An Urban Fantasy in Three Acts

The following is a work of fiction. It would be pretty stupid to say any resemblance to real people is coincidental, but any resemblance to real events, personalities and, yes, even sexuality of those involved most certainly is not based on fact.
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Michael Phelps had never understood the concept of one's life flashing before their eyes as death approached.

It just seemed like so much taught psychobabble. Even as he swam, the slight worry that he could drown if a certain few muscles cramped up for no good reason, he had never felt particulatly close to death.

Maybe he just had to have it beaten into him for his immature mind to comprehend the idea that life wasn't always certain.

He understood it now, laying on his face, tasting his own blood as it ran from his nose and mouth only to puddle between his skin and the tiled floor. Chlorine from the nearby pool mingled with the scent of his blood...it was an interesting combination.

Helplessness was pure torture, taunting him, telling him that he wasn't good enough to win this fight. He was used to being able to do something in any given situation, accomplish something. At the very least, he had no idea where his sword had fallen to, and with the pool closed by a cover, he had no hope of using it as a water source without the blade

Nevertheless, Michael wasn't one to give up, and if finding the sword was the only thing that would give him a chance at victory, then it became the only thing on his mind as he pressed one hand to the tiles, and then the other. Slowly, he dragged himself up despite the stinging electrical burns on his chest.

He was determined, and he turned to face his attacker even as his eyes darted around the pool searching for the weapon he so desperately needed.

His life was flashing before his eyes, the last few days a blur in his mind even as he tried to concentrate on surviving.

Even as he concentrated on his antagonist egging him on, enjoying himself far too much, murder in his eyes. "C'mon, Swim Shady."

Michael hated that pet name.


---


One week before...

It was almost ridiculous, really, that Michael still had Ian's picture in his room. It was like a piece of furniture, with it's own place no matter where he called home. It was the one thing he was guaranteed to see whenever he woke up, regardless of what the day's work would make him feel like at the end.

The sword that hung on the wall, a traditional Japanese Wakizashi with a blue-tinted blade above Ian's visage was a comfort as well, though one of an entirely different kind.

It had been a gift from Lenny Krayzelburg...someone Michael kept in touch with much more than anyone else around him really thought.

But that was for a different kind of time, when Michael wanted to practice things that weren't exactly in line with the rules of swimming, by any stretch of the imagnination.

Then again, Michael worried more about what Ian thought of him if he...knew. It was bad enough being in the closet and lusting after a man who was, to count a few things, a teammate, a (usually) friendly rival, and perhaps most importantly, a little religious.

Oddly enough, Michael felt even more ill at ease every time he got out of bed and ran a hand down the flat edge of that sword, so comforting by itself, such an omen of more bad things Ian would think of him as he looked at that damned picture.

That damned, better-than-pornography picture. Not that Michael ever...did anything like that with it, the idea just seemed odd and disrespectful. Because it was Ian, and it was a borderline insult to use his image that way.

He still couldn't bear to put it somewhere out of sight.

The morning went by smoothly enough. It was cold outside, as Winter tended to be, but the pool was the perfect temprature it always was. Practice was such a good routine for Michael, the best time to lose himself and forget about the things that worried him.

Still, it had to end eventually after who knew how many laps, but Michael always felt better for it afterward. It let him get the depressing thoughts he had waking up out of his system. It let him turn thoughts of Ian away from romantic nonsense to appreciating his friendship, at the very least, and little by little, Michael was starting to grow less afraid of it.

As he'd done almost every day after practice since he'd started school, Michael went to the locker room and, before showering and changing, fished his cell phone out of his bag. It was especially nice to talk to Lenny now, with classes over, and other people rarely around him in the gym.

It was a good time for Lenny, the morning. He dialed the number and, sure enough, three rings later, he was greeted by a familiar accent who happened to have caller ID on his phone. "Good morning, Michael, how's life treating you?"

"Can't complain, Lenny," Michael smiled at the bounce in Lenny's voice, he was always so upbeat. "Sorry I haven't called lately, haven't had much time finishing up classes for the semester."

"It's alright," Lenny assured him, "We do what we must, eh? How'd you do?"

"Pretty well, I think, all things considered," Michael made a face, forgetting that Lenny couldn't see it. "But I really can't complain, finals went well, and transportation hasn't been, well, as hard as I thought it would be."

"Good to hear," Lenny said. "How goes the personal life? Meet that special someone, or is he still posing on top of your dresser?"

The door to the locker room opened, signaling Michael to keep details from his end of the conversation to a minimum. "Still on the dresser...pretty close to that thing you gave me awhile back."

"Glad to know you're still keeping that up," Lenny seemed to chuckle. "There's no real reason, nothing says a talent for it has to be a part of your life, you know."

"But," Michael had this train of thought before, and he always came to one inescapable conclusion.

Lenny knew it too. "But we love the water too much?"

"Damn straight," Michael laughed. Below him, on the floor, the water he'd dripped while walking in formed it's own little patterns that Michael noticed as he sat down on the closest bench. Whoever had walked in wasn't using this particular bank of lockers, so he couldn't resist waving a finger down and making a few drops gather, running down the seams between tiles. "Maybe I'll put more time into practicing now that I'm slightly more free."

"Never hurts," Lenny said. "Just remember the one thing I drilled into your head about swordplay."

And Michael said it right in tune with Lenny: "The pointy end goes in the other guy!"

