by Emrys Apollo
“I don’t know. Never needed that much. And working myself tired helps. It lets me fall asleep easier, without pills or sex. Masturbating isn’t the same. Nobody knows why. Orgasms from actual sex make you sleepier than jerking off. More of that sleepy hormone I told you about. Prolactin. Can’t really trick your body, I guess.”
“Is our pillow talk always going to be about medicine?” Clive teases, kissing Jarrod’s hair just because he can.
“Sorry,” Jarrod’s flushing a little, hiding his face in Clive’s neck, “I’m not used to this yet. To having someone in bed with me.”
“Me neither,” Clive says quietly, nudging Jarrod away from him so he can look him in the eyes and lean down to kiss him languidly. “But I like what I’ve seen so far. Maybe you could come over to mine sometime? If you ever have a couple of days off, I can come pick you up and we can go to mine, watch TV, I’ll drive you round in my car, we can play, maybe. I have a double bed, so I won’t be all over you if you don’t want me to be.”
“I don’t mind you being all over me,” Jarrod mutters, ears still looking rather pink.
Clive smiles at him. “Maybe we could go out. Friends go see films, don’t they? I’ll buy the tickets, you can buy the popcorn?” His heart is beating a little fast, the way it always does when he makes an overture, tries to pull Jarrod closer. It’s like trying to coax affection from a cat. He’s so happy with what he has, he’s constantly afraid that he’ll lose it if he asks for more.
“I’d probably just fall asleep during it. Don’t do well in dark rooms anymore, me body just shuts down. But maybe next time we could go out for lunch?” Jarrod’s voice is wistful, a little dreamy, almost. It gets lower, a little disappointed as he continues. “But you won’t have time, Cli. Not when the season starts up. Between traveling and training and matches and duty, and my schedule… we’ll never have time for each other.”
“I’ll make time for you, Jarr. Will you make time for me?” Clive’s heart is fit to burst in his chest, and he brushes careful fingers through Jarrod’s hair
“I’d try,” Jarrod says, sounding utterly defeated, “I’d try, but sooner or later I’d slip. I’m in an accelerated program. Cuts me down to four years of uni to graduate instead of six. It comes with a bit of money, too, but I’ve got to keep me grades up. Not enough to live off of, but enough that I can manage, if I work on the side and don’t spend too much.”
“The rent on this place can’t be so steep that you have to work yourself to death for it, especially if this program of yours comes with some money,” Clive says, confused.
Jarrod’s quiet for a moment. “It’s not just rent. It’s rent, utilities, textbooks, tuition, transport, groceries, the phone bill. Boxing club student membership. Me one vice, fighting is. Helps me sleep. It adds up, Cli. And my dad’s gone. If I can make a bit of extra money, I send it home. Mum can buy the boys new book bags, a hockey kit and boots, though Mickey’s generous about those things, makes sure they have nice new kits and the newest boots. But kids always want things. That’s just how it is. And they’re not Mickey’s brothers. They’re mine. Mum manages, gets them everything they need. But if they want something extra, it comes from what I send home. They shouldn’t have to worry about things like that. That’s mine and Mum’s job.”
Clive’s stunned silent. He leans his forehead against Jarrod’s. “Taking care of your brothers isn’t your job, Jarr. You were just a kid yourself. You still are.”
“Of course it is. I’m the man of the house. Paper routes, checkout boy, babysitting, I did it all growing up to help with their bits and bobs. You know how it is, Cli. Big brothers have to protect the little ones, make sure they’re taken care of.”
“How are you single?”
“Am I single? You ditching me, Reynold?”
“No! Fuck no, Jarr. Just, I’ll never understand how you don’t have a line of guys in front of your flat, a man as perfect as you.”
“Just because I’m poor?” There’s no heat in his voice. “Clive, there’s no, I don’t know, brownie points, or whatever. I’m not a saint. It’s not out of the goodness of my heart. We just do what we have to do. You’d do the same if it was your family. Don’t have anything else, do we? Just the family we’re lucky enough to have, and the family we build for ourselves as we go through life.”
