for as long as his appetite holds out.”
“He said he’d be up for lunch. Should I go ahead and–“
“If you want brownie points with him, go ahead and order the menu,” Tara finished for her. “God knows he can afford it. Just make sure—“
“No coconut, no raspberry, nothing spicy. Got it.”
“Sleeping. If he manages to get to sleep without drugs or alcohol, let him sleep. I’ll send you his schedule with the manual – I’m not getting in for another two days. If something needs rescheduling, call me. Let him sleep. Sponsors and the press are used to having to work around him by now. He usually can’t sleep for more than a half hour or forty minutes at a time. If you happen to be in the room with him, and he gets restless, shift the position his leg’s in. Put a pillow under it, or take it out, or turn it. It might be enough to let him sleep for another half hour.”
“Jesus, Johnny.” Tanith shuts her eyes, the pen digging into her knuckles painfully.
“Something like that,” Tara says, and it doesn’t carry the slightest bit of amusement, just a brittle sarcasm. “Skating. He does not skate alone. You should know that one already.”
“No shit.”
“When he’s done skating, he doesn’t take his skates off alone. Once he gets one off, you take it away from him.”
Tanith can’t even move, can’t breathe, at the implications.
“He hasn’t done anything, but he’s said enough that we don’t take any chances. Not with his skates. Not ever.”
“He—he—“
“He’s in constant pain, Tanith, the painkillers barely touch it. He’s no JR Celski to cut himself open and compete with little more than a scar to show for it. Johnny shouldn’t be walking, much less flinging himself around on the ice, medals notwithstanding.”
“Why? Why does he—it must hurt so much—“
“You know why. Everyone, the whole damn world knows why. They told him he couldn’t.”
Author:
thefroggBeta: None yet
Disclaimer: Never happened, never will, and I don't own these people.
Warnings: weirdness (as if that's unexpected with me as an author), angst
Summary: Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury. Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach. Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.
“Johnny?”
Tanith can’t answer Tara, words stuck in her throat with dull horror and impotent rage at Johnny’s condition.
“Johnny, are you there? Do I need to send help? Oh, god, I can’t leave right this minute, but I can have—“
“It’s Tanith,” she chokes out, and has to clear her throat.
Tara doesn’t answer right away; Tanith listens to her breathe, listens to her force herself to calm down. “Is Johnny all right?”
“That depends on your definition of all right,” Tanith says flatly. “I need to know what kind of bullshit diet he’s on, because he looks like a damn skeleton.”
“He’s not on a diet.” Tara’s voice is sad, and under other circumstances, Tanith might call even call it griefstricken.
“Then tell me.” The rage hardens to a knot of white-hot pain and can’t find any other outlet. “How the hell—“
“Do not give me the eating disorder bullshit, Tanith!”
“What else is there—“
“YOU WEREN’T HERE!”
Tanith yanks the phone away from her ear at Tara’s roar before gingerly listening again.
“…be forever grateful to you and all the others who came and dragged Johnny around the rink and made sure he didn’t kill himself doing it, but you aren’t here for the hard stuff! You were here for the grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it, smile-for-the-cameras, it’s-only-pain crap he shows the whole fucking world since the accident! There’s been a new ruler in Johnny’s life, and it’s not even skating! It’s his fucking leg, and we count ourselves lucky to get six good meals in him a week!”
“Tara—“ Tanith tries to interrupt.
“Listen to me. Listen to me!” It sounds like Tara’s fighting back tears, or maybe a panic attack. Maybe both. “I’ll give you the Care and Feeding of Johnny Weir post-accident, and email you the rest of the manual, but listen to me! He’s not on a fucking diet. He eats what he wants, when he wants, and I do mean when he wants. Try and get him to eat when he’s not hungry and he’ll throw up. Pain flares make him nauseous. He won’t even take water after training because he hurts too much to keep anything down.”
“Wait.” Tanith jumps in when Tara pauses to catch her breath. “There’s a manual?”
“Yes, there’s a fucking manual. Johnny knows about it, he helped write the damn thing. It’s me, Galina and Viktor taking care of him now, because half the time he can’t and he hasn’t spoken to his family or Paris in months.”
“Okay. Okay. I’m, I’m. I have no idea what’s going on, obviously. I’m sorry.” Tanith bites her lip, tasting blood. “Can you tell me—“
“E-triple-S. Eating, Sleeping, Skating, and Scars. Got something to write with?”
“Hold on,” and Tanith scrambled for the hotel notepad. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Eating. No coconut. No raspberry anything. Nothing really hot-spicy. They upset his stomach. If he’s hungry, and he’s due to train or do PT in the next four hours, call me. I’ll rearrange his schedule. Do not tease him about how much or what he orders. The whole point of this is to get as much nutrition into him as possible, not watch him starve to death. He’s under the care of a nutritionist and a doctor, and yes, he’s borderline dangerously underweight. We do the best we can with it within Johnny’s limitations, you got me?”
Tanith swallows hard. “I understand.”
“Good. I really do mean it about not talking about how much he orders – if he can’t decide on what he wants, he’ll order half the damn menu and graze for as long as his appetite holds out.”
“He said he’d be up for lunch. Should I go ahead and–“
“If you want brownie points with him, go ahead and order the menu,” Tara finished for her. “God knows he can afford it. Just make sure—“
“No coconut, no raspberry, nothing spicy. Got it.”
“Sleeping. If he manages to get to sleep without drugs or alcohol, let him sleep. I’ll send you his schedule with the manual – I’m not getting in for another two days. If something needs rescheduling, call me. Let him sleep. Sponsors and the press are used to having to work around him by now. He usually can’t sleep for more than a half hour or forty minutes at a time. If you happen to be in the room with him, and he gets restless, shift the position his leg’s in. Put a pillow under it, or take it out, or turn it. It might be enough to let him sleep for another half hour.”
“Jesus, Johnny.” Tanith shuts her eyes, the pen digging into her knuckles painfully.
“Something like that,” Tara says, and it doesn’t carry the slightest bit of amusement, just a brittle sarcasm. “Skating. He does not skate alone. You should know that one already.”
“No shit.”
“When he’s done skating, he doesn’t take his skates off alone. Once he gets one off, you take it away from him.”
Tanith can’t even move, can’t breathe, at the implications.
“He hasn’t done anything, but he’s said enough that we don’t take any chances. Not with his skates. Not ever.”
“He—he—“
“He’s in constant pain, Tanith, the painkillers barely touch it. He’s no JR Celski to cut himself open and compete with little more than a scar to show for it. Johnny shouldn’t be walking, much less flinging himself around on the ice, medals notwithstanding.”
“Why? Why does he—it must hurt so much—“
“You know why. Everyone, the whole damn world knows why. They told him he couldn’t.”
