by Amy Lane
“I didn’t think I got mud that high,” he said, laughing breathlessly.
“Well, that is near your dirty bits,” Richie chuckled. He leaned against Skip’s arm and kissed his shoulder. His arm shifted, and that warm soapy cloth ventured near forbidden territory again. Skip grunted and pressed up against the tile again.
“Water’s gonna get cold soon,” he breathed, but they’d gone for what felt like forever without touching like this, and every nerve ending was on high alert.
“Yeah, well, gotta get everything.”
Skip looked into Richie’s eyes and grinned a little, and Richie skated a fingertip down his crease. “Ooh….” He shuddered, pressing against the shower wall again. Richie very carefully pushed his wet fingertip in, and Skip’s cock grew painfully hard against his thigh. “You, uh, thinking you might want to try something tonight?” he asked, smiling at the thought.
“Not tonight,” Richie told him, wiggling that finger around some. “Sorry, Skipper. I missed you inside me.”
“Yeah, well, I can see why.” Skip clenched and squeezed him out, turned the spigot off, and reached outside for towels. He handed one to Richie and the two of them dried off and stepped out of the tub.
They walked naked to the bedroom, and Skip turned to Richie with a wry twist to his lips. “That’s nice,” he said. The bed had been turned down, and there were clean hand towels, as well as their little bottle of lubricant, on the end table. “It’s like we’re honeymooning.”
Richie nodded. “I just… I don’t ever want you to think you can have a better dream.”
No. “No,” Skip whispered, cupping Richie’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss that could finally go somewhere. “No better dream than this.”
Oh, at first he had the strength to go slow. Richie liked slow, liked the way their skin felt as Skip lay on top of him and glided, chest to chest, kissing and nibbling at his neck and tonguing the curve of his ear. But they were so ripe that the stroke of Skip’s hand down Richie’s hip made him gasp. He arched his chest up, thrust his nipple into Skip’s mouth, and Skip devoured him, pulling and tasting until Richie bucked against his thigh.
“Skip!” Richie keened. “We can’t go slow. Not now. I need you.”
Skip scrambled up, his cock dripping and bobbing as he moved. Richie started to get up too, but Skip put a hand flat on his chest and shook his head. “Gonna watch you,” he said, remembering Sunday night. Yeah, some nights were good for back to front, but he didn’t want that now.
Richie nodded, eyes big. They hadn’t turned off the lights, and Skip noticed every knotted muscle down his ribs, every lean, stringy inch of him. He’d lost weight these past two weeks and Skip liked him fatter, but God, his pale, pale skin, his ginger hair—so beautiful.
Skip grabbed the lube and Richie clutched his thighs to his chest. Skip winked at him and ran his hands down the backs of Richie’s thighs, then parted his cheeks and dove in, pegging with his tongue, swirling, shaking his head playfully until Richie beat gently on his back with his heels.
“Don’t be an asshole, Skipper, I really need to be fucked.”
Skip pulled back and laughed, his face glazed with his own spit, and then he dumped lube on his cock and stroked it around.
“I ever tell you that I like your dick?” Richie asked, a devil’s grin on his face.
“My dick?”
Richie nodded, licking his lips. “I like the length, I like the width, I like the color….”
“The color?” Carefully, Skip positioned himself until he could feel Richie’s springy muscle ring, slack and threatening to give.
Richie nodded and tilted his head back. Skipper watched his stomach muscles work as he strove to relax, to accept, to welcome.
“Most especially I like it in my ass,” Richie breathed and bore down, taking Skip in one swallow.
Ohh… oh. Oh dear Lord. Skip squeezed his eyes shut and rocked backward and then forward. “I missed this,” he breathed. “Is that weird?”
“Not as weird as me missing you right here.” Richie said, relaxing into Skip’s rhythm. “Oh… damn…. Skipper, you wouldn’t wanna go a little faster, would you?”
