by J. M. Lee
The urge must have been too much for Leo. He let his fingers slide over, the knuckles brushing against the curve of Cassius’ hip. The scent of his cologne, dispersed by the fan in the corner, caught Cassius’ attention.
Something heavy was rising deep inside Cassius’ chest. He couldn’t name it. He wouldn’t. Cassius had gone quiet but Leo’s hand was still there, almost touching his leg. He was trying to feel something. Short of breath, Leo gave in and let his fingers wrap around Cassius’s hand.
Cassius looked up, but said nothing. His lips were slightly open, part in shock and a much better part in some sort of excitement.
Leo’s hand pulled Cassius’ closer and laid it on Leo’s leg. That was enough for Cassius to know what to do next. His eyes followed their tangled fingers up Leo’s leg and settled on the growing bulge underneath the sheet. A shadow of a smile crossed his face when his eyes met Leo’s.
“You’re too far,” Leo said, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. “Come closer.” He knew he liked it. He knew he wanted it. But, mostly, he wanted to quiet the voice in his own head.
Cassius slid down on his knees, his eyes locked for Leo’s. His hand was moving up and down Leo’s leg, each time a little higher, until his fingers brushed against the rock-hard bulge.
Leo took a deep breath of air when Cassius’s hand rested on his dick and let his head fall back while Cassius unbuttoned his trousers. He looked down, one hand reaching the short trimmed hair on the back of Cassius’s head.
Cassius hooked his fingers inside Leo’s black boxer-briefs and pulled the edge down. His eyes went half-lidded at seeing the true size of Leo’s manhood, and something heavy was stuck in his throat. Cassius swallowed and wrapped his fingers around Leo’s length, then leaned forward. Leo’s hand was resting on his head as he opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue touching his lips. With his mouth and hands busy, he couldn’t do something stupid like call Joaquin, ask him to meet, see the disappointment up close.
Leo’s musk filled Cassius’s nostrils as he closed his lips around the tip and pushed his head down. It slid in with ease, but Cassius was only able to get a few inches down before the tip hit his throat.
A hiss came from Leo’s lips and a hand pushed Cassius’s head harder. Sweet and salty mixture of tastes spread through Cassius’s mouth as he forced his throat to relax. Cassius’s hands were sliding up and down Leo’s shirt, the tips of his fingers brushing against the firm abs lightly.
Leo took Cassius’s head with both hands and pushed it down, making him choke for a split moment before releasing him. Cassius raised his head but couldn’t smile no matter how hard he tried, his lips full and slick. Leo took off his T-shirt and pushed down his trousers and boxer-briefs before letting Cassius wrap his lips around the tip again. Cassius’s tongue tickled him into madness as he played with the tip for a long while, making Leo’s heart skip beats.
Cassius went over every inch of Leo’s finely chiseled body, his hands restlessly moving, pulling at the buttons of his shirt and pressing down on Leo’s abs. He craved it. His tongue was sliding up and down the shaft now, lightly brushing against Leo’s balls, making Leo suck the air in quickly each time. Someone’s phone buzzed in the background. Cassius ignored it.
He stood up, pressure in his pants unbearable. He took off his clothes and eyed Leo for a moment, as his cock stood up, hardly even swinging as he moved a few steps forward, then let his knees dig into the sofa.
Leo scoffed, but said nothing. He enjoyed the show, Cassius knew.
Cassius’s knees moved closer to Leo on the sofa. A hand behind his back moved through the air until he touched Leo’s dick. He wrapped his fingers around it, moved his hand up and down until Leo hissed and grabbed Cassius’s hips so hard that Cassius felt like he would fall. But Leo’s grip was strong and firm, he would not let Cassius fall.
“I want you in me,” said Cassius, his voice soft in a hesitant tone it never held.
“Do you really?” Leo was moving Cassius’s hips back and forth, making Cassius’s cheeks rub against his aching manhood every once in a while.
