by Emrys Apollo
Most of him, at least.
Clive moans quietly and when Robin pushes into him, he slides up further against the wall than he had intended. He lets Robin fuck him like that, the other leg lifting once he feels Robin can support them both.
There’s some pain. It’s in his back, where he’s sliding against the wall, but it’s a quiet, warm pain. It has the decency to stay in the back of his head, while the pleasure jumps right to the front of the queue of emotions waiting to be felt. The pain grows, slowly and steadily, warmth reaching up from the small of his back upwards towards his shoulders.
“Harder.” Clive demands. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he wants it to hurt, somewhere in his head. Maybe he wants it to be over, just as much as he wants it to never end.
Whatever he means by the word, Robin takes it at face value, pounding into him until Clive’s voice fills the locker room, aching and desperate and still, even now, irrevocably in love.
Robin comes first, but he stays inside him, puts a hand between them to jerk at him clumsily until he gets off, too, with a ragged cry.
“Robin,” Clive whispers, hissing as he pulls out.
He looks conflicted.
“Robin. Can we do that again? Not today, but - “
“You’re my roommate this weekend,” Robin says quietly, pulling his jeans up and buttoning them and redoing his belt before he steps back in and kisses him softly.
“Good night, Clive.” That’s it. He’s gone.
Clive’s the one who stays. He leans against the wall and catches his breath for a moment, and slowly reaches down for his shorts, to pull them back up his waist.
He’s the one who looks for bodily fluids - sweat on the wall, blood, if there’s any - he hadn’t felt any, but there is some, from the friction on his back - semen on the floor that he cleans up silently with damp paper towels before throwing them away and washing his hands. He examines the spot again until he’s convinced that there’s no sign that they’d ever been there, let alone that they’d had sex there. He throws everything away and washes his hands again, because somehow he still feels dirty, and then he goes home alone, walking taking more out of him that he’d thought it would. Training wouldn’t be easy the next few days. Especially if this became a regular thing.
He thinks about Kendra, briefly, idly. He thinks about her when he’s about to take a shower, and when he turns around and looks at his back in the bathroom mirror. He considers her before he goes to bed, wonders if they know the baby’s sex yet, wonders if she and Robin have sex that rough. Wonders whether she’s better in bed than he is, for a heartbeat and a half before he rolls over and falls asleep, skin scrubbed clean until he can’t feel Robin’s fingerprints anymore.
-
It's not as hard as he'd thought, being the other man. He doesn't think about it much. It's almost the same as before, only now rooming with Samson means calling Jarrod to talk for a couple of minutes while Samson’s showering and rooming with Robin means kisses and being held at night and maybe a quick hand job at night in place of a sleeping pill, or a blowjob to celebrate a particularly satisfying victory. But rooming with Robin also means as many rounds as they can get in without compromising their performance. They’re young men yet. They can get in a few before their bodies start protesting.
They don't have proper sex as much as they used to, probably because Kendra's started recording in Manchester and Robin has a fiancée and a little baby in a perfect round belly to go home to every night and Clive has the quiet and the stillness and his own hand and occasionally, Jarrod's voice.
But there’s shower sex, hotel room sex with Robin’s hand over Clive’s mouth to muffle his moans so their teammates can’t hear. There are blowjobs given for goals and assists, and sometimes Robin gets on his knees, too, if Clive’s given him an assist that day, or just if he looks particularly handsome.
There’s no more locker room sex, though. Clive comes to his senses pretty quickly on that. Between the kids doing their work exchange, the custodial staff, or even their teammates possibly forgetting something, it’s just not worth the risk. Hell, he doesn’t know how they managed to avoid getting caught the one time they did do it.
Robin agrees with him, too. He’s engaged now. He can’t be caught fucking a man, when he’s engaged to one of the world’s most beautiful women. He has enough sense to see that, at least.
Their relationship as teammates is about the same as before their blowout. There’s a little bit less affection, but there are stolen glances, moments of heat between two young men, especially on the field, when their bodies are flooded with adrenaline. There are kisses, secret pecks on the neck during goal celebrations, a hand that lingers on a behind for a moment too long, or squeezes playfully.
