The panties thing was kind of unintentional. Evan didn’t start shopping at Victoria’s Secret or fantasizing about garter belts or anything. It was just a thing. He slept with some girl Erin introduced him to, because she had these all of these ideas about him needing to meet girls ‘naturally’. He wasn’t sure why it was more natural when Erin set him up instead of Yuki, but he went along with it. It didn’t work out, anyway. The girl left before he woke up, leaving behind her underwear and a rather strong smell of perfume, but not her number.
So it wasn’t a thing, or if it was, it was directly connected to a completely normal heterosexual sexual encounter. The only abnormal part was the part where Evan threw her panties in with his own laundry, because he was too much of a clean freak to leave somebody’s worn underwear lying around his bedroom, and then they were washed and folded and he wasn’t really sure what to do with them. They were kind of pretty, and it seemed like a waste to throw them away, but he couldn’t exactly keep them for a future girlfriend or give them to one of his friends. At some point, staring at them, it seemed like a totally logical decision to try them on himself. Just to see what it was like.
It turned out it was hot. It shouldn’t have been hot, and it wasn’t like Evan was checking himself out in the mirror to see what he looked like, because that would be ridiculous, and not hot at all, but they felt hot. Silky, and much lighter than even the most satin-y boxers, and higher-cut than any dance belt or briefs he’d ever owned. They didn’t fit properly, or at least not the way he was used to underwear fitting him, and he could feel the lacy edging digging against his hips and pulling against his inner thighs. It was stupidly hot, and that night he jerked off thinking about it, and after that, okay, he had sort of a panties thing, but it wasn’t a perverted crossdressing thing. It was just the way they felt.
Evan wore them under his jeans sometimes. It made him feel furtive and sexy and kind of ashamed at the same time. It wasn’t like anyone could tell. It was a private thing. On the days he wore girls’ underwear under his clothes, he always got off spectacularly when he finally got home. And it still wasn’t a real thing, because he wasn’t buying them or going through lingerie sites online or doing anything about it but jerking off. He just kept the panties of a few more one night stands, and one time, when he was over at Erin’s watching NASCAR, he helped her fold her laundry and found a little black silk g-string he stuffed into his pocket when she wasn’t looking. He felt totally bad about it later, of course, but not enough to return them.
It suited him pretty well and he didn’t overthink it until he had a big professional skating show in Japan, where they paid big money for Olympic gold medallists. One of the things Evan demanded in his contract was a private dressing room, because sometimes it got annoying, having to share a locker room with a bunch of guys like you were still in Juniors, and they tended to talk in private jokes that he didn’t get and kind of suspected were aimed at him. He got the private room, and the brand of water he liked the best, and his special candles and his muscle milk, and he was stripping down to get changed for the warm-up when Johnny Weir walked in and caught him with his shirt off and his jeans half off his hips, the lacy pink of the panties gleaming through his open fly.
“I was actually looking for the ladies’,” Johnny said. His eyes had fixed with terrible precision just where Evan didn’t want them. “I’d say I was sorry for intruding, but that would be a horrible lie.”
Evan had no idea what to say to that. He had to be caught in the stupid hot pink things he’d gotten off some Valley girl he’d done one time, instead of something black or subtler that he could just kind of pretend was from the mens’ section. It was really hard to pass off fragile pink lace that cut away to practically nothing over his hipbones. His face felt hot, and he knew he was flushing from his hairline to his navel. It probably clashed. He could even feel himself starting to get hard under Weir's stare. This was bad, it was so, so bad, and the longer he didn’t say anything, the worse it got, and the higher Weir’s eyebrows went.
"I can explain--"
"Can you?" Johnny asked. He looked torn between amusement and horror, but amusement seemed to be winning out.
Evan thought about it. It felt like a really long time, but it was probably only a few seconds. Weir didn’t move a muscle, anyway, and it wasn’t like he had the longest attention span in the world. “No,” he admitted.
“Maybe you were all out of laundry, and you had to borrow something from one of the girls?” Johnny suggested sweetly. It probably seemed helpful, if you weren’t able to see his mouth twitching and his eyes gleaming, and if you didn’t know that he was only offering suggestions in order to point up Evan’s failure at coming up with a convincing lie. Or any kind of lie at all. “Maybe you had a hot one night-stand with an unknown lady ice dancer, and you got dressed in the dark afterwards? Maybe you have a secret girlfriend, and it gets her hot to know you like wearing her p– ”
“Shut up,” Evan said. “You know it’s not any of those, it’s just – you know what, it’s none of your business what I’m wearing, or why, and this is a private room, and you shouldn’t even be here.” He folded his arms and tried to look imposing, miserably aware that his pants were still open, but pretty sure that trying to do them up or acting uncomfortable would only weaken his position further.
“Do they make you feel pretty?”
“I’m not discussing this,” Evan said. He shifted the fold of his arms. His face felt warmer. Was he going redder? Was that possible? Why was Johnny still standing there, his eyes flicking back and forth between Evan’s face and his groin, instead of leaving like a decent person? Oh, right, he was Johnny Weir. He lived to make Evan’s life harder.
“This is the most interesting conversation I’ve had with you in years.” Johnny’s pointed eyeteeth made his smile more evil than sweet. “You’re not grunting, or making incredibly awkward small talk about the weather, or droning on in sports metaphors that make me want to put an icepick through my own eyeball – ”
“Your own?” Evan said, momentarily distracted from his mortifying predicament. “I would have thought you’d want to stick it in mine instead.”
