Fanfic: Right On Time (Chalk And Charcoal Series)

[smokingmirror]

Title: Right On Time
Series: Chalk And Charcoal
Author: Avarice
Rating: PG
Pairing: Mikhael/Tybalt
Spoilers: pre BMB
Summary: Mikhael is running late for Tybalt's track meet. July 1994.
Word Count: 2348
Date First Posted: 13-11-2001
Date Revised: 22-05-2011
Beta: Sam.
Awards: -
Notes: A question was raised long ago as to why Tybalt in his occasionally unscrupulous way stop taking meds so as to comply with the track rules. For one, he would've been caught, and Tybalt getting caught is something he likes to avoid wherever possible. The other reason is that his track stuff has always been a point of personal pride -- a way to be better than everyone else. He'd consider it an affront to his talent to not compete purely under his own steam.
Feedback: always welcome, as is constructive criticism.
Also Archived At: LJ

Mikhael looked at his watch and accelerated his pace, cursing silently. The lecturer from his Modern/Post Modern theory class had wanted to discuss his latest paper with him after the tutorial. Normally that would have been fine, but today was no ordinary day and now he was late.

Tybalt was not going to be happy.

The brunet threaded his way through people milling on footpaths, making his way to the sports oval as fast as he could short of breaking into a running and knocking people down.

Noise slowly drifted into his ears from the tiered grandstand set up next to the track. A four-foot barrier sectioned off the spectators in and around the raised stand from the coaches, athletes and the occasional water boy. Mikhael stepped onto the slight platform and looked for an available seat.

The stand was around three quarters full, mainly of groups of students. They laughed and chattered, some in various states of undress with slogans painted on their bodies. There were lots of singular seat gaps between groups further up in the grandstand, but he wouldn't be as close to the track as he wanted.

Mikhael spied an empty seat in the front row at the far end of the stand that afforded him a position at around three-quarter point in the track. With a gentle clumsiness, he excused himself, edging past the row of approximately twenty students already occupying the front row. Once seated, he clasped hands on his thighs and kept a look out for his boyfriend.

It was their university’s track day. Even though most of the students were more interested in sports like football or basketball, there was still enough a large enough interest in athletics to drum up participants. At least enough for some heats for baton relays, hurdles and sprints.

Tybalt was a sprinter. It made sense really, given his physique. Average height, perfectly proportioned, toned torso, light but compactly muscled thighs, great calves.

What was odd about him being a sprinter was that he had asthma, which prevented him from competing all that often.

Which was the reason it was really important to him when he did compete.

Which was the reason Mik was going be in trouble for being late.

Some of the competitors were walking around anxiously, waiting for the start of the next event.

"Excuse me," Mikhael awkwardly tapped on the shoulder of the girl next to him, "what's the next race?"

"100m finals," she answered.

Mikhael breathed a sigh of relief. This was Tybalt's blue ribbon event. He would get to see the redhead race after all. A stray thought occurred. That is, if he'd made it through the heats... Damn. Mik would never hear the end of it if he hadn't.

A flash of red caught the attention of his peripheral vision. As if in answer to his question, Tybalt strode into view, looking eminently prepared to do battle. He wore a pair of fairly short white trimmed red shorts with a moderate split in each leg for maximum movement, that also afforded Mikhael (along with everyone else) an ample view of smooth, pale skin.

A semi-fitted white tank top covered his chest, a large number '21' pinned to the front and back. Feet were encased in a pair of well-worn spikes, which had once probably been white. Now they were a smoky grey. Long red hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

Tybalt stretched his arms, scanning the stands with narrowed eyes as if looking for someone in particular. Eventually, his eyes fell upon Mikhael. The furrow in his brow deepened even as a sardonic smile curved his lips. With a languid stride, he walked towards Mik.

Mikhael watched with equal parts guilt, dread and arousal as the redhead walked past the stand. He narrowed his eyes a number of the spectators -- both male and female -- whistled their appreciation. For his part, Tybalt gave them the most cursory of glances, intent on reaching the brunet.

The closer Tybalt got to his destination the more nervous Mikhael became. His left leg began to bob up and down reflexively. Tybalt finally reached him and leant on the barrier.

