No one's really surprised to see famous rockstar Eddie Munson show up to the 2024 Paris Olympics. His close friendship with three-time medalist gymnast Chrissy Cunningham had the press working over time when the pair were first spotted six years ago leaving a fundraising event.
However, no one can seem to figure out why- in Chrissy's down time- the metal head is frequently spotted at the men's swimming events. Everyone knows Munson's queer, but he's not the type to show up just to oggle some poor, unsuspecting athletes (he is, but the press don't need to know he's a bit of a freak).
Prime time news coverage chock it up to Eddie supporting the best of the USA's Olympians, including Steve Harrington, who just broke the world record for men's fastest 100m freestyle. They'd pointed out it wasn't odd he was there, since he also made appearances at other events with up and coming stars, such as Lucas Sinclair for men's basketball and Nancy Wheeler for women's skeet shooting. When asked about it, he'd laughed it off, saying swimming was Chrissy's favorite sport to watch and he promised he'd fill her in on what she missed.
That didn't stop fans online from obsessing over small details, including Eddie's repeat appearances at the swimming events, where he only showed once for anything else that wasn't Chrissy's competitions. There was no way he could keep Chrissy filled in on what she missed when he only showed up to meets Harrington competed in, not all men's swimming events.
Fan edits of Eddie Munson clapping a little too hard, screaming a little too loud, and overall just a little bit more excited for Harrington's podium than Chrissy's gold medal spread across the internet like wildfire. One blurry shot caught Harrington briefly look in his direction when he won his silver, but it was hard to be certain.
Tucked into bed after another long day of interviews, Eddie pulls up a few of the best fan edits Jeff and Gareth sent him earlier. It's become a bit of a habit over the past few weeks to watch his favorite ones before he goes to sleep. He feels the bed dip next to him, a warm hand slide over his chest and a leg push between his own.
"Aww babe," Steve coos, "did we get new ones today?"
Eddie leans down, dropping little kisses on his husband's forehead. "Apparently Jeff says these ones are even more convincing than last week's."
Steve hums a content little sigh before nuzzling into the crook of Eddie's neck. They've been riskier about public appearances this time around compared to Tokyo, but they've agreed to publicly come out after this year's games are over. So, why not have a little fun with it?
They release a fan edit of their own later that year posted on the official Corroded Coffin profile. It's a reaction video of them watching all of their favorite tiktoks and fanart and Tumblr posts. They laugh, point out inaccuracies, answer fan questions, and post a few pictures of their own, including the two of them standing under an arch of flowers exchanging rings.
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Thawing Out
summary: You and Sirius are in dire need of a new coach just weeks before the Olympics. Remus is a former figure skating prodigy forced to retire after a career-ending injury. Though it's not smooth skating right away, those stiff Olympic village beds are dying to be broken in.
collab with @ellecdc
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
cw: modern au, chronic pain
poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 1.3k words
Remus still wakes before dark every morning. It’s automatic, an urgency and excitement that thrums through him like an old instinct, born from years of his alarm clock rousing him at this time. The rink is always at its best right now, when they’ve just finished resurfacing the ice and no one else is around. It was Remus’ favorite time to practice.
Now, he has a new reason to get up. His hip clicks as he does it, so he starts his day with a couple of proactive painkillers. If he really wanted to be proactive he would stretch like he’s supposed to, but there’s no time and Remus doesn’t feel like it. He’ll pay his toll for the negligence later.
The webpage of his Airbnb boasted a five-minute walk to the rink, but with his hip it takes Remus seven. It’s like an odd sort of muscle memory, an old routine from another life that feels as bitter as it does comfortable. He heads out early to give himself some cushion. The streets are empty but for bakers and baristas, the first hints of dawn tinging the sky a deep blue. When he turns a corner and the rink comes into view, the absence of his bag hanging from his shoulder is a phantom ache.
The front doors are locked but the side one staff uses isn’t, the Zamboni driver already inside. Remus lets himself in, makes a cup of tea from the hot water dispenser they leave out when concessions are closed, plants himself on a bench, and waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Remus has nearly nodded off when two pairs of shoes come bounding up to him. Well, one pair bounds. The other drags.
“Hi, sorry we’re late.” You’re breathless and hauling a sullen-looking boy along behind you by the hand, but you manage a smile when Remus looks up at you. “I had to run over and get him out of bed. It’s good to meet you!”
You hold out your untethered hand. Remus might normally stand to take it, but he no longer feels like doing you the courtesy. Your grip is firm and warm.
“You were supposed to be here at six,” he says.
You wince. “I know. Sorry, Sirius is really not a morning person.”
Remus thinks that he might put more stock into your apologies if you looked a tad more contrite. As it is, your countenance is almost cheery, a fizzy eagerness about you as you look between him and the ice like you can’t wait to get out on it.