Skip grabbed Richie’s thighs and hoisted him up so his knees were bent over Skip’s shoulders—and rocketed his hips forward at speed.
Oh man. It was like he’d been set free. Richie sprawled, abandoned, beneath him, his noises getting louder and higher as Skip pounded hard and fast and without inhibition, his heart thundering like it was going to burst.
Richie’s hands clenched in the blankets, and he shot, the white semen landing on his stomach, across his chest, on his chin, a look of profound joy contorting his face as it spattered. Skip fell forward on his elbows, his orgasm washing through him, his hips still not getting the message as he groaned in the hallow of Richie’s shoulder and came.
His breathing labored so hard in his chest he saw spots, and as the world became a thing again, he was aware that Richie was murmuring things to him, kissing his temple, stroking his neck and his shoulders, nuzzling his cheek. Skip returned the soft touches, the hushed words.
“Mm….”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.”
“Skin’s good.”
“You’re still inside me.”
“Belong here.”
“Stay.”
“You too.”
“’Kay. We’ll stay.”
Their breathing returned to normal, and Skip slid to the side, laughing a little, twining his fingers with Richie’s after Richie had rolled to his side and mirrored his position.
“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asked, smiling under the light.
“Wake up here.”
Skip couldn’t stop smiling. “After that?”
“Breakfast and soccer.”
Skip smiled so widely he had to squeeze his eyes shut. “After that?”
Richie moved a little closer and licked the end of his nose. “Christmas ornaments,” he said. “We’ll decorate the place for Christmas, and then in the spring, we can replace that awful tile in the kitchen.”
Skip practically vibrated with happiness. “And on Monday?” he asked, not even sure what he was hoping for.
“I get myself a suit and start shopping for a job,” Richie said, sounding breathless himself. “Damn. I’m going to have myself a job not working for my dad.”
And that was it. The happiness seeped into Skip’s bones. He stilled and opened his eyes.
Richie was still there, looking at him like between the two of them, they held the magic charm that could make the world bright.
Maybe they did.
THEY WON the game the next day, when they probably shouldn’t have. Carpenter was shaping up to be a really good defender—a few more laps, a few more calisthenics on nonpractice days, and he’d be gold. But later, during pizza and beer, the team agreed that Skip and Richie had sort of stolen the show.
“You boys were on fire!” Thomas chortled, washing the fire down with a big gulp of beer. “What the hell was that? It’s like your big gay secret is out and you guys can’t miss a shot!”
“Sh!” Skip held his finger to his lips. “Don’t let the other teams know or all the forwards will start banging each other!”
Much hilarity ensued, followed by another swig of beer.
And when they wrapped it up, with the general assent of “Same Bat-time, same Bat-channel,” Skip had that glow, that reassurance, deep in his stomach. Rec league soccer, yeah. But these guys weren’t going away.
Sunday they spent their time doing what Richie suggested. They went out into the frosty morning and hit the tree lots, and came back with a five-foot tree to put in the corner by the television. Then the real work began, and they hit Target and the dollar store for lights—indoor and outdoor—and tinsel and decorations, as well as fake snow to put over the top of the flat screen so they could sprinkle it with glitter.
Richie did his magic thing
again with the dollar store and some ingenuity. He came out with a bunch of birthday party Hacky Sacks patterned like soccer balls—about twelve of them. They spent half an hour cutting little holes in the tops and sliding curling ribbon in so they could decorate their tree with soccer balls, since that was what brought them together.
Skip made hot chocolate and they watched Mad Max 2 in the front room that night, and tried to make a list of what should and should not be a Christmas movie. (Mad Max was, alas, stricken from the list, but it was decided the first four Die Hard movies could stay.)
It was a start, and so was Richie finding Christmas music on Spotify and playing it while he gave Skip what he called “a Christmas blow job”—complete with whipped cream—while Skip sat on the couch and lost his mind.
That was one Christmas tradition he could get behind.
