False Start

by Emrys Apollo

  It’s only Saturday. He still has four days until his day with Jarrod -

  He goes out on a run on Sunday, getting eight miles under his belt before he gets back home. He looks at himself naked in the mirror - Jarrod had said his body was perfect. He can still hear it, a bit - the way the word had sounded in his Scouse accent. He smirks, determined not to disappoint. He goes out into the garden and does some keep ups, some sit ups, some pushups - it won’t make a difference, really, but it’s something, at least. Something other than thinking about Jarrod and jerking off, which is a welcome change.

  Clive calls again on Monday night, just to confirm. Jarrod sounds tired on the phone, like he’s had a long day. But he agrees, tells Clive that he can show up anytime.

  “Have a decent breakfast at home, Clive, and get some coffee or some tea or something. I don’t want you crashing because you were half asleep at the wheel. And please don’t show up at five in the morning telling me I said any time?”

  Clive laughs. “No, course not. I probably won’t show up until eleven or so, so don’t worry, have a nap, sleep in, it’s fine.”

  “Okay, see you then, Clive.”

  Jarrod goes out on Tuesday night and works a double shift.

  Clive is just pulling up to the building when he sees a bus pull up on the corner, and Jarrod gets out, yawning and wearing a backpack. He's holding a cup of coffee and walking slowly back to his building, and Clive decides to walk in with him. He parks and takes out the burgers he'd brought with him, so Jarrod could get a half decent meal, walking quickly to catch up to him. “Jarrod? Hey, wait up!”

  “God,” Jarrod mutters, hand on his chest, “I thought you were coming to mug me, until you called my name. I was getting ready to punch you and run.” He hugs Clive close anyway, though, and Clive's irrationally happy, holding him back tight.

  “Did you - did you really think I was a mugger?”

  “I’m walking alone, and you were running to catch up to me. It’s happened to other people. This isn't a good neighborhood, Clive. I hope you parked somewhere safe.”

  Clive shrugs a little and Jarrod sighs. “You remember that lot you parked in before? Near the club? Come on, we're parking there, before someone smashes your windows or steals your hubcaps. You'll have to pay a few quid, but somehow I think you can manage, even on your meager salary, Clive.”

  Clive feels kind of stupid and young, but Jarrod isn't being mean, he’s just looking out for him. Besides, he's coming too, not just sending Clive away to park and walk the two streets alone.

  “Where were you?” Clive means it to be an innocent question, but it comes out a little wrong, as if he thinks he has the right to know. Jarrod quirks a brow at him, and he flushes, but Jarrod answers the question anyway, seeming to understand Clive isn’t being controlling, just awkward.

  “Working. Been working since six last night. And I’m starving, mate, thank you for bringing food. You’re an absolute lifesaver, Cli.”

  “You worked all night?”

  “I had some time. Never hurts, to get a little bit saved away before the school year proper kicks off and the exhaustion kicks in and I start having no free time and less energy.”

  “I wish I could help,” Clive says quietly as he parks the car and they start walking, “I wish you’d let me help. It would be so easy, Jarr.”

  “I’ll ask, okay? If I need help, I’ll ask you, Clive. But I don’t right now. I manage fine. I’ll keep managing fine, I know how to make my money go a long way.”

  Clive doesn’t quite believe him, but it’s something at least.

  They walk and Clive prattles on and on about Luke and Tammy and his parents and how training is starting in two weeks and he doesn’t quite think he’s ready for his vacation to be over yet.

  Jarrod listens in all the right spots, laughs and offers sympathy and doesn’t once tell Clive to get over himself because his life is a fucking cakewalk.

  He lets them in and the elevator up is crowded. Jarrod says hello to his neighbors, seems to know them all. One of the girls tells him appreciatively that her cold’s cleared up, and a handsome young man tells him that the stretches really helped him with the pain in his glutes. Jarrod waves off the thanks with a slight flush, and stands slightly in front of Clive, so they can’t get a good look at him.