“You’re incredible, Jarrod,” Clive says seriously, “and we’ll just have to agree to disagree on the goodness of your heart.”
“It’s just about being decent. The baby was only two when he left, I knew they were mine after that. My responsibility. My privilege,” Jarrod mumbles sleepily. He brushes a kiss against Clive’s mouth and tucks his head against Clive’s neck, and then his eyes drift shut and he’s asleep.
Clive might actually cry. He’s sleeping with an angel.
This friends with benefits thing? Yeah, it’s definitely not going to work out.
That doesn’t mean Clive’s going to abandon it. It just means he’s going to get Jarrod Franklin to fall in love with him.
CHAPTER 3
Clive holds him carefully, and wonders how many people have been careful with Jarrod before. He deserves that. He deserves someone who takes care of him, even if he is damn hard to take care of.
Clive drifts off too, at some point. The sex had been good. Prolactin, Jarrod had said. Whatever it was, Clive loved the freedom of being able to nap all day. He wakes up to his stomach grumbling. Shit. Jarrod’s still asleep, though he won’t be for much longer, if Clive’s stomach continues to insist on attention like this. Jarrod had been right about his metabolism - he was used to his meals, three a day with snacks in between, and his body complained when it didn’t get fed.
Clive flexes his abs hard, trying to silence his stomach. He pushes on his stomach with his hand, trying to appease it somehow. It was way too early in their relationship to be digging through Jarrod’s cabinets looking for something to eat, and if he ate his burger while Jarrod was asleep, Jarrod would have to eat alone when he woke up, and that wasn’t what Clive wanted. Not at all.
Jarrod stirs, huffing out a little laugh against his neck. His hand drifts down to Clive’s stomach. “You need food,” he mutters.
“I know. Wanted to wait for you to wake up, though,” Clive whispers.
“Microwave the food you brought, okay? Plates are in the cabinet next to the fridge.”
“What about you?”
“Warm mine up too, and just bring the plates here, we’ll eat in bed, if that’s okay. Mugs are there too, there’s tap water, I have milk, a bit of soda, and a couple beers in the fridge, just grab whatever you want, babe.”
“And what if I like where I am right now?” Clive teases.
“Then stay. I like you. You’re warm and comfy,” Jarrod murmurs, leaning up to kiss him.
“You were starving when I got here,” Clive remembers suddenly, “you haven’t eaten since six last night, right? That’s what you said? It’s almost five now. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since you had a decent meal?”
“Had coffee,” Jarrod protests weakly.
“That’s not the same, Jarrod.”
“Don’t make a fuss, baby, please? Just heat up our dinner and I’ll wake up and eat with you. Dinner in bed. It’s the night shift’s version of breakfast in bed, you know.”
He’d had Clive at baby.
Clive kisses him again, and Jarrod is suddenly much more awake, kissing him back more urgently.
“No. Not until you eat something,” Clive says sternly.
“Sex on a full stomach?” Jarrod whines, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Clive’s neck. It’s a near-Herculean task, but Clive ignores the fluttering in his stomach.
“You’ve got to eat, Jarr. Need to feed that brain of yours, love.” Clive’s not going to budge - he can feel the famous Reynold stubbornness kicking in. Jarrod doesn’t stand a chance.
“Okay, okay!” Jarrod laughs and sits up, pulling his glasses back on and sitting up. “Go hea
t up the food, then, Cli.”
Clive kisses him on the cheek. “Good man.”
He microwaves the burgers and they eat them together, sitting side by side on the bed, leaning against the wall with their legs out.
“So what’s it actually like, being a professional hockey player?”
“Do you not already know? Mickey hasn’t already told you?”
“He’s told me bits and pieces. But I don’t know, can’t be the same, I guess. And it’s different for you. You’re older. You’ll be less naïve than Mickey, less starry-eyed.”