But all in all, it’s not as hard as Clive had thought it would be, really.
Robin may or may not love him back the same way he loves him, with his whole heart and soul, but Clive gets to have a piece of him anyway.
He hoards their memories. He gets impatient when he gets roomed with Samson, and a little even when he gets roomed with his brother, though he doesn’t get mad at Luke, not really.
***
It’s a couple of weeks later that he goes to Jarrod’s for dinner. It’s not quite a date, he reminds himself, hands sweating. He’s wearing a white collared shirt and nice jeans, but Jarrod answers the door in a t-shirt and track pants, and he tries not to feel a little bit crushed inside.
“Sorry! I didn’t get a chance to get dressed yet,” Jarrod says quickly, opening the door and letting him in. “I was cooking, I didn’t want to get my clothes all messy, so I thought I’d wait until after to change, but then I had to redo the pasta sauce. It said to cook it for awhile, but I started reading about adenocarcinomas, and then by the time I finished the chapter, it was starting to smoke and the bottom was all burnt and I had to start again, I don’t think I can even save the pan - “
Clive chuckles and pulls him into a hug.
“You look great, Jarr,” he says fondly. “I brought some extra dessert, it’s cake that I can’t strictly speaking eat, but a few bites won’t hurt.”
“A cake?” Jarrod looks dismayed, “how am I supposed to eat a cake on my own, Clive, I’ve barely got time to go to the gym as it is!”
Clive sees an opportunity and he takes it. “You look incredible, you must be doing something right, love,” he says lightly. He waits for Jarrod to call him on it, to call him on the endearment, but he just flushes instead. He takes the cake from Clive’s arms and sets it in the fridge, which looks rather bare, though the stove and counter are loaded with food. There’s pasta with a spicy-smelling sauce, and chicken breasts, seasoned and baked and so tender Clive can almost feel them already falling apart in his mouth.
“Now, let me check that the chicken is cooked all the way through,” Jarrod says anxiously, “let me make sure that it isn’t raw on the inside - the last thing I want is you getting sick from something I made you, Clive!”
It’s new, somehow. Something about the feeling in Clive’s chest is new. It’s not that Jarrod cooked for him - he’s had that before, even Robin cooked for him when they were living together, before and during their relationship. It’s not a new environment, though it is rather cleaner than the last two times he’d seen it.
Maybe it’s the lack of anxiety in his chest. Somewhere, sometime between seeing Jarrod’s clothes and worrying about being overdressed, and hugging him, it had all melted away.
There had always been anxiety, with Robin. It was quiet, a lot of the time, it didn’t crop up every second or anything. But he’d felt it in his chest. Every time he hesitated to touch him, every time he rolled over and fell asleep after sex, when he looked at him a moment too long before leaning in for a kiss. Every morning, when he woke up alone and thought for a moment that he had dreamed all of it, before the sound of the shower filtered in, or the sound of whistling from the kitchen, or footsteps muffled by the carpet.
“How’s school?” he asks Jarrod, noticing with a smile the new binders filled with labeled notebooks. The first few pages of each book are blank, and then there’s a list of contents, specific diseases and drugs interactions and areas of medicine.
“I’m doing OB/GYN rotations right now. Haven’t seen this many vaginas since I was in the closet,” Jarrod says lightly, “delivered a baby a couple weeks ago. His mum named him after me. Little Jarrod. Doesn’t look like me, though, all blond hair and these beautiful blue eyes, just like his mum. But it was an emergency call, and I was the guy on duty, so I got lucky enough to bring little baby Jarrod into the world. Cut the cord, cleaned up all the blood off him, and all. After his mum, it was my finger that he held first.”
Clive can’t help but feel a little blown away. “She gave me a picture of him to say thank you, came in yesterday for one of the little one’s checkups. It’s up on the fridge, I like seeing him smiling at me when I wake up grumpy.”
