by Amy Lane
“Carpenter! Back up closer to the goal and use your body!” Skip hollered, and Carpenter nodded but didn’t look up. Good guy. Smart player. Would get faster in time.
“You really trusting that fat guy to be a defender?” Ike asked, and Skip fought to not punch him in the nose.
“That guy just took care of me for a week when I didn’t know what day it was,” Skip muttered. “You show some fucking respect to my players.” He raised his voice then. “Cooper, get in there and be his backup! Jefferson, be ready for Cooper’s play—” Cough hack blargh.
He ignored everything and everybody then in an effort to breathe, and when he came up for air, his team had the ball again and Richie and McAlister were moving forward. “Go, Richie, go!” Skip croaked, and Richie didn’t look up either, but he did do exactly the play he and Skip used to do. He kicked it to McAlister right before the defender moved back so McAlister could punch it forward.
And McAlister turned around and passed it back, but they’d moved past the defender at that point and offsides it was.
“McAlister, you asshole,” Skip muttered. “You just had to kick it into the goal. He gave that to you.”
McAlister turned to Skip and held up his hands in the classic “my bad” shrug, and Skip gave him back some.
The look Richie gave him was much more to the point, and Skip was glad they didn’t have any locks of McAlister’s reddish hair around, or there would have been voodoo dolls all over Skip’s house. Then Richie saw his parents, and the profound look of disgust and irritation that crossed his face could be read across the field and then some.
“He doesn’t look happy to see us,” Kay said, but she sounded like this thrilled her no end. Skip would have given anything at that point to get into his car and drive home and get back into bed with Hazel, but he didn’t even have his car there—he’d come with Richie.
“He wasn’t expecting an audience,” Skip said, trying to be gracious. The other guys brought wives and girlfriends sometimes, but not always. Mostly this was just something that they did, and the pizza and beer afterward were like their dues into an exclusive little social club of shared interest and friendships that did not run the risk of becoming what Richie, Carpenter, and Skip had become: entangled.
“He used to beg me to come see him do shit,” Ike said, sounding sad. For a moment Skipper felt bad—he glanced up, thinking he could say something comforting, and then realized that if he said one half of what he knew Richie felt about his dad, that would be too much info for him to have.
“He’s just surprised,” Skipper did say, his voice weak.
And then the team needed him and he ignored Richie’s parents because he couldn’t change them.
They ended up losing, but the team made him feel better by saying that was because they needed him on the field and in full lung capacity. He laughed, and there was a lot of good-natured ribbing about him singing “Whee!” all the way home from work on Tuesday, and then Owens called time.
“Skip, we’re glad you could come—but dude. You look wiped. Let Scoggins take you home and feed you soup or something, okay?”
At that point Richie’s dad spoke up. “You’re staying at Skip’s again, Richie?”
Skip watched as the attention of the entire team focused in on Richie’s face, and his green eyes grew really big. Awesome.
“Yeah, well, Dad, I sort of drove him here.”
“You gonna be back tonight?” Kay demanded. “I was going to cook.”
Skip wanted to cry. He watched his boyfriend go from a triumphant adult to a called-out little kid in about two seconds.
“We’ll see,” he said. “Depends on if Skip’s okay or not. How you doin’, Skip?”
Skip saw Carpenter staring at him like “Do something, dammit,” so he obliged.
He promptly launched into a coughing fit so brutal it made him throw up.
BY THE time they cleared his front door, he could almost breathe again, and Richie hadn’t stopped apologizing.
“I’m so sorry,” he said for the umpteenth time as he opened the door. He had his own set of keys now, which was sort of wonderful, but it didn’t make this moment any better. “Man, I should have just told them. I mean, right then and there, you know? Just said, ‘Staying the night at a friend’s, you got a problem with that?’ But all the guys were looking at me, and all I could think about was how much I wanted this weekend, you know?”
Skip’s throat was done. He couldn’t make a sound if his house was on fire. But his Richie-defense system worked just fine.
He closed the door behind him and reached out and snagged Richie by the hood of his windbreaker.