  Clive’s half curious and half jealous. It’s not even that this random guy is talking to Jarrod about his ass, it’s just - they see him all the time. They get to ask him for advice, they have access to him whenever they need him. Clive doesn’t get any of that. Clive gets phone calls sometimes. Phone calls and the occasional “day off,” which he’s just now finding is code for a double overnight shift, and not much else. Just that and his own wet dreams.

  Jarrod doesn’t introduce him, and it’s smart, actually, to not bring attention to UK’s right back in a crowded space with only one exit, but it still stings a little. Maybe he’d wanted to hold Jarrod’s hand and meet his neighbors. Maybe he’d wanted to hear about their problems and laugh with them at the way Jarrod flushed when he was praised.

  He ignores the slight feeling of discontent in his chest and smiles at Jarrod when they get to the fourth floor and the elevator empties out except for the pair of them.

  “You must be tired,” Clive says, maybe a little too tender, a little too caring, “you can nap, if you want. I could go for a nap too, actually. All the driving’s tired me out, and I didn’t sleep much last night.” It’s half true - he’d been too excited to sleep properly, but he isn’t even the slightest bit tired - his body feels electric around Jarrod, and he doesn’t know what he wants, but he definitely wants.

  They get into Jarrod’s flat, and it’s a little messier than the last time he was there, a few clothes on the floor instead of the hamper, the bathroom door carelessly open, closet door ajar. There are notes on the kitchen counter, as well as the couch and coffee table. Even on the nightstand.

  Clive pushes the notes over to one side so they don’t get covered in grease stains and deposits the burgers and fries onto the counter.

  “Rough week, love?”

  Jarrod smiles wearily at him. “It was, before I saw you.” He pulls Clive in close for another hug, and kisses him, warm and soft and Clive absolutely melts.

  “Come on, Jarr. You’re exhausted, I can tell. Lie down with me. I’ll draw the blinds, we can have a nice nap.

  Jarrod smiles again, a little blearily, and nods. He drops his backpack to the floor, toes off his shoes, and strips off his shirt and jeans before he falls into the bed, wearing nothing but boxers and socks.

  “Come on, Cli, come nap with me,” he says, already half-asleep - how tired had he been? He must’ve been absolutely dead on his feet to be asleep so fast. Clive tucks Jarrod’s backpack under the kitchen counter so neither of them trip over it, and strips his own clothes off, climbing over Jarrod to be between him and the wall.

  “Here, let me” he says quietly, “you can’t sleep in these. Won’t be comfortable.” He gently pulls Jarrod’s glasses off and puts them on the nightstand.

  Jarrod hums his gratitude and pulls him in closer, and Jarrod’s so warm, it’s glorious and suddenly Clive could sleep, actually, given the circumstances, so he looks into Jarrod’s eyes, drifting closed already, and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth. He lays awake while Jarrod sleeps, gentle fingers carding through Jarrod’s soft sleep-mussed hair until he drifts off too.

  Clive wakes up first. They’re spooning, his hips pressed flush against Jarrod’s perfect ass, and his erection is both deeply embarrassing and completely unsurprising. His arm is wrapped around Jarrod’s stomach. He pulls away slowly, until his back is pressed against the wall and Jarrod’s lying on his back. Jarrod’s still sleeping, and Clive lets himself just look at him, at the muscles of his legs, at the scars that disappear under the loose fabric of his boxers. He’s just moving his gaze up to the dark hair across his chest and the way it looks across his pale chest when Jarrod starts to stir. Cl
ive quickly affects a yawn, rubbing at his eyes as if he’s only just woken up too.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Clive whispers, pressing a kiss to Jarrod’s cheek and laying back down, draping an arm across his lover’s stomach.

  “Morning, babe. What time is it? Can’t see the clock without me glasses.”

  “It’s just past two in the afternoon.”