“I do,” said Cassius, his voice rising a bit, his hand playing with Leo’s balls behind, teasing and making Leo go blind with lust. “Please?” He tilted his head back until he nipped at Leo’s lip and just like he expected, it worked. He retrieved a condom from Leo’s discarded pants pocket, and kissed Leo again, harder this time. Leo’s fingers tapped a rhythm at his neck, and Cassius nodded vigorously without breaking the kiss. He didn’t like kissing during sex, thought it was too intimate, but today it was the only way to keep him in the moment. Here, with Leo and not across town, with someone who was very, very angry with him today.
Even if he deserved that anger.
Leo squeezed a little, not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to make Cassius gasp. Shit.
James had been hesitant and fumbling, a gentleman. Earnest. Not rough like Leo, nor skilled like him. If the hookup with him had been anything like this, perhaps he wouldn’t feel as bad as he did.
He was doing Joaquin a favor, really. He shook his head out of his own thoughts as he prepped himself eagerly with lube.
Leo’s breath ghosted at Cassius’ neck while he rolled on the condom, and he fought the urge to grind back. His dick throbbed in his hand, giving himself quick strokes. Finally, Leo guided his hips up, and Cassius grabbed at Leo’s swollen dick, rubbing it at his entrance. The sensation of sinking down Leo’s hard length made him suck in a breath. His heart was thumping in his skull, ringing through his ears. Leo groaned.
The buzzing phone finally stopped. Thank fuck for that.
He was only a part of the way inside, but he was already making Cassius moan. Cassius’s body jerked, muscles tensing and relaxing, his thickness throbbing as Leo pressed down on his hips and impaled him deep and hard.
Cassius let out deep, primal grunts as his hips rose and sank again and again, his ass slapping hard against Leo’s powerful thighs. The pressure grew in his crotch and a hand was tugging on his length mercilessly. It was his hand but he could not remember for the life of him when he had started touching himself.
Leo slid out and entered him, panting. He pushed himself inside with all the might of his muscles, groaning as sweat started sliding down his brow.
The discomfort eased as he felt himself relax to accommodate Leo, giving way to pressure of a different sort, deep inside. He was a pressure pot, about to blow. Cassius wrapped his arms around Leo’s broad shoulders and clutched him close, their bodies grinding against one another, their chests pressing close.
Cassius was sliding up and down under Leo’s steady guidance. He quickened his strokes at his own dick, burying his face in Leo’s neck. The scent of oak and warm spice filled his nostrils, the same scent Wah wore at lunch. He sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes tight. The pressure inside from Leo’s sheer size and skill made him feel everything at once. Cassius wanted to laugh, wanted to cry, wanted to hold Leo closer. Each time Leo thrust himself deeper, it made Cassius gasp and cling. His thighs burned with the up and down motion of them fucking. So good.
As Leo sped up, Cassius was already on the verge of exploding.
That was it. That was how Leo liked him. Moaning, tilting his head back, tugging on his dick with ferocious strength and letting the hot cum burst and spray all over Leo’s chest. That was what pushed Leo over the brink. Drops fell high on Leo’s chest as he penetrated Cassius harder until even the moaning died away and all that remained was a steaming body, arms limp, eyes closed, sweat pouring.
Cassius’s fingers moved up Leo’s chest, playing with his cum and suddenly, in a kinky twist, smearing it on Leo’s lips.
Leo lingered inside until he came down, then eased Cassius back first onto the sofa.
He kissed Leo, his chest, his neck, his cheeks, his lips.
He felt like he was watching himself live all day from the outside. He wasn’t Cassius St. John today. He didn’t know who he was, honestly. It was unsettling
how not like himself he felt, how not like himself and he felt and how he had no idea how to fix it and no one to ask for help. He was utterly alone.
He bit his lip as hard as he could without breaking the chapped skin. He should go and apologize to Wah.
Leo rolled over and held Cassius to his chest, soft skin.
Cassius let his eyes flutter closed and listened to Leo’s heartbeat. The sound felt like it was in vivid color. He had told him that once, how he sometimes sees sounds, hears colors and Wah didn’t laugh at all.
Joaquin would forgive him, wouldn’t he? He always had.