Richie whirled and looked at him, leaning against the door and smiling weakly.
“What?” he asked suspiciously.
Skip pointed to his throat and shrugged. He’d actually tried to get a word in edgewise in the car, but all that came out was wind. It sounded like he was whispering to himself.
“You can’t talk now?” Richie asked, sounding like this was the last straw.
Skip shook his head and mouthed, “Nope.”
“Well hell! My dad’s suspicious, he practically made me out the two of us to the whole ball club, and you have laryngitis? What are we supposed to do now?”
Skip made a big puckered-lipped kissy face, and Richie cracked up.
“No,” he said, laughing. “You have luggage under your eyes I could ship somewhere special, like New York. No kissing for you.”
Skip raised his eyebrows and tried his best puppy-dog face. “Soup?” he mouthed.
Richie chuckled weakly and walked into his arms. “Sure,” he said quietly. “I’ll make you some soup. You go lie down and I’ll get busy. Me and Carpenter bought you groceries Thursday night. I think I could make a really tasty soup.”
Skipper mimed wielding a can opener. Then he circled his arms and made more kissy faces.
Richie pecked him on the lips. “You have a one-track mind, Skipper. No. I’m going to make you some really good soup, and I’m going to take care of you right. If my folks are going to get all weird and into my personal business, I’m going to make this count.”
Skip sighed heavily and crossed his arms. “Can I have a cookie after the soup?” he wheezed.
Richie reached up and cupped his cheek. “You managed to talk me down and out of the tree, Skipper. You can have anything you want.”
Skip smiled and nuzzled his palm and allowed himself to be shooed off to bed.
But inside he was thinking that there was trouble brewing from Richie’s parents, from the team, from the whole world that he wasn’t going to be able to put off, and maybe Richie wasn’t ready to face.
God. He was actually grateful for the fucking plague. At least that gave him a reason to postpone real life for another week, maybe two. They could do this until after Thanksgiving, right?
THAT EVENING he watched, after being ordered helplessly to the couch, while Richie ran around and swept, vacuumed, and dusted.
“I’m not helpless!” he protested, but his voice still hadn’t come back, and Richie assured him he looked like a television with the sound off. Finally he just accepted the help and leaned his chin on his fist, watching television. When Richie was done scrubbing the bathroom, he took a quick shower and came back into the living room to sit next to Skip and watch some TV.
After about half an hour of silence and gentle touches, Richie hit Pause on the television and started talking, still staring ahead like there was something on.
“Carpenter told me you’re going to Thanksgiving with him. That’s fine—I mean, I can’t, and I guess it’s okay. But I mean, I think with someone else, they’d assume you couldn’t fall in love with Carpenter because he’s a big guy, but I know you. You got a big heart. So even though he’s straight and that couldn’t really happen, I want you to know that it’s just like when Kay tried to set me up with a girl. I don’t like it. Okay?”
“Okay,” Skip whispered. “Anything el
se?”
Richie turned to him and frowned, then did that thing where he stroked Skip’s cheek. At first Skip had thought it was just a one-time thing, or because he was sick, but now he was realizing that was Richie’s thing—that was where he touched when he wanted reassurance.
So sweet.
“Yeah. But I don’t got words for it. Just… just I wish next weekend was already here. I mean, tomorrow is going to be long, and I’ll leave Monday morning, but suddenly I’m all afraid of leaving you alone.”
“Not sick anymore,” Skip rasped, and Richie rolled his eyes.
“That’s bullshit, clear and simple. But it’s more than just the sick and being too stupid to stay home. It’s that you didn’t think you had anybody if you stayed home.”
“Know different now.” Skip indulged himself in shimmying his hand under Richie’s sweatshirt. Ah, skin. He loved the silky feel of the skin at Richie’s hip.
“Do you?” Richie asked, clearly still worried. “You promise you’ll reach out to someone if you’re sick or hurt or your car breaks down—”
“Auto service,” Skip teased.
Richie scowled, not amused. “You know what I mean!”
