by Emrys Apollo
He winces and tries to work past the pins and needles as he finds his boxers and pulls them back on, going over to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. Jarrod’s got a calendar on the fridge, and Clive checks his schedule so he can wake him. It wouldn’t exactly help Jarrod fall in love with him if he was late the morning after their first day together. He’s got class starting at ten, and it’s only a quarter past eight, but he doesn’t know how long Jarrod takes to get ready in the morning, or how far he has to go to get to class. Clive can cook him breakfast, so he can sleep in awhile, and if he’s getting late, he can just drive him and drop him off. One ride between friends wouldn’t hurt, surely?
He starts the toast and rummages through Jarrod's cupboards to find a small bottle of cooking oil and a frying pan, scorched on the bottom in a way that suggested that Jarrod had taught himself how to cook, and it hadn’t always been smooth sailing. He decides to start with his own breakfast, just in case he messes up, and then move on to Jarrod's. What had he said he liked again? Scrambled, it was. With mushrooms and something else. Try as hard as he can, he can't quite remember what the other thing is, really.
Maybe he should make himself scrambled eggs too, to get some practice in. He likes sunny side up, but just marginally more than any other type of eggs, and one day of scrambled eggs won't be an issue if it helps him get Jarrod's breakfast right. Mushrooms, he thinks to himself. Do you have to do the mushrooms separately or just put them in with the eggs and let them cook there?
He decides to pour it all in at once and see how it goes. He chops up the mushrooms and starts them frying in the pan while he beats the eggs quickly with a fork and adds a splash of milk. He's just about to pour in the egg and milk mixture when he feels a pair of arms wrapping around him. It’s a shock, his heart squeezes in his chest all of a sudden, and only his reflexes keep the eggs from going onto the floor. “Give them a few minutes to cook before you add the eggs, babe.”
There are lips against the side of his neck, then, pressing a line of tender kisses from just under the corner of his jaw to where his neck meets his shoulder. “Morning, gorgeous,” Jarrod mumbles, still sounding sleepy, “you making us breakfast?”
“Didn't want to wake you,” Clive says softly, turning his head so he can kiss Jarrod good morning. “You just about scared the hell out of me, Jarr. Nearly dropped the eggs all over the floor.”
“Sorry, babe. Just wasn't sure if you've cooked with mushrooms before. They're kind of tricky. Need to be cooked on their own before you add the eggs. Same with pizza. It's because they're fungi, not plants, shouldn't eat them raw. Still, I should've said something, I suppose. Thought it'd be more romantic this way, though. And you were so focused you didn't hear me coming.”
“Wanted to do your breakfast before you went off to class and I went home,” Clive pouts.
“And you've done brilliantly. Add some salt and pepper to the eggs, love, mix that in before you pour them into the pan.”
“I don't make scrambled eggs very much,” Clive confesses, flushing as he adds some salt and pepper and mixes them in. He pours the mixture in and goes to move them about when he realizes he doesn't have anything to--
Jarrod unwraps an arm from around him and pulls open a drawer, placing a slotted spatula right into Clive's hand.
“Thanks,” Clive mutters, slightly embarrassed. But then Jarrod lays his head on his shoulder and he feels slightly better.
“I like this,” he says quietly, reaching up to turn on the exhaust over the stove. “Whole flat smells of egg unless the fan's on.” He says matter of factly. “But I like you cooking me breakfast in your boxers. It's... domestic. Almost like we live in this shoebox together.”
“If we did, would you let me pay half the rent and utilities?”
“Why? There'd be no need, I've got them covered. Though you probably do go through a lot of food... You'd go out and do the groceries, pay for them - “
“If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were calling me fat, Jarrod Franklin,” Clive teases, savoring the feeling of Jarrod behind him, warm and solid.
“Oh, I would never, Cli. Not a good idea to piss off the man who's cooking your food, you know. You never know, next time you’d spit in me eggs.”
“It's getting likelier every passing second.” Clive says, all snark.