“It’s brilliant, I’m very grateful for the opportunities I was given,” Clive says automatically, the media training taking over.
Jarrod waits patiently.
“It is good, Jarr. I love hockey. It’s my life. It’s always been my life. And the money’s good. As far as jobs go, it is pretty easy - I mean, we put the work in, on the field and in the gym, we train hard, but it’s just hockey. It’s everything I’d ever wanted. We have a fantastic manager, we’re winning trophies… feels like we’re at the top of the world…”
“But?” Jarrod prompts quietly, nudging Clive’s shoulder with his own.
“Everyone wants to see you fail,” Clive says softly, “They all want to watch us crash and burn. Even when you’re training, there are a handful of lads competing for your spot, hoping you choke or have a bad day. Nobody wants their teammate to get injured, but still… Injury is opportunity. That’s why people make friends with people in different positions. First teamers hang out amongst themselves, squad players stay in their place. When you’re breaking through, some of the older players are brilliant, they’ll help you through it. Others… make a joke out of making things harder for the young boys. Just for a laugh. Someone made it hard for them, so they make it hard for the next ones.”
At least you’re there now, starting right-back for the second-best hockey team in the world - “
“Second best?”
“Sorry, mate. I’ve switched ever since Mickey got his first professional contract. Can’t root against your best mate.”
“Not even for the guy you’re sleeping with?”
“The sex is good, Cli, better than good, even, but a couple orgasms don’t outweigh years and years of friendship. But there’s at least one Scouser that doesn’t want to see you fail, Clive Reynold. So take from that what you will.”
It’s not quite what Clive wants. But it’s something.
Jarrod washes the dishes and puts them on a drying rack.
“Do you want a beer?” Jarrod asks, unsure of what else to say.
“I’m alright, mate, thanks.”
Silence hangs in the air, and Clive moves slowly as he stands and walks towards him.
Jarrod stays perfectly still, watching him with cautious eyes.
Clive’s standing in front of him, then, and he takes another step forward, until they’re even closer, and places his hands on Jarrod’s cheeks, just slightly rough - he hadn’t shaved today, and he leans in, shifts his weight forward onto his toes, and presses his mouth against Jarrod’s.
Jarrod melts into him, and Clive probably won’t ever admit it, but as they stand in Jarrod’s kitchen and make out like two kids in love, Clive thinks he might understand why his teammates are all settling down. Win, lose, or draw, he doesn’t think he’d care as much if he had this to come home to.
“Clive?” Jarrod sounds young, all of a sudden. “I thought we were just supposed to be friends with benefits.”
“This is how friends with benefits kiss,” Clive lies, and Jarrod chuckles, more nervously than Clive would like, but he when he kisses him again, Jarrod’s hands are warm on the skin of his lower back.
“What do you want?” Jarrod asks, looking eager to please, “what do you want from me? Anything, Clive. I’m yours tonight.”
Clive kisses him again, and holds him close, taking a few steps backwards. Jarrod follows, perfectly in sync. They take another few steps and Clive pushes Jarrod’s boxers down his legs. Jarrod kicks them off, not breaking the kiss for even a second. Clive yanks his own boxers down half a second later, just as they get to the bed. Jarrod pulls away and looks at Clive, searching his eyes for something. Maybe he finds it, or maybe he doesn’t, but he lays himself down, slow, deliberate, and spreads his legs, not breaking eye contact.
“Is this okay?” He’s looking up at Clive, trying to see if he’s guessed right or not. Clive nods fervently, laying himself over Jarrod, pressing his mouth to him, suddenly desperate to kiss him, to just keep kissing Jarrod for an eternity. Jarrod’s got one hand on his neck, holding him close, and the other arm’s reaching out, digging blindly in the nightstand. Clive’s hand meets his, takes the lube and the condom from his fingers.