They strung the Christmas lights on Monday, while Richie told Skip about job prospects—and so obviously tried hard not to tell Skip about the five hundred million calls he’d ignored from his dad while he was doing that.
Skip asked about it anyway, when they were done stringing the lights. Then, still standing outside as the light faded over the houses across the street, he hugged Richie quietly as all of Richie’s fears, his love, his hurt, spilled out in a rambling tirade of epic proportions. Skip let it. Richie needed to talk about it—all of it—or it would forever be lurking behind his eyes when they were trying to build a life. Skip needed to know the extent of the ruins while he laid the foundation.
At last Richie wound down, right when the timer for the lights kicked in. They were still outside under the fruitless mulberry tree, the one Richie had hung the maimed plastic dolls on during Halloween. They’d strung lights around it and hung big plastic decorations that lit up, and as quickly as the tick of a clock, they were surrounded by the wonder of bright lights against a dark sky.
Richie looked up and around and then smiled, the tension and trouble on his face melting. “Look what we did,” he said, delighted.
“Yeah,” Skip said. The lights down the street must have all been set for six o’clock too, because in the same moment the entire block lit up, and they were out under the moon, surrounded by twinkles and dreams. “Look what we did.”
Richie raised his chilled face for a kiss then, and Skip obliged. The hurt was still going to be there—Skip still mourned his mother and the life they might have had if she’d been able to keep it together. But the ruins there weren’t going to destroy him, and the rubble of Richie’s old life wasn’t going to either.
They just had so much potential to build good things.
By the end of the week, Richie had found a temp job, and while not ideal, it was a source of income he could be proud of, and it would do. They lost their soccer game that Saturday, but they were still riding the flush of Richie’s job, and they didn’t care. By the end of the pizza and beer, they’d figured that Carpenter, Jimenez, and Thomas (who had just broken up with his girlfriend and moved back in with his parents), as well as Jefferson and his mother, were all shoving themselves in Skip and Richie’s tiny house for Christmas Eve.
Richie told Skip as they were leaving that they should probably get lawn furniture and a fire pit, or at least a kerosene heater, and that way people could go outside if they wanted.
Well, what the hell. Skip had a deck, right?
They hadn’t won enough games as a team to enter the tournament the week before Christmas, but nobody seemed to hold a grudge. What was important was that the team was signing up for second session, ready to start after New Year’s. They broke up pizza and beer the night of the last game of the season with a hearty round of toasts to everyone’s good health and happy holidays. Skip and Richie made bread to give to everybody who wasn’t coming to their house for Christmas Eve, and every loaf was well received.
They drove home tired but happy—and making a list between them of what had to be done before they had all that company over in a week.
Richie’s dad’s truck was parked in front of their house when they got home.
And to All a Good Sports Night
SKIP FOUGHT the temptation to yank on the steering wheel and drive around the block. This man had attacked him the last time they’d seen him. He’d tried to hurt Richie. He’d set his relatives on the two of them.
Skip wanted to run away from him and never let him speak to Richie again.
But Richie had finally answered a phone call the week before, and the one thing he’d learned before he’d had to hang up or scream was that his father’s life had fallen completely apart. He hadn’t wanted to press charges against Rob and Paul, so his insurance claim was invalid. His business was gone, and Richie’s stepmom had moved out, so apparently his family had completely disintegrated as well.
He’d been angry on the phone, spitting invective at Richie, at Skip, at gay people and faithless women, pretty much all in the same breath.
But when the matter of his life had been sifted from the dust of his anger, what remained was precious little of value. Skip felt bad for him, and he didn’t blame Richie for feeling the same.
Still, he pulled up to the garage warily, parking next to Richie’s car and making sure to get out first in case Richie’s dad was in a violent mood. Richie trotted after him, slowing to close the garage door, as Skip approached the front porch.
“If you’re here to throw another punch,” he said evenly, “I will call the cops. This is a nice neighborhood and they don’t need any violence out here.”