“Baby, you know you're not fat. Not by any means. I love your body. And you're a professional athlete. I could stare at you naked all day. You're enough to make a man into an artist, just to capture a shadow of your… your beauty, I guess. Or handsomeness, if you like that better.”
“You sound more like a poet than a doctor,” Clive says smartly, cherishing every word and enjoying the warm flutter in his stomach. He carefully puts the finished eggs onto a plate along with two toasts.
“I like poetry. It's sort of sappy, I guess, but I always wondered what it was like, to love someone that much, to love someone so much that the entire world is the more beautiful for it. Silly, I know.”
It's not silly at all. It's... sweet. And Clive's heart is warm and he's flushing, a little bit.
“It's not silly,” he says finally.
“What about your breakfast?” Jarrod asks, setting the plate on the counter and pulling him in for a proper kiss.
“I'm going to make mine. Sunny side up for me.”
“I used to love ordering my eggs sunny side up. I think mostly because I liked saying it. It was like saying hey, look on the bright side through food. But then I realized I thought scrambled were actually better, they just had a less interesting name.”
Clive pauses and realizes with a pang that he pretty much only likes his eggs sunny side up for the name.
“Maybe I'll make mine scrambled too, then. Since I've got you bringing sunshine to my morning, Jarr.” Jarrod blushes and goes to check on the coffee, asking how Clive takes it - splash of milk, three sugars.
There isn't much room in the kitchen, and they're sort of all over each other as Clive finishes his eggs and leaves the tight space to clear the notes off the sofa and the table. They settle down, sitting close, to eat their breakfast.
He watches nervously as Jarrod tastes his eggs. “Perfect,” he declares, pressing a kiss to Clive's cheek, “thank you, baby.”
Clive's flushing at this point, pleased beyond words at how well his little idea had turned out.
“So what are your plans for today?” He asks, watching Jarrod finish his food and take a sip of coffee.
“Get a shower with my hockey player, get ready, kiss him goodbye, and go to class. I'll probably leave the dishes, get them when I get back from class today.”
“I'm guessing you'll have studying to do tonight when you get back?”
Jarrod looks at him regretfully. “Yeah, babe, unfortunately. And you should probably go back to Manchester at some point. I'm not kicking you out, love, I just don't know what you'd do if you stayed here, other than distract me with your ridiculously sexy body.”
Clive smiles a little and leans in to kiss him. “I liked our day together.”
“I'm sorry it was mostly napping, Cli. Can't have been that much fun for you.”
“Prolactin,” Clive says mock-seriously, “we slept a lot because we got off a lot. And I loved every second of it.”
Jarrod blushes, “my pillow talk probably won't get any better than that, to be fair, babe.”
“We'll have to work on it, then.” Clive smirks and kisses him chastely, pulling away to have some more food.
They finish up and Jarrod stacks the dishes in the sink, turning to look at Clive.
“Come shower with me? I'll make it worth your while...” He crosses the room to his nightstand and pulls out a condom, waving the shiny packet in the air. “Ever had shower sex before, Clive? I haven't had the pleasure yet, but you deserve a reward for making us breakfast, love. Besides, we aren't going to see each other for awhile once the season kicks off, so I want to give you lots of memories to think about when you're touching
yourself.”
Clive nods eagerly, going over to kiss him senseless. Jarrod smiles into the kiss and leads them to the bathroom so he can turn on the shower. Clive's naked and hard by the time the water's hot.
Jarrod's glasses fog up and he frowns a little bit. “When I fantasized about shower sex, I didn't consider that everything would be vaguely blurry.” He takes off his glasses and sets them on the sink, pushing his boxers to the floor and following Clive into the shower.
“Will you fuck me this time?” Clive asks shyly, “I miss the feeling of having you inside me.”
Jarrod looks him up and down, squinting a little, and pushes Clive against the tile wall. “Of course I'll fuck you, babe.” He kisses him hotly and when Clive puts his hands on Jarrod's back, it's warm and slick with hot water. “I--I don't know how, exactly, but we'll figure it out-”
Clive's never had sex standing up before, and Jarrod hasn't either. That makes this their first, a first they get to share together, and that makes him unspeakably happy, somehow. He lifts a leg and wraps it around Jarrod's hips.