“Should - should be easier, this time, since you just fucked me a few hours ago,” Jarrod mumbles, still letting out a gasp when Clive slides a finger in. He bends it slightly and Jarrod’s grip on him tightens instantly - he’s a quick learner, if nothing else. “Yes, Clive, you’re perfect - “ He slides in another finger in short order and works him open quickly, desperate to feel him again.
Clive kisses him to swallow his moans, and feels Jarrod’s grip, tight on his shoulders. He fucks him slowly, and he isn’t quite sure why, other than some instinct that it feels right. It’s the same instinct that lets him know where Samson and Bartholomew are on the field, even without looking at them, and he’s long ago learned to trust it, so he does.
Jarrod’s more vocal this time, there are fewer whispers and more loud cries, sometimes of Clive’s name, but more often wordless expressions of how incredible it feels. He reaches between them to touch himself, but Clive pulls his hand away, tucking it under his head.
“Other one too.” Clive’s voice is quiet and calm, and there’s no command in it, but Jarrod listens.
“Can I hold you? Please, baby, I need to touch you, please, love - “
“Of course, Frankie,” Clive says tenderly, and he reaches between them to touch Jarrod instead, enjoying the uptick in Jarrod’s moans and the way he kisses him, desperate to quiet himself down. Jarrod’s hands wander, frantic, from his hair to his cheeks to his neck and back to his hair, until Clive wonders how messed up his hair looks.
Clive feels himself getting closer and starts thrusting faster, because he wants Jarrod to finish first. He jerks him harder, fucking him in time and kissing him hard, until Jarrod’s nails tighten on his back, digging in almost hard enough to draw blood, and he pulls away from Clive’s mouth to let out a hoarse cry, back arching as he climaxes. Clive fucks him through his orgasm and comes himself just a few thrusts later.
He pulls out and lays next to him. Jarrod doesn’t say anything, but he draws Clive’s arm under his head and moves so he’s resting on Clive’s shoulder rather than the pillow. He’s half-asleep again, and doesn’t seem inclined to clean up this time, seemingly resigned to messy sheets and scraping dried semen off his stomach in the morning. Clive looks at him, at his gorgeous Scouse lad, and musters up the energy to strip off the condom and dispose of it. He pulls his arm out from under Jarrod - Jarrod actually whines at the loss of his pillow, which is ridiculously sweet.
He gets up and goes into the bathroom, fumbling to find the light switch. He digs through the drawers until he finds a spare hand towel, bigger than the wash cloth, but it’s all he can find. He runs it under hot water and squeezes out the excess before leaving and cleaning Jarrod up as best as he can. He flips off the main lights for the apartment, leaving just the bathroom and the dim orange streetlight filtering in from the slits between the blinds. He returns to the bathroom, wipes himself off, and decides to spend the night, as if that choice hadn’t been made the second he’d gotten into Jarrod’s apartment and been kissed like a lover for the first time in ages.
He tosses the towel into the hamper, bending to pick up the washcloth from earlier, still on the floor from when Jarrod had missed.
He flicks off the lights, leaving the apart
ment almost completely dark except for orange lines of light falling over the space. Clive climbs back into bed and pulls Jarrod back in, so he’s resting against his shoulder again. Jarrod turns into him and smiles against his bare skin.
Clive wakes up with one of his arms completely numb. Jarrod’s still sleeping, probably exhausted from yesterday.
He watches him, the light filtering through the blinds and illuminating his lover’s face, younger and more carefree in sleep.
He kisses Jarrod’s forehead and closes his eyes again. He lays there awhile, willing himself back to sleep, but to no avail. Instead, he eases Jarrod off his arm, managing to extricate himself and climb over him to get out of bed. He goes to the bathroom and relieves himself. He looks at his hair in the mirror as he washes his hands. It’s messy, going in a hundred different directions, courtesy of a combination of sleep and Jarrod’s handiwork from the previous night. Sex hair suits him, actually. He grins at his reflection.