It was almost a joke...Michael had never had to attack someone, let alone with Lenny's water sword, and Lenny had taught him primarily how to defend himself with it anyway. He was never sure if it was because he didn't want Michael to have the responsibility of knowing how to use a lethal weapon, or of the extent of Lenny's attack philosophy was the phrase they'd just repeated.

That Lenny, always a goof. A deceptively smart, clever goof. "You know, I've been thinking of giving Ian a call for a few months."

"Yeah?" Lenny's eyebrows had probably gone up at that. "To tell him how drop dead gorgeous he is?"

"More or less," Michael said.

"Well, good for you," was Lenny's answer. It actually surprised Michael a little. "It's about time you made your feelings more important than team cohesion and whatnot. Assuming it'll really bother him that much."

"It might," Michael's eyes went to the ceiling to ponder the material's pattern now that he'd had his fun with the water on the floor. "To tell you the truth, I think I'm being selfish...if I just keep my mouth shut I wouldn't have to worry about anything..."

As always, Lenny had sage words to add. "Except going insane and never moving on."

"Yeah, except going insane and never moving on."

"Hey, Mike," Lenny went on, "I like Ian and all, but it's really his problem if he can't take it, y'know? You shouldn't have to torture yourself, if you feel like fessing up will make you feel better."

"Thanks, Lenny." Then again, Micheal thought, Ian could just go to town telling everyone and their mothers (and his mother) about how the swimming pool's god, poster boy for America every four years, batted for the other team. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Take care of yourself, Michael," Lenny said.

"You too, man...we gotta get back in the pool together sometime, I miss having you around."

"Indeed...we'll see what we can do," Lenny answered. "I'm not going to be around for a few days...call me sometime next week."

"Gotcha," Michael said. "Bye."

"Bye."

The line clicked off, and Michael put his phone away to get dressed. He saw the person who'd come into the room on his way out, a fellow by the name of Cal. They'd never had class together, but Michael had hit the pool with him on occasion, he was on the school's swim team. "Going for a dip?"

"Yep," Cal answered him. Funny how the guy bothered to gel his perfectly blond hair before diving in. Michael thought he'd have a crush on the guy, if he wasn't so enamored with Ian. "Care to join?"

"I just got out," Michael answered. "I'm gonna go vegitate for awhile before I hit the pool again this afternoon."

Of course, by 'hitting the pool,' he meant 'have Bob pretend to be a Drill Instructor for awhile' to make sure he wasn't screwing up. Bob was a little hard on him lately, but he had good reason to be.

"Hey," Cal called after him, "You want to grab lunch later?"

"Sure," Michael turned to wave at him once, "Call me."

Micheal had been planning to get lunch right then, nice and early, but now he had to change his plans slightly.

It wasn't the biggest deal in the world. In fact, it made now as good a time as any for Michael to take the sword off of his wall and swing it around a little.

While the school gym was good for working out, he wasn't about to bring a bladed weapon inside, so he settled for the backyard of his townhouse, simple enough, another place with no people this time of year.

It wasn't terribly hot yet, but Michael found he'd enjoyed it more during Winter break, when it was white in the yard and he could wear the jacket Lenny had given him with the sword. It was a duster long enough to hide the blade, without being too hot.

Still, he couldn't complain. It was nice to cut loose, so to speak. He was no Hattori Hanzo, but he could still handle the weapon the way Lenny had intended.

Starting in a simple stance meant for defense, Michael went through a mental checklist to make sure he had everything right. Elbows in front of the ribs to shield them, feet turned in for balance, shoulders square with the attacker so both arms could reach.

He went from there to a horse stance a few times, stepping into random directions to practice the footwork and coming into the next stance correctly.

From there, he imagined being attacked, perhaps by someone with a blunt object or a knife. No sane assailent would keep coming at a swordman without a weapon of their own, after all.

Into the horse stance again, and Michael brought the sword down from above, imagining he was catching the arm of someone swinging upward with a lead pipe towards his own chin.

And then he spun around, because there was another behind him, he pretended to hear the imaginary approach and stopped with his feet like he'd started, bringing the blade up at a forty-five degree angle arcing just over his eyes where a downward swing from above would slide right off.

And then a slash to the midsection in retaliation.

A sword going for his leg wouldn't be the easiest thing in the world to stop, so Michael thought about that too and leapt back, seeing the imaginary blade miss and then swing down for his head when the non-existant swordman carried the motion into an overhead slash.

He stepped to the side and stabbed through, another angle covered.

Lenny's lessons had been more of a series of pointers, how to make the blade work best based on the way attackers tended to swing things, and how those things would continue moving if they were intercepted right. He had no real form to speak of, just knowledge on how to get the blade around in useful ways.

Like Lenny always said, retaliating was only a matter of putting the pointy end in the other guy.

Michael went on until he worked up a decent sweat and ended in the same stance he'd started with, giving the sword one last swish through the air to hear the blade sing. The sound was nearly ethereal, as if it was resounding from inside a seashell.

Showering again, he wondered how pissed off Bob would be if he knew Michael did this on occasion...it made him sore in ways his actual training didn't, and it would probably make his muscles a little more dense if he did it with more regularity.

Once the new sweat was washed off and a fresh pair of clothes were on, Michael found his phone ringing, and the noise made him realize how much time had passed as he answered. "Hello?"

"Micheal? It's Cal," the voice on the other end was a little scratchy. "Sorry, bad reception...still wanna do lunch?"

"Sure," Micheal answered. Of course, he couldn't drive wherever they were going. "Can you pick me up?"

"Yeah, I'll head down now."

And so, Micheal waited.