In stark contrast, the ill-tempered boy behind you seems not to have a clue where he is. He looks rumpled and disoriented, squinting in the rink’s fluorescent light.
“Then why didn’t you pick another time?” Remus asks.
He hadn’t realized he was still looking at Sirius, or that the other boy could talk, so it’s a surprise when he answers. “Wasn’t my bloody idea.”
By the way you grin, Remus wonders if you’ve even heard the obvious bitterness in your partner’s tone, or whether it’s gone straight over your head.
“I like the rink better early,” you explain. “No one else ever comes before the hockey practice starts at nine, and they’ll have just finished resurfacing the ice.”
Begrudgingly, Remus nods. “I always preferred it about now, too.”
He realizes immediately that his agreement was a mistake, because your smile grows into something far too brilliant for the early hour. Christ, what has he gotten himself into? There’s you, starry-eyed and effervescing all over the place, and your partner, who looks more inclined to fall asleep on your shoulder than put on his skates.
And this is the pair skating duo Remus is supposed to take to the Olympics.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“Watch that back foot!” Remus shouts across the ice.
Sirius doesn’t look happy about it, but he corrects the placement of his skate, transitioning smoothly into the next synced turn.
“Good,” Remus murmurs to himself.
Once Sirius got out on the ice and woke up a bit, he was good. He skates with the technical proficiency of someone who’s been in the sport since before they started primary school, and the intuitive artistry of someone who loves it. You’re much the same, though your virtuosity and obvious competence are consistently undercut by hesitation, the grace of your movements interrupted when you second-guess yourself. But these—technical prowess paired with devotion—are the basics of what makes a good figure skater. You’ll have to be flawless if you want to do well at the Olympics.
And Remus has found many flaws.
“No, no—shit!” Remus stands as you fall out of your jump again, catching yourself on your forearms. “You’re still under-rotating! Come on!”
Sirius snarls a quick “Hey!” over his shoulder before turning his back on Remus, going to help you up. He speaks to you quietly, checking you over as you stand. Remus seethes.
He has no clue why he’s been called out here to coach a pair. Remus doesn’t know pairs, has never been a part of one. He was a solo skater. And frankly, it makes him wary that what’s supposed to be the best skating pair in Britain has asked him, a former solo skater who’s been isolated from the figure skating community in general for the past two years, to coach them. But Remus does know figure skating. And he knows when skaters are making stupid mistakes behind their skill level.
“What aren’t you understanding?” asks Remus as you skate back to the edge of the rink. He really wants to know. “It’s simple. You can do this.” He knows he could have. As easy as breathing, and he would kill to have the chance again.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
Sirius’ glare is sharp as knives. He steps off the ice before you can, positioning himself between you and Remus. Your lips purse with a knowing sort of apprehension.
“Sirius…”
“No, you don’t talk to her like that,” Sirius spits. “It was a tiny mistake.”
Remus raises his eyebrows, incredulous. “I’m trying to help her! It was a giant mistake, with a simple fix. You ought to be telling her the same, unless you’re okay with your partner snapping her ankle weeks out from competition.”
“None of that means you get to fucking yell at her! Who do you think you are?”
“Okay—”
“I’m her coach,” says Remus, voice rising, “and—”
“Then coach her! Maybe if you’d give some actual fucking feedback instead of just nitpicking—”
“Okay!” Your shout cuts through the space, echoing in the empty rink and silencing the other two. “That’s enough.”
You haul Sirius back by his shoulder. Your grip doesn’t look severe enough to move him, but he goes, stepping back to your side. His eyes never leave Remus’.
Your own gaze jumps between both boys, that same spark he’d seen in you earlier burning with a different light.
“Let’s call it for today,” you say firmly. “Okay? We’ll try again tomorrow.”
Neither boy speaks, though Remus nods. It seems to be taking all of Sirius’ willpower to bite his tongue. He gets the impression it isn’t something he succeeds at often, so Remus isn’t ashamed to say that it brings him a perverse sort of joy to see it now. His tiny bit of smugness fizzles out, though, when your eyes land on him. There’s something desolate in your expression that’s a salient deviation from how you’d looked at him before. Remus has the sinking feeling that he’s disappointed you. It’s more distressing than he can account for.
“We’ll be here on time tomorrow,” you say in that same steady tone. “And my jump, I’ll work on it.”
Remus nods again. You return it, and when you turn to leave, you drag Sirius after you by his shirtsleeve, picking up your bags along your way. Remus’ mouth feels dry. His lips are chapped, his fingertips hurt from the cold, and the sight of your skates sinking into the rubbery floor makes his hip ache terribly.
It’s only once you’re nearly out of earshot that he manages to mumble, “Thank you.”
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