by Emrys Apollo
Clive leans over and kisses him, because it’s all he can do, all that’s in his power to help this man who cares so much -
Jarrod kisses him back, eager, as if their previous argument had been forgotten. He tastes of strong, bitter black coffee and a hint of mint toothpaste.
They pull away and there’s something in Jarrod’s eyes, some strange vulnerability that makes Clive ache in corners of his heart he thought he’d long since cordoned off.
He knows it’s time to say goodbye, when he sees that look. Jarrod walks him to the door, which isn’t saying much, really, considering his shoebox of an apartment.
“Goodbye, Robin,” he says softly, leaning in to kiss Clive’s cheek before he opens the door.
Clive smiles before he walks away and Jarrod closes the door, sitting back down on the sofa to try to organize his notes and prepare for tomorrow’s cases.
There’s a knock on the door again ten minutes later. It’s Clive, face flushed. Jarrod opens the door and backs up to let him in.
“Hey, did you forget some - “ Clive closes the door before he throws his arms around Jarrod’s neck, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Jarrod kisses him back, once he recovers from the shock.
“You know I can’t take you out,” Clive says when he pulls his mouth away from Jarrod’s, reluctant, barely an inch of space between their lips, “and I wish I could, because you deserve it, Jarrod Franklin, you fucking deserve everything, but I can’t - “
“It’s okay, Clive,” Jarrod’s voice is low, reassuring and his hands are rubbing Clive’s arms, trying to soothe him, “I don’t blame you for your job - “
“No, I need you to understand - I can’t do that for you, Jarrod. I can’t. I can’t take you out to fancy restaurants or to the cinema or home for Christmas - none of that is on the table with me.”
“I do understand, Clive. I understood all of that, that’s why this was a one-time thing.”
“But it’s not,” Clive says desperately, “I don’t - I don’t want it to be a one-time thing, Frankie. Please. Can I - can I come see you again? I’ll bring takeaway, we can watch a film on VHS or something - “
“You’re in love with Bartholomew, and I don’t have a TV,” Jarrod says quietly, pushing him back a little, just enough that they both have some breathing room. “I think we both know that pretty well at this point. You should tell him. You two would look good together. If I was him, I’d hate to miss out on you just because I didn’t know you were interested.”
“Bartholomew? Bartholomew has a girlfriend - probably. He goes through them proper quick, to be fair, but - he isn’t interested in men. He isn’t interested in me.”
“And I’m… flattered, but I’m not really interested in being someone’s second choice, Clive, even if that someone is a rich, handsome professional hockey player.” Jarrod’s voice is gentle, but firm. “It’s up to you, you know him best, but I’d still say tell him. Maybe he’s only going through women so fast because he’s trying to get his mind off you. That’s what I’d do, if I was still in the closet and I had a lad like you as my best mate.”
Nothing about this conversation is enough to make Clive stop wanting to drag Jarrod back into bed. He wants that, he wants to kiss him and know how he takes his tea and how he got his calluses and how he met Michael Starling.
“I want you, Jarrod, I do, really, I mean it - “
“I’m sorry, Clive. I just don’t have time for a relationship at the minute. Even when I don’t have clinicals, I’m picking up as many shifts as I can physically handle. My mum’s already raising my two brothers, she can’t afford to pay my bills on top of that. I’ll give you my phone number, you can call me every few days, if you want, and I have an email address from the hospital, if you want to write me. But that’s all I can offer you right now.”
“I’ll pay your bills. I’ll pay all of your bills, Jarrod, anything to make things easier for you - “
“Don’t be stupid,” Jarrod says, voice cold and sharp for the first time since Clive’s known him, “I’m not a fucking hooker, I’m not fucking you to pay my bills. I don’t need you to pay my bills. I’m doing fine for myself, thanks. Last night was great, I really needed it, and I think you really needed it, too, but now we’ve had it and we don’t need it anymore. That’s really the end of the conversation, as far as I’m concerned. Please leave my flat.”
“Wait. Your phone number?”
“Clive Reynold, you’re a stubborn little ass, aren’t you?” Clive nods shamelessly, and Jarrod barks out a laugh. “Mickey was right about that, at least. Even if you’re not quite the bellend he made you out to be.”
He grabs a piece of paper - a post-it, actually, from his nightstand, and writes down his phone number and email address. He pauses and looks at Clive again, jotting down a few more lines.
“Don’t send me weird shit in the mail, Clive, or I’ll mark it return to sender. But I don’t know, if you want to write me a letter or something, you can do that.”
“I promise I won’t send you anything alive or dead or combustible or perishable in the mail.”
“Here. I don’t want to be your boyfriend, Clive, not right now, that would only add stress to both our lives, but you have a friend, at least. Someone who knows you like men. And I’ve been told I have a good phone voice, I can get you off now and then. Friends with benefits, let’s say. You can come down now and then, we can sleep together, and then we can be friends the rest of the time, okay?”
