Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6576070.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Gymnastics_RPF
  Relationship:
      Alexander_Artemev/Male_Original_Character, Jonathan_Horton/Male_Original
      Character, Alexander_Artemev/Jonathan_Horton, Alexander_Artemev/Jonathan
      Horton/Male_Original_Character
  Character:
      Jonathan_Horton, Alexander_Artemev, Male_Original_Character
  Additional Tags:
      past_trauma, Mentions_of_Rape, I'll_Update_As_I_Go, I'm_reviving_this
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-17 Updated: 2016-04-20 Chapters: 2/? Words: 4043
****** Red Cheeks, White Bars, and Blue Tights ******
by MaelstromScythian
Summary
     All of them are champion gymnasts training for future world
     competitions.
     Two of them moved from their old gyms to begin training at the third.
     A different pair have already placed in the Olympics.
     One of them still has to make a name for himself.
     The question is, how will he do it?
     Set in 2009, a year after both placed the Olympics and in an
     alternate universe where Sasha can still compete and Jonathan doesn't
     have issues with his left shoulder.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Red Anger, White Grips, Blue Floor *****
     In retrospect, this was probably a bad idea.
     He had been training at his small-town branch in southwestern
Pennsylvania; that was okay, but for some odd reason, when a letter came in the
mail requesting that he transfer to his hometown for higher-level training, he
stupidly accepted the offer.
     It wasn't like they would remember him from age seven, right?
     He remembered the joy he took in going once a week to that academy, but
that was before he moved away and actually trained to compete. At age sixteen,
he had been competing for three years, and had finally reached Level Ten- on
floor exercising, anyway.
     When he was there, he remembered Jon Horton- young, athletic, in his
prime, full of energy. By now, he was older, and yet all of those features
remained- he gave everything his all, no matter what he did. It didn't matter
that Michael may have had the hots for him before he even knew what the hots
were; what mattered now was that Cypress Academy had three gymnasts that were
capable of going to the Olympics, with three years left to train. 
     Of course, he'd gotten over his crush a long time ago. Nowadays, he was
practically asexual- he didn't swing towards girls, and no men interested him
either. He was rather eccentric- from the way he dressed to the way he spoke.
Often, he reverted to the German he'd learned as a child, which struck out as a
huge advantage when people got onto his bad side. 
     For now, it was time to see how the place had changed since he'd been
there last. Black Vibrams clacked upon the pavement in front of the gym, long
legs aching from driving the nineteen hours he'd taken to drive to the place.
Having just recently gotten his driver's license, this was no small feat for
the slender figure that took a deep breath, lycra-clad hands reaching out to
touch the door handle before gripping it firmly, nearly yanking open the door
in the process. 
     He almost paid for that in bruises when he heard the scuffing of feet
behind him. Whipping around, he discovered a short blonde man standing just
short of the the door, face heating up in near-anger. "Oh- sorry! I didn't see
you there. Here, come in," he apologized, holding the door open and praying
that he wouldn't be killed. The man's face was still slightly pointed downward,
but he thought he recognized it from somewhere before...
     "You'd do well to look next time, then." With nothing but an acknowledging
grunt, he walked into the gym, the totem bag hidden from Michael's view coming
into his peripheral as he nearly strutted past him. A part of him was screaming
for him not to let the man get away with such insolence, but something stayed
his hand, a recognition of some kind of kinship they may have had together
preventing any malevolent action. Shaking his head, he stepped inside of the
gym, the familiar odor of chalk and dry foam permeating his nostrils once
again. Walking towards the main office, he found the same man waiting there,
behind someone who looked astonishingly familiar as well...
     It hit him.
     One of them was Jonathan Horton- the body structure and practice outfit
were easy to recognize- but the other was a gymnast he remembered idolizing
back in sixth grade.
     Sasha Artemev had received the same letter as he had, and he would be
training with these two for what could possibly be the rest of his career as a
gymnast.
     Astonished, he could only gape in surprise as the two headed into the back
rooms, the satin overcoat he'd chosen to wear finally coming to rest at the
backs of his legs. He had to focus, but the thought of training with such
successes was so slim. He would probably never compare to either of them- his
forte was power tumbling and floor exercising, but on bars, and even to an
extent, rings, he was hopeless.
     These next three years would have to change that.
===============================================================================
 