“Now you open me up,” he suggests.
“Yeah, good idea-” Jarrod's got a hand under Clive's knee to help take support his leg, and he's careful as he slicks two fingers and presses them into him. “Is this okay?”
“Feels different, standing up,” Clive says quietly, arching into the touch and doing his absolute utmost to fuck himself on Jarrod's fingers.
“So eager, Clive,” Jarrod says, sounding pleased. He kisses Clive's throat as he finishes opening him up and pulls his fingers out, eliciting a gorgeous whine from Clive.
“N-need you, Jarrod--” Jarrod cuts him off by kissing him, releasing his hold on Clive to slick himself up quickly.
“Are you ready, Cli?” Clive nods eagerly. As Jarrod pushes up into him, he finds himself on his toes, being pushed up on each thrust.
“Can - can I put my other leg round you?” He asks desperately.
“I don't know if I'm strong enough,” Jarrod murmurs, but he's lifting Clive's leg anyway. “Don't want to drop you,” he says, biting at his lower lip and sounding worried, “I'll tell you if I can't hold you anymore, okay?”
Clive nods. Honestly, he's willing to take the risk of being dropped on his ass in the shower if it means he gets to feel Jarrod inside him like this, even deeper than before. He moans, and the sound echoes loudly around the bathroom.
“So fucking hot, Clive,” Jarrod mutters, thrusting into him again, slowly finding his rhythm. He's strong, his hands under Clive's thighs holding him up, and his chest pressing Clive into the tiled wall.
Clive wraps his arms around Jarrod’s shoulders, clinging to him as Jarrod thrusts into him, going fast enough that Clive’s nearly there, but not quite pounding into him.
“Babe,” Jarrod whispers, biting a kiss into his neck, “I’ve got you. Use one hand to touch yourself.” Clive’s so elated at just the first sentence, at the intensity with which Jarrod says the words, he misses the second part entirely, until Jarrod repeats himself. “Touch yourself for me, Cli, please, I can’t hold off much longer and I want you to come.”
Clive jerks himself quickly, in rhythm with how Jarrod’s fucking him. “Please, baby, I need - harder,” he begs, inching ever nearer.
Jarrod obliges and thrusts into him even harder and it’s perfect, sending Clive over the edge. He comes with a shout of Jarrod’s name.
Jarrod comes too, and they spend too long in the shower after that, kissing. Clive’s hesitant, but he reaches for the shampoo first, lathering it into his own hair and then Jarrod’s, fingers gentle as he washes it out, careful not to let any go into Jarrod’s eyes. Jarrod watches him do it, watches his form, close enough that he can mostly see him, barely has to squint at all. His throat tightens, all of a sudden, and he kisses him.
“Thank you for coming over, Clive. It was brilliant, having you round.” He’d made Jarrod’s little flat feel homier, filling it with warmth and life.
It’s doomed, of course. Jarrod just isn’t sure if he cares. He picks up the soap and rubs it across Clive’s chest, and his arms, and his stomach. He kneels, too, to clean his legs, turns him to clean his back and his ass, and it’s Clive’s turn to watch him, this time.
They don’t leave the shower until the water starts to run cold, fingers long since wrinkled, and then they laugh, falling over each other in their rush to get out.
Jarrod gets dressed, hair still damp, and so does Clive.
“I can’t walk you back to your car today, love, I’ve got to catch me bus, but you’ll be okay, won’t you? It’s just a couple streets over.”
Clive nods. “I’ll be fine, Jarr. Thanks for making time to see me.”
Jarrod snorts, “wasn’t hard making time to nap and shag and eat. Next time, take me out to lunch, okay? Call, write, I’ll see you when I see you, Cli, okay?”
“Soon, hopefully.”