"Nice to see you could make it, lover," there was an edge to his voice that Mik didn't like. Green eyes sparkled with annoyance even as his mouth was turned up in a smile that had charm to spare.

"I couldn't come sooner because of class," Mik offered somewhat lamely.

"You should have ditched," Tybalt crossed his arms in a matter of fact manner.

"My lecturer kept me back afterwards!"

Tybalt snorted. "So you missed my relays and sprint heats because of... detention?"

Mik looked exasperated. "I had to talk about my term paper. I couldn't get away."

The silence was accusing enough without a voiced rebuke.

"I got here as fast as I could," his voice dropped to a sad murmur, posture slumping.

"Well it's good to know that you're someone I can count on for the important things," the redhead remarked in a neutral tone when the meaning was anything but.

Mikhael studied Tybalt's sullen face. On the surface, it looked like a simple bout of childishness, but he realised that this was really important to his boyfriend. That didn't really help the guilt at all. Tybalt refused to look at him, instead watched his competitors with a calculating eye.

"Are you okay? You look a little flushed," Mik asked suddenly. It was true, Tybalt's face seemed a little red from exertion.

"What do you mean by that?" Tybalt frowned, affronted.

"Nothing! I mean, um, are you sure? If you're tired maybe you should--"

"Are you kidding?! I have been waiting for these trials for months. There is nothing that is going to keep me from competing," he stated vehemently.

A speaker attached to one of the grandstand supports crackled to life. "Would all competitors in the men's 100m final please make their way to the blocks," the announcer instructed.

Tybalt inclined his head, taking in the information. With a meaningful look at Mikhael, he turned on his heels.

"I'll be back in the time it takes to beat those losers," he remarked over his shoulder.

Mik watched him walk away. He did feel very bad about missing Tybalt's heats, and racked his brain for something he could do to make it up to him, because Mikhael liked Tybalt. He liked Tybalt a lot. And he couldn't screw up so early in the piece.

"Take your marks."

Tybalt stretch one last time before crouching down and positioning his feet correctly in the blocks, breathing deeply.

"Set."

Red hair slid off his shoulder and touched the track. He ignored it. Once he was running, it wouldn't be a concern at all.

The crack of the starter's gun was the signal that propelled Tybalt's body -- rigid with anticipation -- into action. Within the first crucial 20 metres, he had already established himself as one of the front-runners. By the time he passed the 60m mark, the redhead was a stride in front of his nearest rival. At 90m, he had extended his lead to two strides.

Tybalt's teeth were crunched tightly together in his jaw. His lungs were on fire and his heart wanted to burst out of his chest. But in just a few more strides, he had the race won...

With a final burst of energy, Tybalt crossed the line first, winning by two and a half strides easily.

Sitting on the edge of his seat, Mikhael cheered with the crowd when Tybalt's chest touched the ribbon. The redhead took longer to slow down than the rest of the competitors and ended up a good further 20m down the track. A few of his fellow runners called out their congratulations to him, but he didn't respond.

Tybalt concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. His limbs ached from the past few races, blood still pounded in his ears. His lungs burnt... no, really. Pausing and bending at the waist, bracing weight on his knees, Tybalt attempted to steady his breathing, sucking in thick gasps of air.

Mikhael stood up in the grandstand. Tybalt seemed to be in some kind of difficulty. His heart constricted in worry, body already moving towards his lover automatically. By the time Tybalt's left knee hit the ground as he sunk down onto the red track, Mikhael had already leapt over the barrier and was sprinting towards him.

Mikhael chanted Tybalt's name over and over as his feet pounded the earth. Each syllable brought him closer to his stricken lover.

Tybalt was barely able to keep himself propped up, eyes squeezed tightly shut, chest wheezing. He couldn't breathe, his lungs had rubber bands around them that were tightening, and not enough air, not nearly enough...

He felt strong, familiar arms encircle his shoulders, hauling him into an upright sitting position. He groped blindly, one arm snagging around the neck of his helper. Gradually, he heard a voice over his rattling lungs.

"Shhh, breathe, beloved. The feeling will pass, you just need to breathe."

Remembering procedure from a long-ago taken first aid course, Mikhael propped his lover up, alternately stroking his hair and rubbing his back, whispering words of courage and comfort, even though he himself was distressed beyond belief.