     The interior of the main office was the exact same, save for the plethora
of new trophies that now adorned the walls. He couldn't remember who used to be
the receptionist here; nevertheless, he still missed every feature of the place
where he first started to train. After asking a few questions, most of which
earned him dubious looks, the woman at the counter kindly led him to the back,
where the other two were already waiting for him.
     To say that Sasha was surprised was the understatement of the century.
That anger was still left in trace amounts on his skin, but it soon flared into
something that even Michael couldn't recognize when the blonde head whipped
around to discover the stranger who nearly gave him a concussion was his newest
peer and future teammate. Knowing his... less than muscular physique, he could
immediately predict the very next words out of Sasha's mouth.
     "A child? A fucking child?! I came here to train with who I would expect
to be two competitive athletes, but someone who didn't know themselves well
enough to at least calmly open a door and avoid nearly hitting another goddamn
athlete?! This idiot does not deserve to be here. Why does he, of all people,
participate in this team?"
     The coach currently sitting across from the three gymnasts- Jonathan's,
Michael presumed- was only mildly surprised. After all of the media coverage on
Sasha, this was supposed to be at least somewhat surprising to him, but he
didn't even seem fazed by the outburst directed at half of the people in the
room.
     As much as he didn't want to be rude- on the contrary, he highly respected
the pair in front of him- Michael couldn't accept such a belittlement before he
had even had a proper conversation with this man. "Do you need me to prove my
worth? I may not be one ofyou," he said, emphasizing Jonathan and Sasha, "but
if you really question their decision, I will be more than willing to
accommodate any and all tests you have to give me for floor. I'll even promise
to leave the gym and go back to my hometown if you deem me unfit to perform. Do
we have an agreement?" finished Michael. What he'd just said was certainly a
foolhardy gamble, but if he couldn't appease a gymnast, he couldn't satisfy
world-class judges. Although he had a feeling that this 'judgment' would not
proceed fairly, he continued on with his bet, even offering his hand out in a
mock gesture to Sasha.
     As with the other two times he'd met the Olympian, Sasha continued to
seethe. Standing up, he did nothing but beckon to Michael, strutting out the
door and onto the floor. Gesturing him to the corner, he quickly explained the
rules.
     "I'll perform a stunt for a floor exercise, and you'll analyze and copy
what I do. Let's begin with something simple." With that, he went off, hurdling
into a round-off, which was quickly followed by a back-handspring and a layout
full twist. It was easy enough, and soon both were starting again; however,
this time, he opted to take off his overcoat and shoes- he'd completely
forgotten to in the light of challenging an Olympian. Shaking himself out of
his clothes, his gym attire was revealed- a sleek one-piece of lycra he'd
ordered that stopped at his wrists, ankles, and upper neck, concealing all of
the marks found beneath the outfit. It looked a little ridiculous, but he
didn't want people to see his scars. Of course, all of his lower extremities
were safely hidden, but nevertheless, the thing still stayed tight as hell,
fitting to hit skin so that there was no way for his skin to be seen. 
     Soon, they were doing harder things, the looping routine of Sasha
performing and Michael copying becoming a bore to both gymnasts rather quickly.
It was after a Hypolito and then a punch triple full did the medalist sigh,
looking to Michael. "Fine. You can copy, but show me your best pass. These can
hardly qualify for the Olympics, anyway."
     This was a huge risk- he had a pass he was working on, but it was still
experimental. Nodding, he decided fuck it, because he didn't feel like backing
down when he'd come this far. He was warmed up well enough from the last run
that he could at least nail a roll-out if need be.
     When he stepped up to the corned or the blue mat, he closed his eyes,
trying with all of his might to summon enough energy to do this.
     "I'm waiting, newbie."
     There- there it was! That degradation, the upbraiding from other gymnasts-
 that was what gave him the drive, the energy to do the impossible. He ran,
only able to take two steps before he went into a branny, twisting through the
air and going straight into a whip back, the blurred image of his movement
shifting into a higher set. Pulling out of it, he slammed his feet into the
ground, launching himself into the air for one, two- three layouts with a full
twist in the first and the last, his landing a resounding boom throughout the
room. Sasha stood where he was before, unable to move, awe striking his face in
waves. Something unrecognizable came into his eyes, but Michael quickly shook
his head, assuming that he imagined what he'd seen. Jon was there, too,
clapping enthusiastically- he never seemed to run out of energy, bouncing on
the balls of his feet as well.
     Michael guessed that there were at least a few perks to being forgotten by
his old gym.
===============================================================================
 