  “Sorry you drove so far just for a nap,” Jarrod mumbles, turning towards him. He throws a leg over Clive’s, and suddenly they’re close, lying on their sides facing each other, hips touching, and Clive’s blushing because he’s still hard.

  “Not just a nap, Jarrod. A nap with you.” Is he even allowed to be affectionate?

  Jarrod’s half-asleep and he smiles at him, leaning in for a languid kiss.

  “Someone wants a bit of attention,” he says lightly, laughing a little as he reaches down to palm Clive’s cock through his boxers.

  “It’s been awhile,” Clive says, blushing, “since the last time I was with you.”

  “Yeah? What do you want, Clive? What can I do for you?” Jarrod edges even nearer and kisses him, suddenly needier, more urgent. His hand slides over Clive’s back, sneaking under the waistband of his boxers as he squeezes a round cheek, the muscle firm under his hand.

  “You’ve got such a great ass, Cli. Not surprising, hockey and all that, but it’s fucking fantastic,” Jarrod murmurs into his ear, teeth grazing against his earlobe before sinking to press hot kisses down his jaw.

  “Can I suck you off?” Clive asks shyly. “I want to taste you, Jarr.”

  “It won’t be much fun with the condom, Cli,” Jarrod says gently, “last time you said you were good with either, didn’t you? Top or bottom? Maybe you could fuck me today. If you want to.”

  Clive swallows, throat suddenly dry. “I’d love that. It’s been so long, I can’t tell you how much I’d like that - “

  Jarrod pulls away from him, then, sliding his boxers down his legs and tossing them onto the floor. “Don’t tell me. Show me, love.”

  He leans over to the nightstand, slides his glasses onto his face casually - “so I can actually see you when you’re inside me” - and hands Clive a condom and hands him the lube.

  “Do you want to open me up, or would you rather I do it?” Jarrod asks him softly, still unsure about the extent of his experience.

  “I want to,” Clive says, biting his lip, “but I might need - I might need you to talk me through it.”

  Jarrod nods and spreads his legs. “Okay, babe, put some lube on me, and then put some on your fingers. And then just - just slide a finger in. One first, and then both. And then… you know. Open me up. You don’t have to be that careful - I’m not fragile. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”

  Clive nods and chews on his lower lip, brows furrowing in concentration as he fingers Jarrod slowly. He enjoys it, right from the go, based on the way his head falls back and he lets out a quiet gasp.

  “You - you’re doing great, Cli. Now I need another. Try to find my prostate, okay? You’ll know when you’ve found it. I’ll let you know.”

  He slides in the second finger and it’s - it’s curiously intimate, this. It’s broad daylight - the blinds don’t do much to hide that, and Jarrod’s laying on his back, letting Clive just do this to him. It blows his mind, a little, that someone could trust him this much.

  He searches for his prostate carefully, a little embarrassed as he remembers how quickly Jarrod had found his.

  “Bend your fingers a little - there! Cli, that’s perfect, it’s right there!” Jarrod lets out a low whimper and moves his hips, trying to keep his fingers there. Clive’s just proud that he’s managed to find it at all.

  “I’m - I’m ready, just put the condom on, okay? And use lube on your dick, I should’ve bought the condoms that come pre-lubed, but I wasn’t thinking - “

  It doesn’t matter - Clive slicks himself up and carefully pushes in.

  It’s heaven. Jarrod’s body is heaven. There’s just no getting around it. “You’re - fucking hell, Jarrod, you’re so tight!”

  Jarrod smiles at the praise, more with his eyes than his mouth, and pulls him down for a desperate kiss. “Please. Faster - Clive - I’m begging you.”

  Clive kisses him again. He’d do anything Jarrod asked, probably, to feel this again. It’s an absurd thought to have, but it’s so much better than his own hand. Jarrod’s the sort of man who could drive other men - and women, too, probably - absolutely mad, and completely unintentionally.

