NOW THE EVENTS OF THESE PEOPLE NEVER TOOK PLACE! Well, they might have, but I didn't know that.

This was made up of my own fantasy, and I've no control in anyway over these men. I'm not making any profit, and this was made for my own enjoyment, and possibly others.

If this is a major offense, PLEASE tell me before you sue. I will promtly take it down, but I'd like a small paragraph with reasoning on why it's offensive.

The story WILL progress.

I was told that this wasn't illegal, I've seen many band stories so I'm trying my hand at this...

I'm not bashing ANYONE in my fic.

What happened, happened, I have my beliefs, and you have yours.

Please keep discussion of the medals out of the review sections. If you want a heated debate, PM me and I'll gladly argue with you. :)

(Maybe...)

Please don't flame...

I'm trying my hardest...

Plushenko & Weir

Evgeni Plushenko, the 23-year-old Russian, is so heavily favored that American champion Johnny Weir has said: "The rest of us are fighting for second."

It had been quite something to watch really. The young man had gone quite some time before the blonde. The blonde that was now standing, so still, that the crowed even imitated him. Though not on purpose; they were holding their breaths as they waited for the figure on the ice to make his move. He breathed evenly, eyes barely open; looking down at his skates, looking down at the marred ice.

He wondered what he was thinking, as he glanced next to him, the shorter figure of a Japanese man held quite the same expression. The Russian on the ice, the way he had entered, with cutting confidence. Arrogance even; the man expressed in his erect back smooth strokes as he took up his position; that he would win. They were all simply waiting for him to make a mess of the ice, to melt it with his fluid movements.

Then, he was off. Even as the music had this tense, start up. His movements were smooth and fluid as he brought himself around the rink. Faster and faster, facing one way, and then the other. Before their eyes he landed a smooth combo. There was something sensual and romantic with the way he used his body as he began moving about again. A gentle framing touch to his face, to his shoulders chest and stomach.

Weir found himself taking pleasure when he dropped low to the ice; gold fanning out at the steady spin. Holding his jaw in his hand as Plushenko rose, arm extended high above him; then the fluid provocative movement of his hips. He frowned deeply, looked away in embarrassment, as several others seemed to have done the same. When he looked back; the man was actually doing a sort of salsa! He was dancing! Amongst his leaps; twirls and spins; he'd added in dancing!

Weir wished he could clap along with the crowd, but why would he clap for his own demise? He watched the spin that came up, the subtle unwanted bend to the knee as Plushenko came a little too wide. Yet that didn't deter from the action! He went on! No change in facial expression, or out of beat; he pushed onwards! Again, a tuck and low spin, then things slowed down ten fold. Leaning forward in his seat, legs muscles tight and shaking as he watched the movements so closely. It became sweet; soothing, and Plushenko blew a kiss to the crowd as he moved on along the rink.

That lean body, wiping about the rink. He liked watching those hands trail down over the lean form. He was tall, slender, of hips and waist. Long arms and legs that filled his movements so gracefully; propelled by lined muscles. There was a reason he had adopted such culture and gone to such a place. The Russian people; he simply couldn't describe his love of them.

He was off again! In the air, repeatedly; as though he was making sure the judges knew he was competent, and that such moves were easy to attain. They were; they couldn't forget that, and the Russian wasn't going to let them forget that. He wasn't done though; more technicals, dancing, showing off more like it. He was brimming with confidence as he 'worked it' at the end of the rink. He was getting quicker, there was more going on, and was that a smile? Plushenko was thoroughly enjoying himself; he was having fun dancing, jumping and sailing as he was. Lo and behold! After 'THAT' move he was expecting handsprings for heaven sakes!

He knew it was coming to and end, one last kiss to the audience, a confident and cocky smirk before he saw him skating away. He was standing he saw; when had he found himself standing? Hands balled tightly into fists… Looking around, he saw Evan, he'd been watching intently; with the face of someone who'd… Just lost? It looked that way to just about everyone else. Hell, he'd heard commentators mutter off right after the Russian was finished; "And he's won the gold!" Things of that like.

Of course; that is not what happened.

Evgeni Plushenko took second?

Russia took silver in singles men free skate?

Weir was happy of the win; Evan was screaming like a girl as it was, and Plushenko? He looked so surprised; in fact, he looked devastated in a few moments.

Though that façade seemed to fade as they had to take up their places on the podium. He'd been so quick to get there; he found himself on the 1st place podium. With a joyful laugh he leapt down from it onto second. Takashi was grinning at the man, chuckling under his breath until Evan got there; taking up that empty place high above the other two. The Russian looked up at him; briefly their eyes met it seemed and then they looked away. The medals were coming this way.

Takashi seemed all too happy for his meager bronze; something along the lines of, the first male figure skater of Japan to win a medal? Things like that easily escaped some. And Plushenko bowed his head and allowed the silver to be placed around his neck, he shook hands, smiled and watched as the gold was placed reverently around the American. The American that had been placed above him. Higher.