     The first training session had been relatively easy- he only had to do
giants on bars, which wasn't that hard considering that he knew how to mark a
hollow into layouts. Sasha had glanced his way a few times, but he'd only
dismissed the strange looks as wonder for the stunt he'd pulled earlier. After
a few hours, it was about half past noon, and Michael needed to find a place to
stay for a while, apply for a job, but most importantly, rest. While he did sit
in a car for three quarters of a day, he drove the entire time without any
breaks save for eating and filling up on gas. His white hand guards had finally
been stowed away for the day, and the other two gymnasts were quickly following
suit. Soon, he was back into his Vibrams and satin overcoat.
     Jonathan was the first to speak to him. "You know, I never asked you your
name. You were kind of alone the whole day."
     "Oh? I'm Michael." 
     "What?" The question in his voice made him realize his pronunciation.
     "Oh- you'll have to forgive me. I'm German. I believe here they pronounce
it Michael," he said, catching the 'k' in his throat, "Although I was born in
the United States, my family stuck to our roots and so I was named Michael," he
continued, trying to exaggerate the pronunciation. "If you want, you can call
me Michael, but no nicknames like Mike, please." He held out his hand. "It's
nice to meet you, Mr. Horton."
     They shook. "You too. You look familiar, though- have we met?"
     Michael took a moment to carefully consider the question. He didn't know
why, but he had a feeling that no was the right answer. "I can't say that we
have. Perhaps you saw me at a competition? I doubt it, considering I only
compete for floor exercises." Until now.
     Sasha was now walking out of the building, pausing when Michael turned to
go to his car. Without another word, he bade goodbye to Jon and quickly to
Sasha before heading to his car. He was about to step in when he was called to
by said gymnast.
     "Wait."
     Looking up, he saw the other one head towards him, still with that weird
look in his eye. "Yes?" he asked, unsure of what Sasha wanted.
     "I..." he began, sighing and starting again, "I apologize. I didn't mean
to be so harsh on you. Do you forgive me?"
     "Of course. It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Artemev. I'm sure working with
you will be a pleasure in the future." Michael sighed, pulling out his phone
and starting to search for places to stay. However, a thought popped into his
mind before he began the search, and he caught Sasha walking towards the other
the side of the gym. "Wait, I'm sorry, but do you know any good motels nearby?
I need a place to stay for a few days until I can find a permanent residence."
Sasha stopped, turning around to face him after the calling.
     "Oh? I'm staying with Jon. I could ask him if you would stay with us, if
you like."
     "No, I'd be a burden, and two competitors living together is enough.
Besides, I'm not exactly the best person to live with."
     The conversation continued for a while, and soon, they bade true
farewells, and Michael was on his way to a place he found nearby.
     "Well, that could've gone worse."
===============================================================================
     "Plea-mmph!"
     "Shut up!" The hands on his thighs grabbed him harder, shoving the rest of
him into the bark of the tree he was forced against.
     What was happening? He was on his way home- he just wanted to sit down and
rest, the walk was so very long, and then everything was black, and he was
turned around, and his pants were pulled down, and then it hurt, it hurt so
bad, he felt so weak, so disgusting, and the man hurt him so much, and-
     "Nngh!" There was a warmth there, boiling the insides with sticky,
disgusting filth as the man finally stilled.

     As he pulled something out of him, the thing falling out with a faint
slurping sound, the blindfold was removed, leaving him scared and open at the
tree. Hand still covered his eyes.

     "This is what you're going to do. You're going to count to fifty. You're
going to look at this tree while I leave, and if I catch you turning around,
what just happened will look like bliss compared to what'll happen to you next.
Got it?"