  He moves his hips faster, watching in wonder as Jarrod shifts under him, just slightly, so Clive’s thrusts hit him in the right spot. He listens, to the way Jarrod sounds when it’s just right, as opposed to when it’s good, but not perfect, the way he goes from quiet gasps and little impatient whines to louder moans of Clive’s name.

  “Clive - Clive, please, I’m so - so close - “ He cries out, arching his back and wrapping his legs around Clive’s back, which is hands down the sexiest thing Clive’s ever experienced in his life. Jarrod’s mouth falls open in pleasure as he throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut.

  Clive goes faster, reaching down to stroke him just as fast, and Jarrod comes with a single, loud cry of Clive’s name, all over his own stomach. He tightens around Clive during his orgasm, the feeling exquisite, and Clive only manages one more thrust before he’s coming too.

  Suddenly, he’s got no energy, and he collapses forward onto Jarrod’s chest, ignoring the fact that Jarrod’s semen is now smeared across him, too.

  “Here,” Jarrod says softly, “roll onto your back.” Clive pulls out and does so, and feels Jarrod take off the condom before tossing it away in the bin by the bed. They’re laying side by side now. “You were incredible, Clive. I mean it. I can’t get enough of just looking at you, let alone actually having you inside me.”

  “I’m kind of sleepy,” Clive murmurs.

  “I know, babe. Me too. It’s prolactin. Hormone released during male orgasm. Makes us sleepy. Have to clean us up first, though, or the bed will get all messy.” Jarrod sighs, groaning a little as he rises to his feet. “Should I clean you up here and you can have a nap, or do you want to come shower with me? And then you can sleep, Cli, I promise. Or we can eat. You must be starving, you. Can’t imagine how fast your metabolism must be. We’ve got the food you’ve brought, if you want me to pop it into the microwave.”

  “Guess that depends,” Clive says cautiously, “are we done for today? Because if we are, we can go shower now. But if we’re not, we can just shower together later. No point in getting clean and then getting dirty all over again.”

  “Later, then. Because you’re definitely at least getting a blowjob, Clive Reynold.”

  “Yeah?” Clive looks up, hopeful, “and can I return the favor?”

  “If you really want to, Cli.” Jarrod pauses in the doorway of the bathroom, completely naked, thick dark framed glasses on his nose, and looks at Clive, as if taking a moment to just memorize the sight of him. And then he walks into the bathroom to find a washcloth. Clive can hear the faucet running, and when Jarrod comes back, he wipes Clive’s stomach. It feels good - he’d used hot water, and it’s nice against Clive’s skin. He wipes himself off after, grimacing in distaste as he pushes the cloth into the scars on his stomach to properly clean himself off, and throws it at the hamper when he’s done, missing and letting out a frustrated little growl as goes to sit up.

  “Get it later,” Clive murmurs, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer.

  “Sleep or food, love?”

  “Cuddle for a bit and then food?” Clive’s almost naively optimistic. The sex is good, they get on, they nap together. Maybe they can move past friends with benefits sooner than he’d thought.

  Jarrod laughs and nuzzles his nose against Clive’s neck, nipping playfully at the skin. “Bet Bartholomew wouldn’t let you do that to him. Not for awhile, at least. Men who think they’re straight always want to top when they’re start
ing out with another lad. Even if he does use more hair product than you.”

  “He doesn’t use hair product!” Clive lies.

  Jarrod laughs a little. “If you say so. You know we had a whole month on hair, skin, and nails, right? I mean, derm is not my field, god knows, but I do know enough to know that that mop of his isn’t all natural. I’m sure he’s the one who grew it, but hair tends to move when it’s attached to a hockey player. Unless there’s something holding it in place.”

  Clive snorts, but doesn’t say anything, just presses his hand to Jarrod’s bare back.

  “How do you get by on such little sleep?” he asks softly, wondering if Jarrod can feel the heat of his touch.