“I might not be good at it. I probably won’t be,” Clive says honestly, “I’ve never had anything like that before. I never really had the chance. You weren’t my first, Frankie, but there haven’t been many.”
“You’re the sort of lad who wants a relationship,” Jarrod says knowingly, “that’s why you’ve fallen in love with your best friend. You want more affection. I’m a medical student and you’re a professional hockey player, love. I’m married to my schoolwork and you’re in love with your teammate. Even after I finish studying - if you still want me then - junior doctors have shitty schedules and shitty paychecks, Clive. It won’t be enough, you’ll want someone to cook you dinner and have sex with you every night, like your teammates have, and I just can’t be that guy. I’m sorry. It’s friendship or nothing, Clive. It has to be.”
“Can I call you?” Clive asks, still mulishly hopeful. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by just taking no as an answer. Especially when Jarrod hadn’t once said he didn’t want him, just that they shouldn’t be together.
Jarrod laughs a little, past the pain in his eyes. “God, Clive, I do like you. So much. That’s the problem. Yeah, you can call me. I can’t promise I’ll always be around - sometimes I work the night shift because the pay’s better, but I’ll answer your calls if I’m home, lad. Promise.”
“And can I come see you sometimes? When we’re both free?”
“Sure, Clive. You can do that, as much as you’re comfortable with. You’re the one dealing with the press.”
“I’ll come over, okay? I’ll bring you food, help you study, give you a blowjob after bad exam results... Not that you’re going to do badly on your exams! Just, in case you do. But I did mean it, I want to make things easier for you, if I can. And you can call me, too, if you have another day like you had a couple days ago. If you need to get off so you can sleep. I’ve never… done that with someone before, on the phone, but I want to, if it helps you. I want to.”
“I appreciate that, Clive, but I’m not a charity case.”
“It’s not about that! I like you, okay? Honestly, I do. I care about you. I know it’s stupid, and early, but - “ Clive’s messing this up, he knows he is, he’s getting it all wrong, but, he needs Jarrod to know. Even if this is the last time he sees him. Especially then.
Jarrod softens and steps forward, back into Clive’s waiting arms, kissing him delicately on the cheek.
“That all sounds great, Clive. But you’ve got to get home before you can call me,
don’t you? Go on. Do you want me to walk you to your car?”
Clive nods eagerly.
“Kiss me goodbye, then. We won’t be able to when we leave.”
Clive smiles at him and pulls him in for a long, slow, tender kiss.
“That kiss did not say friends with benefits,” Jarrod says, mock stern, “we’ll have to work on that, next time you come round. At length. You can help me study anatomy. I’ll label all your muscles. With my tongue. Or maybe I’ll write on you, label everything. You’d have to be naked, though, to be my study guide. And I’ll pay you back by cleaning off all the ink and blowing you in the shower. Sound good?”
Clive groans a little. “How am I supposed to leave when you say that sort of thing? You’re going to be the death of me, Frankie.”
“Come on, babe. You’ll have to learn how to deal with it, if you want to be mine.” Jarrod blushes a little, and Clive loves the color, has to touch it, and so he does, stealing a light caress of Jarrod’s cheek. “Not that you will be mine. And if it’s getting… out of hand, we’ll have to call it off, okay?”
“Okay,” Clive agrees, silently determined not to ruin this. It might be his only chance, at a relationship. And somewhere, in the parts of his heart he pretends don’t exist, he half-suspects Jarrod Franklin loves fiercely and hurts just as much, and the last thing he wants is to hurt the boy in front of him.
He waits for Jarrod to lock up his flat before he takes his hand.
Jarrod gently slips his hand out of his grip. “I know you want to show me how you feel, Clive, but I don’t want you to suffer if this gets out. Friends walk side by side, but they don’t hold hands.”
Have you ever held hands with Mickey? Clive wants to ask, but that’s coming from the part of his brain that screams at referees and sort of wants to go knock Michael Starling’s lights out, so he ignores it.
He agrees, but as they walk, he lets his arm swing a little more freely, lets his hand brush against Jarrod’s now and then, just because he wants the touch. He isn’t touch starved, not by a long shot – hockey player never are. But he wants Jarrod’s touch, all of a sudden, wants to be touched by someone he has feelings for.
They walk the two streets over far too quickly, and it hasn’t been nearly enough time before Clive’s sitting in his car, Jarrod waving at him and waiting for him to pull out of the car park before he turns around and walks back alone.
By the time Clive goes to bed that night, he’s already got Jarrod Franklin’s phone number memorized and written down in several different places so he can’t possibly lose it, even if he has a traumatic accident and gets amnesia like they did on that one medical drama on TV that one time.
He wants to ask Jarrod is that’s what amnesia is really like, and has to remind himself that that is not a sufficiently good reason for a phone call.
He calls anyway, to say thank you and leave Jarrod his number.
Jarrod doesn’t pick up the phone.
CHAPTER 2
Clive doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He decides to give Jarrod a day to call back before he quits hoping. He can forget Jarrod’s number just as easily as he can remember it - probably.