Skip stroked Richie’s stomach before slipping his hand up to pinch his nipples. Richie’s indrawn breath was so worth it. “I’ll call you,” he whispered. “Do you want to be my calling person? I’ll make you my calling person.”
“More than that!” Richie’s voice broke with a particularly hard pinch. “Stop that, Skipper!” He batted at Skip’s hand, but Skip slid it down to the waistband of his sweats first.
“What’s more?” Skip asked, distracting him.
“Be honest,” Richie breathed. “Skip!”
Skip slid his hand under Richie’s boxers and started to tease the fattening length of Richie’s cock. He was tired of being lectured on how he needed to take care of himself. He wanted to touch Richie naked!
“How’s this for honest?”
Richie arched his back and thrust into Skip’s palm, and Skip took the invitation, wrapping his fingers around Richie’s cock and squeezing. “Not what I’m… oh Jesus, Skipper, what are you—”
Skip slid Richie’s sweats all the way down his hips and knelt before him, suddenly tired of being tired and achy and sore. Dammit, he wanted, and he wanted more than just to tease. He couldn’t contribute to the conversation, but he could damned well contribute to the company.
He squeezed Richie’s cock from base to tip and then popped the tip in his mouth and began to stroke.
“We will—” Richie’s voice broke as Skip stopped just shy of bottoming out and swallowed to ease his throat. “Have this….” Skip pulled up and licked quickly around Richie’s cockhead. “Discussion….” And down almost to the bottom again. Skip slid his hand between Richie’s legs and fondled his balls.
“Later!” Richie moaned, giving up and slowly, carefully fucking Skip’s mouth. Skip squeezed and slurped and licked and stroked, and Richie dragged his hands through Skip’s hair.
Skip relaxed into it, wondering when being on his knees in front of Richie with Richie’s cock in his mouth had become a comfort area. It was a comfort. Not so much Richie’s taste (since he couldn’t really taste much anyway) but the feeling of his flesh, solid and real, and the noises he made, and, most importantly, that Skip was the center of his world.
Richie’s movements became more frantic, and his hips started to jerk in little spasms, and Skip devoted all his concentration to driving Richie wild. He used to beat off three times a day, right? Well here was a guy, his mouth open, his fist engaged, just dying for… just begging for….
Richie knotted his fingers in Skip’s hair (which was getting long) and pulled his head back. “I’m gonna come,” he whispered, massaging his fingers against Skip’s scalp. “No swallowing. You’ll be coughing jizz for a week.”
Skip opened his mouth and balanced Richie’s cock on his tongue, his lips pulled back in a smile. He just held there, bouncing his tongue up and down, up and down, until Richie arched and thrust, calling out, “God, Skipper, you suck!”
And then Skipper did suck, and he sucked hard, and Richie spilled hot and bitter into his mouth, the first thing he’d actually tasted in a week.
Of course he swallowed.
Richie continued to pump weakly, like he couldn’t help it, and when he gave a final shudder and sat still, Skip slurped him off one final time to make sure he was all sparkly clean.
Richie glared at him with a certain grim humor, even as Skip fussed with his sweats and pulled them back up and straightened his shirt so it looked like he’d just been sprawled in front of the couch watching television, and hadn’t been getting a blow job at all.
“This changes nothing,” Richie said, trying hard to maintain the soberness that had claimed him before the blow job.
Skip grinned, all teeth, and Richie broke character and laughed, ruffling his hair.
“Okay, fine. I’m not as uptight as I was twenty minutes ago. But I still want you to call me if anything goes wrong. Don’t try to blow sunshine up my ass; don’t tell me it’s all fine when you’re too sick to move. Don’t… don’t pretend you’re not alone for my sake, Skipper. I get to be the one person in the world—and that includes Carpenter—who makes you not alone anymore.”
Skip’s grin softened, and he rested his temple against Richie’s thigh. He held up his hand then, looking at Richie hopefully, and Richie tangled fingers with him.
“Yeah,” Richie said, squeezing a little. “We’re like that.”