Clive drifts over to the fridge, looking at the picture of the little boy and wonders for a moment if that’s what Robin’s baby will look like - but no, neither Robin nor Kendra has blue eyes. If that is what the baby looks like, Robin will definitely be off the hook, Clive thinks viciously to himself, though part of him recoils at the anger and unkindness of the thought.
“He’s a cutie, isn’t he?” Jarrod asks, completely oblivious to Clive’s thoughts. Jarrod deserves better, Clive thinks for a moment. Or maybe he’s getting exactly what he deserves, if he’s not smart enough to get better.
The thought is callous on the one hand, and plainly ridiculous on the other. Jarrod’s far and away the wiser of the pair of them, not to mention far, far smarter.
Clive sits down at the barstool next to Jarrod, and they both sit there and eat, Jarrod chatting about patients and diseases and asking Clive curiously about hockey and training and laughing at stories about Samson’s antics. He’s rather big brotherly in his approval of Luke’s sweetness.
“How’s your family?” Clive asks politely.
Jarrod smiles. “They’re all okay. I had to go back home for awhile, Mum was sick, appendicitis - she called me wondering what would explain the stabbing pain, and I told her to get to the hospital right away, and then I was there by the end of the day, to hold her hand in the hospital room, sign the consent form, make the boys’ dinner and tuck them into bed. But she’s okay now. Likes to joke that we’re matching, since she’s got a little scar left over from the surgery, and I’ve got the mess on my stomach.”
Clive smiles, and asks about the boys, if they’re doing okay in school, if they’re growing well, if they’re still enjoying their hockey. Jarrod loves his family dearly, and it shows when he talks about his younger brothers as if they were his sons, the pride in his eyes when he talks about little Samson getting an A* on an exam, or when John scored the winning goal for his school’s hockey team.
“I couldn’t make it, I was working,” Jarrod explains wistfully, and Clive bites his tongue to keep himself from offering to give Jarrod some money so he could take some time off and go visit his family.
They finish up, and Clive stands first, doing the dishes before Jarrod can protest, and playfully hip checking him when he tries to take his place at the sink.
“No! You cooked, I’ll wash. My mum raised me to have decent manners, you know.”
“Oh? Where have those manners been since I met you?” Jarrod teases, though he sits down easily and takes a sip from his beer bottle, the label slick with condensation.
Clive makes a face at him. “Hush, I bought you dinner once!”
“Yeah, that burger was amazing, but I’m pretty sure that’s just because I was starving.”
Clive finishes up the dishes and lets them dry on the rack. “Now what?” he asks, hoping Jarrod will take the hint and kiss him.
He just shrugs, though, falling onto the sofa. “Come here. Talk to me, Cli.”
Clive settles next to him and Jarrod wraps an arm around him and it’s exactly the sort of casual physical intimacy that he needs at the moment.
“How are you, Clive?” Jarrod asks, voice low, as if he’s talking to an injured animal.
“Better now that I’m here,” Clive admits quietly, “we still sleep together. Me and Bartholomew. We still fuck sometimes. But I feel so bad, Jarr. I feel so bad being his second choice.”
“I know,” Jarrod murmurs, “I know it hurts.”
They sit together for awhile longer before Clive turns and leans up for a kiss.
Jarrod lets himself be kissed for a moment, but he pulls back a few seconds later.
“I can’t do this right now, Cli,” he says quietly. “I can’t fill the gap he left behind.”
“I don’t want you to,” Clive says shortly, even though it’s a lie. He leans back in, but Jarrod turns so the kiss lands on his cheek.
“I can’t. I’m with someone else.”
Clive freezes. Of course Jarrod was with someone else.
“Just my luck,” he says with a weak smile, “all the good ones are taken, looks like.”
“Clive - you were with Robin. I wanted to let you be happy, but I wanted to be happy, too.”
“And he makes you happy? It’s a he, isn’t it? You’re not with a woman?”
“I’m gay, so no, I’m not with a woman. And he does make me happy. We don’t see each other that often, but he spends a few nights here whenever he can - “
“Is it Michael Starling?”
“No,” Jarrod says firmly, and Clive doesn’t know whether or not to believe him, “it’s not Mickey.”