It seemed like they waited forever for the first aid officer to reach them, when in reality it was only half a minute at most. She introduced herself quickly. "My name's Anita, I'm the campus medic. Asthma attack?" the young woman queried, already searching through her kit.

"Yes," Mikhael found his voice was surprisingly calm.

"Handsome gents like you have names?" she asked, putting the right dosage of medicine into the small grey plastic puffer, shaking it thoroughly.

"Uh... he's Tybalt and I'm Mikhael," Mik answered.

"Well Mikhael, you've done everything right so far..." He reached out and took the device she handed him. "What I need for you to do is to get your friend to inhale once, then take four deep breaths before inhaling again. Do that four times, and we'll move on from there."

Tybalt's head lolled forward, chest still heaving. Mikhael shook his head vehemently. "No, come on. I need you look at me, Tybalt. Do you hear? Look at me," he spoke firmly enough that the redhead raised his head to look at him, green eyes slightly glazed. Mikhael placed the end of the inhaler between Tybalt's lips. He was silently gratified that a shaking hand closed over his own, and the other man inhaled the medication.

"Now take four deep breaths," Anita ordered in a gentle voice that brooked no argument.

Tybalt threw his head back so that it leant against Mikhael's shoulder. He looked straight into his boyfriend's eyes as he gasped for air. With each intake of oxygen and each puff of medication, his breathing became less and less laboured. Finally, his eyes slid shut and he rested his entire body weight against Mikhael, a look of pallid calm descending.

"Are you able to breathe now?" Anita asked. Tybalt merely nodded. "Have you taken any medication lately to stave off attacks?" He shook his head. Anita frowned. "Why not?"

At length, Tybalt took a deep breath and answered her. "Steroids... in them. Would get... disqualified..." At that, the medic's face cleared and she nodded in understanding, if not sympathy.

Anita took the puffer out of Tybalt's limp hand and put it back in her kit, before she turned to Mikhael. "He needs rest, preferably on a slight angle to keep his airways clear for a while. Do you know where he lives? Is it far away?"

"Yes, and no," Mikhael murmured, pushing a sweat dampened lock of red hair away from his forehead. Tybalt's arm tightened ever so slightly around his neck.

"Great. I'll see you to the edge of the oval, then d'you think you can make it there on your own?"

"Yes... uh, thank you very much," Mik said sincerely -- if awkwardly -- to the young woman.

Anita smiled brightly in response. "I'll clear the way for you. Let's get him comfortable, okay?"

As gently as he possibly could, Mikhael helped Tybalt to his feet. Once steady, he found the redhead was quite able to walk, he just seemed tired after all the running and the subsequent attack. They took a few steps forward, before Tybalt spoke, voice a little rough.

"You called me ‘beloved’," he stated.

Mik blinked. That was the last thing he expected. "Yes, I did," he replied, not knowing what else to say.

Tybalt kept his eyes strictly straight ahead. "Did you mean it?"

Mikhael stopped and turned Tybalt towards him. Those green eyes bored into his own, defensive but somehow infinitely vulnerable. The eyes he was ever so slowly falling in love with.

"I did mean it, yes," Mikhael responded, voice low and serious.

The redhead scrutinised him for another four seconds before leaning forward abruptly and pressing their lips together.

Mik wasn't sure what shocked him more, the surprise kiss, or the noise of the forgotten spectators as they hollered, whistled and cheered in response. Tybalt broke away for a moment. "Say it again," he whispered against Mikhael's lips before kissing them once again.

This time Mikhael broke away. "Well I can't if you keep occupying my mouth like that... and by the way, don't you need to breathe?" The large, happy smile on his face took the sting out of his words though.

"Breathing is overrated," Tybalt quirked a tired but amused smile, eyes glittering like jewels.

Tybalt turned and waved cheesily at the crowd before they began moving off again. Mikhael smiled broadly, and after a few steps, tentatively put his hand at the base of Tybalt's spine. Something still bothered him, though.

"Tybalt, I... I'm sorry for getting here late," he apologised, not wanting the difficulty from before hanging over this newfound... whatever it was.

"Late?" the redhead questioned. "To me, it seems you got here right on time."

~finis