Skip’s smile deepened and he returned the squeeze. Yes, yes they were.
THE NEXT day he could actually talk—hurray!—and Richie was less inclined to lecture and more inclined to make love.
Which they did.
A lot.
The second time, Skip took Richie while he was plastered up against the headboard, hands clutching the rail, the bed rocking so loud they probably couldn’t have heard a bomb go off. Richie was screaming, “Fuck me! Fuck me, Skip! Fuck me!” and Skip’s cock, finally free of the constraints of cough syrup and painkillers, was fucking like a released prisoner would fly.
Richie’s head lolled back on Skip’s shoulders, his hair a glorious autumn-colored spill against Skip’s pale skin, and Skip could look down at his ginger-furred freckled body, and he wanted it, craved it, couldn’t fuck it enough. Richie’s stout cock kept knocking against the rails as Skip pounded, and every time it did, he let out a keen of ultimate arousal, a sort of plea for even more, and Skip obliged.
But Skip needed to come—and soon—or his newly healing body was going to give up on him, so he rasped, “Fuck your fist, Richie. C’mon, squeeze it hard. Want to see you—”
Oh, that was all it took. Pump, pump, and white jizz spewed from the end of his cock and all over the pillows, the rails, the walls. Richie sagged in his arms, and Skipper shivered, turned on by everything from the clench of Richie around his cock to the sight of Richie’s come running off the brass rail of the bed.
“Nungh…. Augh!”
It had been a while. This orgasm didn’t roll, it ripped, split him open from groin to chin, shot him through with white light, spilled his insides clean into Richie, gave them to Richie to keep, deep inside his body.
He and Richie puddled to the bed like melted butter, both of them sweating in the chill.
“Skip?” Richie panted after a few moments of silence.
“Yeah?”
“I think we’re getting better at this.”
“I know something’s getting better,” Skip said, his voice sandy but there.
“I don’t want to wait until—”
The pounding at Skip’s door took them both by surprise.
In the mad scramble that followed, Skip found himself wearing his one clean pair of sweats, commando, and Richie’s hooded sweatshirt without a shirt on underneath. It was tight across his chest and left his stomach bare.
“Go!” Richie commanded, turning on
the television loud. He ran to the vaporizer in the corner of the room, and Skip didn’t hang around to see what he was doing next, because the pounding on the door hadn’t stopped.
He got to the door and swung it open, and almost choked on his tongue when he saw Richie’s dad.
Oh holy fucksticks on crackers. How loud had they been? How did he look? Had he smeared jizz through his hair as they’d been running around?
“Mr. Scoggins,” he said, his voice rasping and catching. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“Here to see if Richie’s ready to come home yet,” Ike said, glaring at him.
Skip smiled back, hoping he didn’t look like the guy who’d been fucking Ike’s baby boy into the mattress five minutes earlier.
“I’m not sure—he was planning to go shopping a little later,” Skip said. Shopping for Thanksgiving decorations—so domestic, like real boyfriends, but he wasn’t going to tell that to Richie’s dad.
“He’s buying your food?” Ike’s mouth pulled up into a sneer, and Skip decided not to let him in.
“He eats here too,” he said, his voice extra raspy. At that moment, whatever Richie had been doing with the vaporizer rolled through the living room, and Skip’s head felt clear for the first time that day, and Richie’s dad started to cough up a lung.
“What—” Cough, cough, cough. “—in the fuck is that?”
“Mentholyptus,” Skip said, taking some more deep breaths. “Wow. That shit works awesome.”
At that moment Richie came out of the bedroom wearing Skip’s work sweatshirt and his jeans, but barefoot.
“Dad?” he asked, sounding for all the world like his father wouldn’t notice they were wearing each other’s clothes. “I told you I’d be at work Monday morning.”
“Richie, what in the hell are you doing here—”
“Yeah, sorry about the Vicks VapoRub stuff. I put way too much in the humidifier—that was not what I meant to happen.”
“Are you kidding? That was great!” Skip was really very grateful. It was like he had full use of his senses for the first time in forever.