Ike Scoggins’s face contorted like he was ready to just be that violent, but he relaxed it again after a moment. The fight seemed to drain out of him, and he looked around dispassionately at the lights on the tree and lining the edges of the roof.
“Sure looks like a couple of fairies would be living here,” he said, and then his face did this ghastly thing that made Skip think that was an attempt at a joke.
“Yup,” he muttered. “All we need are dresses and wands. Can I do anything to help you, Mr. Scoggins? I am all about Richie not getting hurt ever again, so it would be great if you could get to the part where we don’t have you arrested for being on our porch.”
“I’m not here to talk to you,” Ike said, growling. “I want to talk to my son.”
“I’m right here, Dad,” Richie said. “Nice move with the garage door, Skip. That thing sticks.”
“Not nice enough to keep you from having to deal with this,” Skipper muttered. Then, to Ike: “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“Fine. Stay there and listen. Fat lot of good I hope it does you.” Ike glared at him and then turned his attention to Richie. “Son… my whole life… you heard me the other day. I got nothing. I got no wife, no business. I’m selling the house so I have enough money to live. Are you really going to leave me like this?”
Richie looked at him, torn, and Skip offered his hand. Richie took it.
“You’re welcome to join us for Christmas Eve,” he said, looking at Skip like he was begging forgiveness. “We’re going to have a bunch of people—you could come.”
“I want you to come home!” Ike roared. “Don’t invite me to a fucking Christmas party that’s probably all… whaddayoucallum, gay people anyway! You’re my family!”
“I’m Skip’s family,” Richie said, squeezing Skip’s hand and looking at his father with longing. “You’re welcome to join us, but I’m not leaving him to come be your little kid again. I mean… I’m sorry. I’m sorry your life fell to shit. There were….” Richie blew out a breath. “There were a lot of things you could have done to not have that happen, but who am I to judge. But I’ve got a good life here. I’m….” He glanced at Skip, his face wearing some of the same wonder he’d shown the night they’d installed the lights. “I’m happy,” he said quietly before turning to his father. “I’m not giving Skip up for you, okay? I’m not giving up being gay for you. I’m sorry. You want family for Christmas, you’ve got to be the kind of man who can love the family he’
s got.”
Ike Scoggins looked at the two of them and shook his head. “You should have been normal,” he grunted. And then he turned and left.
Skip and Richie watched him get into his battered red truck and drive away without another word.
THAT NIGHT Skip kept the lights off and managed to make it slow. He kissed every inch, sucked on every pleasure point, hit every spot. When Richie begged, he gave, and when Richie demanded, he took. By the time he was done, they were both drenched in sweat, even in the chill of the room, and Richie was lying limply across his stomach.
“Skip?”
“Yeah?”
“Not that I’m complaining about that or anything, but you’ve got the job.”
Skip smiled. “Excellent. It’s gonna be a while before I can apply again anyway.”
Richie rolled off of him and flopped over on his back. “You’ve said that before, but I’m telling you, that thing does not seem to be defective in any way.”
Skip grinned into the darkness. “Well, maybe you’re just a master mechanic, you know that?”
Richie sat up—just sat right up in bed. “You know what?”
“What?” Skip asked, rolling over to one elbow.
“I am a master mechanic. I mean, I am.”
Skip smiled and rubbed Richie’s stomach, just for fun. “I know. You took all the classes, Richie. I mean, I stayed in the tech department, but you’ve got way more mechanic’s classes under your belt.”
Richie nodded. “Yeah, but I was applying for all those jobs in my sport coat and slacks and shit, and I wanted the job you had.”
Skip wrinkled his nose. “The job I have is sort of boring.” He’d been thinking about this ever since playing golf with Carpenter’s friends. “I mean, I’ve been thinking about going back to school, maybe getting a business degree or something. Maybe even….” He smiled shyly, because he’d been talking to Thomas about this during beers. “You know, a real degree, and a teaching certificate.”