Jarrod kisses him goodbye, long and slow, and they walk out of the building together and go in opposite directions. Clive wants to seize him by the arm and take him to Manchester, have him finish his degree there. Clive wants to drag him into his house and tell him he refuses to charge him rent, so he could calm down on the working himself to death thing.
Clive wants.
He just wants.
The drive home is dull, and home is big and empty and quiet. The bed is cold and too big for one.
He calls Jarrod and leaves a message when he doesn’t pick up.
I miss your voice. When can I see you again?
Oh. It’s me. Clive. Call me when you can, Jarr.
CHAPTER 4
The days pass by. Jarrod doesn’t get any more days off in the next two weeks. Or rather, he works on the days he doesn’t have class. Clive moves the phone to his bedroom after the third day in a row Jarrod calls him at seven in the morning.
Sometimes he’s near-delirious, fresh off a night shift, sometimes a double night shift, talking faster than usual as he settles into bed and crashes. Sometimes Clive thinks he falls asleep talking to him, when he goes quiet for long, long minutes before mumbling a goodnight and hanging up.
Sometimes he’s sleepy, too, voice soft with sleep, words slow and spaced out by yawns that Clive wishes he could see. “Morning, love. Just wanted to check in before I get ready to go to clinic.”
Clive dreams of Jarrod wearing his kit and watching a final at the end of the season - dreams of hanging his medal around Jarrod’s neck and kissing him at a stadium when he’s feeling audacious. He dreams of the night - ducking out of the celebration party early so he can take his lover home, the image of Jarrod in nothing but his winner’s medal as he made love to him…
They call each other a lot, enough for Clive to wonder if he's driving up Jarrod's phone bill. They talk nearly every day, though half the time, they miss each other and leave silly little messages.
Jarrod is more careful, in his messages, though he knows Clive lives alone, ever since Luke had moved out to live with his girlfriend. He just doesn’t want to take the risk. Clive would make headlines, if they weren’t careful, and so Jarrod always is.
Hi, Clive, it’s Jarrod, just wanted to have a bit of a chat, mate, catch up. Call me back when you have time.
Clive isn’t careful. Or he is, maybe, about being too affectionate, about scaring Jarrod away, but not much else.
Hey, Jarr, I miss your voice. And the rest of you. When can I see you again?
Jarrod always asks about his matches. He knows the results, of course, reads them in the paper on the bus to the hospital, for clinicals or work, and calls to congratulate Clive on a win.
It takes a few months for them to figure out what to do after a loss, mostly because there just aren't very many of them. But they do figure it out, eventually. Jarrod tells stories about his childhood, skates over the parts about money being tight and doesn’t talk about his dad and tells funny little stories about his kid brothers instead, about playing hockey with his mates in the street -
Clive knows Michael Starling was one of those mates, but Jarrod doesn’t talk much about Michael to him, just as Clive doesn’t talk to him about Robin.
He even drives up to see Jarrod a few more times, between summer and Christmas, on the rare occasion that he’s injured or has a day off, or a week with no matches scheduled.
He grows bolder. Jarrod’s voice, crackling with static over the line, makes his day. He almost has to hear it, just to feel at ease. He goes through his day collecting nuggets of information for Jarrod. He talks about his family, too, about Luke and Tammy and his parents.
Even when he’s away with the team, or with UK, he manages to find time to call, Jarrod's number imprinted into his head and into his hands. He’s only got a handful of phone numbers memorized, really. Luke, Tammy, his parents’ house, Samson, Robin… and his Jarrod. He talks to Jarrod more than any of them, except for the time he spends with Samson and Robin at training. Sometimes he gets a single room for away matches, and then it’s easy, to sit and talk to Jarrod for twenty minutes, even half an hour, to lounge in bed and tell him everything about his day and listen to Jarrod talk about his. Jarrod censors his stories, though. He sees grittier, uglier things, things that Clive can’t even imagine. Sometimes he doesn’t talk about his day at all, just says that he’s glad Clive wasn’t there for any of it.