“I called you once, and I heard a voice in the background, was that him?”
“Clive. This really isn’t your business. I haven’t told anyone about you, and I am not going to tell you about him, either.”
Clive can feel the acidity rise in his stomach. “What was this supposed to be, then? Pity date? Or were you planning to fuck me before your conscience kicked in?”
“This was just dinner - dinner with a friend. I thought it would make you feel better - “ Jarrod stammers.
“You said you weren’t ready for a relationship anyway,” Clive spits, “that first time, the morning after, when I came back and asked you. That’s what you said.”
Jarrod’s spine straightens and his jaw clenches. “Clive. You are not my boyfriend. You never were. It’s really none of your business who I have in my bed. I don’t have to ask your permission to date someone.”
Clive rolls his eyes. “Maybe you aren’t dating anyone even now. Maybe you just don’t want me. Don’t want Bartholomew’ leftovers.”
“That’s not true. Do you want a drink?”
“No.” Clive hesitates a moment, but rises to his feet and get a bottle of beer anyway.
He drinks half of it in one go, and the other half in the next minute before picking up another one. He sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re just the only one who knows about me and Bartholomew. You’re the only one who knows how I’ve felt, and I just wanted you to make me forget how alone I am.”
After the second beer, Jarrod hugs him close again. “You’re not in any fit state to be driving home now, Cli. Stay the night.”
Clive doesn’t have it in him to protest and just nods, getting up and flopping onto Jarrod’s bed, face-first. He can feel Jarrod taking off his shoes and shifting him so he’s on his side. He wants to wait for Jarrod to crawl into bed with him, wants to be held, but he drifts off before it happens.
He wakes up in the middle of the night, to the sound of Jarrod’s neighbors having incredibly loud sex through paper thin walls. He reaches for Jarrod, but he’s alone in bed, and the bathroom door is open, so Jarrod’s not there, either. He sits up a little, rubbing his eyes and scanning the apartment, until he sees Jarrod curled up on the old sofa under a blanket.
He feels awful for having unintentionally stolen Jarrod’s bed, but he’d thought they would share it - he gets up and walks over to Jarrod’s sofa, lifting the blanket and sh
oving himself in next to Jarrod.
“I’m not Robin, Cli,” Jarrod mumbles, bleary eyes opening.
“I know. Want to sleep next to someone, though. Please, Jarr?” Jarrod nods and opens up his arms and Clive shifts so he’s settled into the embrace.
“You’re going to wake up with a sore neck, love,” Jarrod warns, though he seems resigned to the both of them sleeping on the sofa.
“Don’t care,” Clive mutters, feeling sleep settling nicely over him again. The neighbors have gone quiet - hopefully they’re done for the night. He’s asleep half a minute later.
The next time Clive wakes up, it’s to a puddle of drool under his mouth, sunk into the collar of Jarrod’s t-shirt. He can still taste the beer in his mouth, the taste old and stale. It’s embarrassing, to be such a mess.
A few minutes later, Jarrod’s shifting, trying to get out from under him. Clive gets up and Jarrod apologizes softly.
“Need a piss, love, sorry to wake you.”
Clive lays down afterwards in the warmth Jarrod leaves behind, eyes lazily taking in the morning sunlight bathing the apartment. Jarrod takes his sweet time, and Clive wonders why until he hears the shower running. No shower sex, then, he thinks mournfully before remembering last night. No sex at all. Not with Jarrod, at least.
That doesn’t stop him from taking a nice long look when Jarrod steps out of the bathroom with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, though. He still has that strong, lean frame, stomach muscles defined and the mess of scar tissue that runs down his belly under the towel.
“Morning,” he mumbles softly.
“Morning, Cli. I’ll put some coffee on, make some breakfast. You can get some more rest, or you can have a shower and freshen up.”
Clive nods and gets up, yawning as he heads into the bathroom and not realizing until he comes out that he’s got nothing else to wear other than his old wrinkled shirt and jeans. He comes out in a towel and sees the soft sweats Jarrod’s laid out for him on the bed, and changes quickly, wondering if Jarrod looks at him while he does.