Next; they had to listen to that nations anthem. He did. Stifly, he stood erected, hands grasped tightly behind his back, looking away briefly before summoning up his own will to look up to that flag. Why was it so demeaning to see a nations flag higher then his own? It was harder to swallow then it looked, but soon he could skate on his own ice, where odd numbers and scoring wouldn't deceive him.

He and his trainer were standing, the trainer was speaking rapidly to him, he might have been listening. Though he was bowed over his legs, untying his skates; completely stoically silent. There wasn't hardly any acceptance. He was too busy trying to figure out how this had befallen him; was it from his withdraw a while back because of the hernia surgery? Surely because of his lack of skating then couldn't effect him now, he'd been absolutely rigorous in his training for these Olympics.

Alexei Mishin slapped him on the back to wake him from his reverie and speculations. Weir had wanted to approach him and shake his hand; but stopped as he heard what Alexie was saying.-

"As long as is America, then no one will notice. You just don't fight with them."

Weir felt his heart drop as the Russian skater shook his head, and stood. Jumping from the first place podium in his ditch effort to prove that was his spot. He took the medal, shook the 1st and 2nd placed mens hands and went to dress down. No sooner had he had his sweats on and shoes donned, he was bombarded with news reporters. The blonde man, didn't hesitate at all to tell them what he thought. Weir, though unsure of how he thought about the Russian's attitude, was mildly impressed.

Plushenko was stuck up in just about every way. His replies to the questions unbelievable; consisting of. 'In my brain, I'd actually won.'

It was the surety that he found coursing through his body. They, as Olympic champions in their own way, had confidence, but to this extent? He wasn't so sure.

Of course, the Russian was sure it had something to do with Figure skating declining in popularity. Plushenko didn't think Lysacek even compared to him, he thought his quad was compared to the simple triple on the same level, and that had blown everything over for him. There was one thing he didn't mention though; simply because to him it didn't matter; the surgery. He felt it even now, but there was no excuse with that. If he couldn't do a quad, what gave him the right as a man? He was not afraid to take risks.

Weir thought that was what really pulled him to Plushenko though, it wasn't like the man was Adonis; it was the air he carried about himself. Weir fell completely silent as he mulled this over, gently touching the petals of the roses in his hands, burying his face in a little stuffed animal too.

Would Plushenko go back to Russia having to stomach such an upset? How would his fans there react anyways? Having been there himself he wondered how he would be received after skating against him as well. Though he hadn't made much of a dent, he knew he had potential… Then quite the thought hit him; he wanted to be better. Who better to learn from then Plushenko himself? To gain that massive confident air, to skate with such surety, but talking to him would be difficult. He'd done it before, but something was a little different, something was a little off… Was it he or Plushenko really? Admiring someone wasn't unusual, but the need to prove your self better then fifteenth place?

"Don't tell me you're unhappy with it either…"

Weir looked up and to his left, face deep in his stuffed animal. Of course Lysacek would be the one to talk to him.

"I skate for America, why would I be unhappy?"

The man shook his head, looked up to the ceiling, touched the medal around his neck and then set his eyes back on the young skater.

"You've been staring at him intently since he first got onto the ice. It turned rather heated after I won…"

"Nothing escapes you eh?"

"You're turning into a true Canadian now."

Weir smiled and shrugged, the two of them were happy to have their own jackets around their shoulders. Of course they had much the same treatment that Plushenko had, well, Evan did. Not so much he; though he did have few. Mostly just wanting to know if Weir thought he'd been done an injustice or if he thought he was underscored.

Though, in the empty corridors of where most of the Olympics were staying, they found themselves alone and shivering slightly. They needed to get into their warm rooms, but Weir knew Evan wanted to say something.

"You should talk to him."

Weir looked up, stunned slightly.

"Pardon me?"

Evan suppressed a chuckle, opting to try again.

"I said, you should talk to him."

"Oh no no no."

"I think he would receive you more warmly then an American."

"I'm American too!"

Evan smiled and shook his head again, a hand on his shoulder.

"You're Russian too. You adopted much from there. You would be welcomed much warmly than I. Much more."

Weir hesitated, obviously nothing escaped the new Olympic champion of mens singles figure skating…

"I'm scared."

"I'm sure he wont take too big of a bite…"

"Oh hah… Right… Thanks for helping me."

"A pleasure!"

And then he was gone, probably going off the party tonight for his victory of the Russian, and over the skating.

"He's right you know."

Weir turned his head to see that he'd been joined by the 3rd ranked Japanese; Takashi.

"I was going to go and cheer him up. The Americans find themselves taking other Countries had excelled in. I suspect Russia wont be only ones to fall. Sadly. The last man wanted to be seeing is Lysacek right?"

Weir nodded, as long as he wasn't alone then everything would be alright. Right?

That was what he kept trying to tell himself as he resisted the urge to latch onto the small Japanese man as they stood outside his room, he was frowning deeply. The Japanese man seemed less fearful as he raised his hand and knocked rather loudly on the door…

If you didn't read what I said in the beginning, I remind you that this is simply of my own fantasy!

Please don't flame me or leave nasty comments...

I just want to write about my darling Plushenko! 3