     With that, the faceless man backed away, and sure enough, the sounds of
him driving away soon followed.
     'I have to get home...' thought the child, gathering his bearings through
his tears.
     His legs were so weak, so tired from what had gone on, his lower back sore
beyond belief, and it just hurt so much...
     'I just want my mom. She'll make me feel better.' h e continued, feeling
towards the wetness to wipe it off. Once his hand rested there, he sat shock-
still as he pressed into his thighs, the stinging pain and slippery skin nearly
making him scream again. Reaching his hand to his face, he found a disgusting
mixture of a white liquid and his blood, the congealing fluids coalescing into
a disgusting pink that made him want to vomit.  
     'I have to get home. I'll feel better when I get there. Mom's a doctor,
she can fix me. I have to get home.' The child pulled up his pants, careful of
the burning pain, slung up his backpack, and hobbled the way home, keeping
himself from tears with the mantras he repeated in his head. 'I have to get
home.'
     Once home, he was given a weird look by his brother. "Why were you late?"
     He knew what his brother would say. He'd never believe him. His brother
was mean. He didn't like his brother. "I was-I was looking at the trees on the
way home. I'm here now."
     He managed to clean everything off, but the blood and the white stuff
would never go away. In the bath, the water quickly turned red; however, this
was from the boy's own hand. 'Nasty... you're so dirty. Mom doesn't like dirty
things. Mom likes clean things. Mom doesn't like you. Mom doesn't want you
anymore.'

     The voices were there, and nobody else could hear him, and they were
getting louder and louder, and they were scaring him, and he didn't like them,
and-

     'Mom doesn't want you. You're dirty. You're disgusting. Filthy. Worthless.
You're so nasty. She doesn't love you. You don't mean anything to her.'
     He started to scrub harder.
     'What are you doing? That won't help you. You're not going to be clean.
You're always going to be dirty. You can't even clean yourself. What are you
even trying for? It's not like she'll suddenly want you again.'
     Harder and faster he went, the rough parts of the sponge cutting into his
skin, his nails catching and ripping bits away.
     'You can't be clean. Do you know how worthless you are?'
     He pushed it into the bared flesh, crying as the unformed skin irritated
and hurt him.
     'You're disgusting.'
     The world faded to black.
===============================================================================
 
     Waking up with a start, Michael knew he had to go out for a walk, a drive,
a something. He knew how to deal with these flashbacks, but when they hit, they
hit hard. The place had made an exception for him being underage, since he was
competing in the Olympics and all, and he had free reign to leave any time
before morning. Grabbing his wallet, keys, phone, and donning his overcoat, he
began to make the drive to a park he remembered visiting as a child.
Remembering it as near the gym, he decided to hang out there until it was time
to start today's practice. He sat down where he used to and curled his knees to
his chest. In a hurry, he'd slipped on the Vibrams again, and the overcoat
served as a sort of blanket to help cover his thinly-adorned feet. He was about
to doze off as the sun rose when a familiar voice snapped him out of his
slumber.
     "What are you doing here?"
***** Red Sunrises, White Complexions, Blue Skies *****
Chapter Notes
     Oops. I haven't posted in forever because I was busy with some stuff.
     Looking back over the first chapter, though, it was reALLY
     stereotypical with the end part. I'm just gonna go ahead and rewrite
     that.
     Sorry if everyone's OOC, but it's kinda hard when the character's an
     independent being in real life and not a TV show whoops
     Have a complaint? Comment! I'd really appreciate critique. It makes
     me a better writer. Questions are also appreciated. Thanks!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
     Standing behind him was none other than Artemev, a surefire confusion
spreading across his facial features.
     When Michael didn't immediately respond, he asked again, with a softer,
"What're you doing up this early?"
     Snapping out of his stupor, Michael replied, silver eyes dimming, "It's..
nothing. I just happened to wake up this early. Besides... I could, uh, ask the
same. What about you?" he finished, keeping his guard up.
     "I often get up this early to train. I was just about ready to begin, but
it seems they aren't open yet. I don't have any idea where Jon is, though."
     Something in his eyes changed, setting off signals in the back of
Michael's mind. "Well, are you going to go back to his house? You did say that
you were staying with him, right?"
     "I'm not willing to make the drive back only to come again. What about
you? I at least hope you didn't sleep in your car..."
     "No, but even if I did, you needn't worry. Thanks for asking, though." 
     A pregnant pause filled the air, the weight of worlds crashing down
between the two gymnasts. Sighing, Michael decided to break the ice.
     "Do you want to sit down? It's not like there's anything holding you back,
is there?"
     Sasha was taken aback, the offer completely unexpected. He made a quick
recovery, and he silently nodded his head and sat Zen-style next to Michael,
feet finding a way into his own thighs. "Thanks. I didn't really think to ask."
     Michael giggled a bit at that. "You didn't think to? It wasn't like you
had anything else to think about."
     The other gymnast didn't respond immediately, instead only looking out
towards the rising sun.
     "I used to love this place. I remember the days after practice where I
would come and watch the stars rise from the horizon. Being here again really
brings back my childhood."
     Sasha looked toward him, eyes widening ever-so-slightly. "What? Didn't you
tell Jonathan that you never went here before?"
     "I dunno. I had this feeling that if I told him the truth, something would
happen that I was going to regret. Believe me, I like you both a lot- from your
past performances to meeting you two in person. I remember him practicing when
I was younger, and I used to aspire to be like him. Sort of, anyway."
     "I don't think you liked meeting me in person- we both saw what happened
yesterday."
     "So what if we got off on the wrong foot? You both are still highly
respectable men who aren't enamored with themselves because they won medals at
the Olympics. I look for that kind of sense of self in people."
     Artemev laughed as well, a soft, tinkling sound that rang pleasantly
against Michael's ears. "Well, if that isn't a compliment, I wouldn't know what
is."
     "Oh, shut up. You know it was a good one!" chuckled the teen in response.
     "Well, anyway, I don't know what to say about dealing with Jon. He's a
great guy, believe me. Don't tell me you've developed some kind of crush on him
or something?" asked the elder.
     Michael thought he sensed a deeper meaning behind those words. "Not my
type. Do you have any 'interests?'"
     "How callous of you. I do, but you don't know them."
      Is that good or bad?  "Callous? You asked me the same question. Anyway,
want to get breakfast? There's no point in practicing without even eating
first."
     "Sure. My car or yours?"
     "Mine."
===============================================================================
     Breakfast went by uneventfully, the Wendy's they'd swung by passing with
more small talk.