Jarrod calls back the next day, just as Clive’s eating dinner in front of the TV.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Clive? It’s Jarrod, from last night. Night before, really. Anyway, sorry I missed your call, I was working last night. But I’m doing okay, mate, how are you?”
Clive plays with the cord a little, heart beating anxiously fast.
“I’m good.”
I haven’t stopped thinking about you.
“How long are your holidays? Are you going anywhere special? I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to leave UK for awhile, you know, after what’s happened.”
“I was thinking about Spain, for awhile. Somewhere warm. But I don’t want to go anywhere they care about hockey.”
“America, then?”
“I only have a couple of weeks left, and then I have to show up for preseason training. The other boys are already back, the non-internationals. I’m just so fucking tired of hockey.”
“You’re twenty-three years old, doing what you’d dreamed of doing since you were a kid, Cli.”
“I know. So are you, though. Except for the twenty-three years old part, I guess.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Just goes to show how big my dreams were, doesn’t it?” Jarrod laughs a little, and if there’s a hint of bitterness to it, Clive doesn’t comment.
“How was your shift last night?”
“Ugly. Car accident. The man wasn’t wearing his seatbelt, went through the windshield… my partner and I got him to the hospital, and then I went to the toilets and threw up before I went back to the ambulance.”
“I’m sorry.” Clive wonders if it’ll ever stop, the way Jarrod’s everyday life jars him like this.
“Don’t be. Just, promise you’ll always wear your seatbelt? Spare the people who love you from having to see you like that. Besides, it’d be a real shame to mess up that pretty face of yours. A broken nose from the airbag is better than what can happen. What does happen.”
“I promise, love.” It’s a risk, tacking on the endearment at the end, but Jarrod lets it slide. Maybe the car accident really did throw him off. Clive makes a mental note. Tough days at work mean he can be more affectionate.
“So you’ve got no plans for the next couple weeks?”
“I was thinking maybe I could come down to Birmingham for a day or so. Do you have a day off anytime soon? I’ll come, we’ll order pizza, we can sit on the sofa, sleep together a couple times, that’ll relax you, probably, and get you to sleep at night, at least…”
“I’d like that. When do you have to go back to training? Tell me and I’ll check my schedule and I’ll clear a day for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“If it’s already a day I have off from school, yeah, Cli. I can always work an early morning after you’ve gone. I’ve been doing okay this month, anyway. Front loaded on shifts, we had a two week break between second and third year. I spent most of it in the back of the ambulance, had a day home with mum and the boys, so I’ve got a bit of wiggle room. Enough for a day off, at least.”
“Next week? Any day you’re free, Jarr, I can drive over.”
“Wednesday?”
“Brilliant, Frankie. I’d love that. I’ll see you then. You’ve probably got to study and stuff, I’m guessing? But thanks for calling me, I’m really glad to have heard from you.”
“Me too. This - talking to you, it actually helped. I was on edge all day until now. Thanks, Cli. Have a good night.”
“Good night.” Clive waits until Jarrod hangs up - a single moment of hearing his breath across the line before it goes dead - before he puts the receiver down.
He’s already planning the perfect day when he gets into bed. He’ll get takeaway from somewhere - Jarrod’s a student, he won’t say no to free food, not when Clive brings it for their date. He’ll bring food and a six-pack of beer for them to work their way through, and they’ll sit on Jarrod’s tiny little couch and talk, or listen to the radio and dance around Jarrod’s flat.
He’ll tell Jarrod everything - the first time he kissed a boy, why he’d lied to his mother about the bloody nose he’d gotten that day. Luke, crawling into his bed when he was young and having nightmares, looking for Clive to protect him. He’d tell him about Tammy, who was more tomboy than mum’s little princess, how his mother had swallowed her disappointment and let her daughter run around with the boys, washing the mud out of her ripped jeans and putting her hair into a braid so it stayed out of her way. Maybe Jarrod would tell him things too - he didn’t seem to mind telling Clive things.
He falls asleep quickly, dreaming of Jarrod. He takes him dancing, in the dream, takes him to the cinema. His dreams shift, though, to lazy kisses on Jarrod’s sofa. Clive laying his head in Jarrod’s lap as he studies, napping while his lover prepares for his exams. Sharin
g a bed. Kissing the frown off of Jarrod’s face after a long day. Tracing the scars on his abdomen with his tongue, and then sinking lower, to take him into his mouth, to ease the tension in him -
He wakes up with a damp spot on his boxers and another on the sheets, still achingly hard. It’s been years since he’s had a wet dream. He’s fucking twenty-three years old, for Christ’s sake. He jerks himself off and comes with Jarrod’s name on his lips. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s given himself in years.
He showers and thinks about Jarrod doing the same thing, the way his biceps would flex as he washes his hair and the water dripping down his chest as he lathers himself up with soap, probably something with a plain clean scent that Clive could get used to having on his skin, too. It isn’t long before he’s hard again, touching himself again to the thought of Jarrod’s legs around his hips in the shower, kissing him hard, their bodies slick with warm water.