“I don’t want to stick anything in you,” Johnny said immediately, kindling with malicious delight. “Naturally, given a choice, I’d rather club you with the sharp objects than self harm,” he went on, after Evan had squirmed uncomfortably for a few moments, wishing he could bite off his own tongue and stop saying stupid shit that Johnny could twist around and make fun of. “But once you start droning, it’s hard to think rationally. All I can focus on is ending the agony, in any way I can –”
That was probably meant to annoy him, but Evan didn’t mind being called boring, or knowing that his monologues had managed to piss Johnny off. It gave him a small, warm glow of satisfaction, since that had been exactly what he’d intended. He was smart enough to know he couldn’t win a direct, face-to-face, no-holds-barred argument with Weir. It made better tactical sense to pretend he didn’t get Weir’s barbs or took them at face value, and to be as disingenuous as possible when he struck back. Weir could read between the lines, but it left Evan plausible deniability. No footholds. “I apologize for boring you,” he said smoothly, feeling surer of himself. “I need to get changed for practice, so you can, you know, go now.”
“I’m having fun,” Johnny protested, ignoring Evan’s meaningful headjerk in the direction of the door. “Seriously, I’m not kidding, this is the most interesting you’ve been in years.” He took a step closer, and grinned his sharp-toothed little grin when Evan shifted away and accidentally backed into a chair.
It scraped noisily across the floor, and Evan’s ankle hurt. Weir must have seen that coming, and he could have pointed out it was behind him, but he was probably trying to ruin Evan’s exhibition skate.
“Now you’ve had a few minutes to think about it, have you come up with any better explanations for the pink and frilly?”
“Um,” Evan said, stalling. He totally could have, he just hadn’t. “Um.”
“Yes?” Johnny prompted. When Evan stared blankly back at him, he sighed. “Maybe someone dared you to? No? Maybe they belong to an ex? Maybe you’re wearing them because you’re creepy and want to feel closer to her.”
“Maybe,” Evan said. “I mean, no, I would never do that.”
“Please, you totally would,” Johnny said, and Evan frowned at him, because he hadn’t thought about it, but he probably would, if he still had anything of his exes’ lying around. It would be more interesting that way. “Do I need to have a word with Charles and get him to have a word with you? I swear, he gets brawnier by the day.”
“They’re not Tanith’s!”
“Well, obviously. Tanith has better taste.” Johnny’s eyelashes swept down demurely, and then up again. His eyes were bright with laughter. “Please just tell me they’re not your mom’s.”
Evan increased the frown to a glare. “You know what, I don’t need a reason. I can wear what I like, and you don’t get to give me the third degree about it. Get out of my dressing room.”
“That’s a good one, actually. Wearing things just because they’re pretty is reason enough.”
“Thank you,” Evan said sarcastically. “I feel much better for that affirmation.”
Johnny shrugged. “Wearing pretty things under your clothes because you like them is fine.” He straightened up like he was about to leave, his hands skimming down over his costume, making minute adjustments and brushing away invisible dust. He ran a finger under the cuff of his sleeve, looking down. “Doing that while going around talking loudly about other people wearing pretty things like that makes them less of a man, that’s less fine.”
“Um, I’ve never said anything about your panties,” Evan said. “If you wear them, which I don’t even know.”
“You can’t possibly be stupid enough to think that I’m talking about panties,” Johnny said flatly. “I wear Galliano briefs, anyway. I don’t have a lingerie thing. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, like I said.”
Evan wasn't stupid enough not to know what he meant, but there wasn't enough money in the world to get him to have that conversation with Johnny Weir. “What do you want?” he asked. “What do I have to do to get you to go away and leave me alone and not say anything about this whole thing?”
Johnny's eyes narrowed at his avoidance, but then the fierce glare vanished and he looked down at his feet, almost demurely. "What are you offering?" he asked, looking at Evan sideways through his eyelashes, and then burst into mocking bright magpie laughter at whatever Evan's face betrayed at the question. "Oh, Evan, please. You couldn't pay me to accept your sexual favours, let alone accept them as payment. I prefer more solid, less disgusting forms of bribery, like Cartier jewellery."
"Fuck you," Evan said, flushing harder. "I wasn't offering."
He hoped Johnny had only seen horror in his expression, not anything more embarrassing. This was such a shitty situation, and the fact that it was turning him on made it just that much worse. Evan would have gotten off to anyone staring at him while he was wearing panties - it was hot enough just doing it for himself in the mirror - but Weir looked at him like he was worthless, and he kept looking, like he planned to stare until Evan squirmed and curled up and died under his eyes.
He just wasn't going away, and it was one of the worst moments of Evan's life to date, but as soon as Weir left, he was going to have to jerk off.
"No, but you were hoping," Johnny said, clearly baiting, and Evan had to actually try and remember what he was talking about.
"Mm," Johnny said, a little murmur of disagreement, and his withering gaze flickered back down below Evan's navel. Evan hoped it would have a withering effect, but it seemed to be having the reverse. He refused to look down and acknowledge it, even when Johnny laughed under his breath.
He had to look when Weir touched him, just a brush of his pale knuckles against his ribs. Evan watched Weir's clever fingers skim down his smooth rippled stomach to his lace-covered groin. He squeezed, and Evan felt his mouth drop open and heard himself grunt with what he hoped was fifty-five percent shock and only forty-five percent lust. It was reflex to push forward into Johnny's touch, reflex to roll his hips needily against his cupped hand, and it was incredibly stupid, but for just a second it was great.
Then Johnny pulled his hand away. He glanced around the dressing room, ignoring Evan and the little noise of protest he hadn't been able to help, and finally grabbed Evan's cast-off t-shirt, still draped over the chair Evan had nearly fallen over not long ago. He wiped his hands fastidiously clean - it seemed to take him a while - and then he tossed the shirt at Evan. "Mm," he said again, but this time it was satisfied. "I'll see you on the ice, Lysacek. Break a leg."