     "I shouldn't be eating this. It's bad for my diet," commented Michael as
he finished his salad.

     "It's a salad. It can't be that bad, can it?" the other asked, finishing
his own.

     "Yeah, but fast food from any place- no matter what you get- is always bad
for you. Don't tell me you manage your figure without a diet."

     Sasha gazed ahead through the early morning traffic as they headed back to
the gym, the sunset slowly starting to fade into brighter hues of blue.
===============================================================================
     They arrived at the gym at about eight, walking inside to see Jon doing
warm-ups for their practices for the day. Putting his overcoat and shoes away,
he heard a laugh from Sasha, who looked at him a bit sheepishly. "What? I'm
sorry, but you do realize you look ridiculous, right? The shoes and the
overcoat are... eccentric, if anything. Have you worn that to school?"

     "Yep, don't give a fuck and it's gonna stay that way," laughs the other.
===============================================================================
     It was hard to tell exactly how Jon felt about Michael.

     Michael didn't go out of his way to speak with him, and neither did the
other. He often found Jon giving him looks that were... unidentifiable? Michael
wasn't the best at reading emotions, but he just couldn't figure out for
the life of him what swirled in his eyes. Sometimes he didn't even notice
Michael looking back, but when he did, he respected him enough to look away.

     He still kind of regretted his decision- okay, so maybe he'd made friends
with his childhood idol, but things were somehow tense between him and Jon now.
Was he still trying to figure out if he knew Michael or not? Had he seen
through his lie? Had Sasha told him about the truth? He hoped not. That'd turn
the relationship they'd been building to shit real quick.
 
     After practice that day, their coach suggested they all go out and do
something together as a team. Something about trust building? It didn't make
sense, seeing as how they weren't cheerleaders, and gymnastics was an
independent sport. After trying to decline- "Sorry, coach, but I'm still
looking for a job and a place to stay. Could I be-" was all he got out of his
mouth before he was being shushed by him and pretty much forced into Jon's SUV,
the dark silver glinting a bit out in the Texas heat.

     If things between him and Jon stayed the same way the whole time, the rest
of his day was going to be hell.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Sorry it's so short, but I'm just getting back into writing. The next
     one will be longer, I swear ;-;
End Notes
     I feel so dirty because Jonathan Horton is my old coach fml
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