Leo massaged Cassius’s scalp. “You seem tired, babe.”
Cassius nuzzled Leo’s chest, shaking his head ever slightly.
Tomorrow.
39
Ten Years Gone
The future has a way of arriving unannounced. It comes in 3D color. In the now.
Joaquin wakes up too early with an ache in his chest, right behind his heart, burning like bile in his throat. He ignores it and rolls over. He stretches his arms and legs, regaining feeling in them and groaning.
It’s a Saturday, which means he should maybe start thinking about the script for the show he’s supposed to have started but also means he definitely won’t look at any of it until late Sunday evening. The sun is up, streaming through a crack in his curtains. Joaquin can tell without rolling over that it’s still well before noon, his room is not yet hot and stuffy.
His head pounds softly. Thump, thump, thump. Rory. Rory. Rory.
It’s one of those days where Joaquin knows that he won’t be able to properly fall back asleep again— too aware of his own breathing when he shuts his eyes. Getting up seems like a lot of effort though, and it’s the weekend. The off-season gives Joaquin permission to be lazy on weekends.
He lets his eyelids fall shut again, briefly considers jerking off. The thought instantly conjures up the familiar feeling of lips against his collarbone, drawing blood to the surface, marking him up, but not where anyone could easily see, ask questions about. Strong, wide hands squeezing at his waist, pressing briefly into his hip bones before wrapping around his dick. Joaquin opens his eyes.
Usually he’d be decently hard by now, be palming himself through his shorts and maybe teasing at one of his nipples before giving in and wrapping a hand around himself, going at it fast and dirty and a little bit too dry because it's the morning and he can’t be bothered for proper lube. But today he’s barely got a semi, finds it hard to get it up when all of those memories are accompanied by a little bit of shame curling at the bottom of his stomach, sitting sour on the back of his tongue.
Joaquin frowns and spits into his hand with determination, kicks off his underwear and wraps a hand around himself. After a few strokes he feels himself fatten up a bit more and grunts softly; he can do this, doesn’t need anybody else to get off. Doesn’t need Rory. Joaquin doesn’t need his mouth or his hands or his thigh slotted in between Joaquin’s own, doesn’t need the press of his hips or the weight of his body pushing Joaquin into the mattress, and definitely doesn’t need his voice muttering obscene promises while he jerks Joaquin off in the bathroom of some dingy pub.
His hips are arching off the bed now, pushing up into his own palm as Joaquin seeks release. His motions are getting a bit sloppy, dick leaking over his fingertips as he tightens his grip. But as close as he is Joaquin can feel something missing, he knows he needs something else, just a little bit more to push him over the edge.
Joaquin sighs and brings his pointer finger up to his mouth, sucks on it hard before adding another, tonguing down over the skin of his knuckles, teasing. Then, finally, on an upstroke he pushes them deep towards the back of his throat. The slight kick of what’s left of his gag-reflex is echoed by the pull in his gut as his fingers push into the back of his mouth, sparks shooting up from the base of his spine. It’s not the same as when someone else does it, but it’s close enough that when Joaquin reaches down with a spit-slick hand his orgasm is punched out of him after only a few urgent tugs.
The name he calls gets twisted into a moan, half-shouted into the emptiness of his room before Joaquin can clench his teeth against it.
The crashing wave of his orgasm pulls up instantly against the raging hollowness in his chest, emptier now that he’s given himself away, even just to the walls of his own room. Joaquin presses his teeth viciously into his tongue and focuses on the pain, ignores the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind, pathetic, desperate, needy, embarrassing, taking whatever you can get. does he even want you? Needy, needy, needy—
If his brain would just shut up. It’s not about that. They’re not right for each other, and it’d be wrong to stick it out any longer than they already have. The part of Rory that knew this slid divorce papers across the table to him, two months ago. But now, he’s not certain.
He wants to work on things, he says. He wants to fight for the marriage.
Joaquin isn’t sure that what he wants looks like and sounds like Rory anymore. He’s not sure it ever was.
Joaquin tries his best to think of absolutely nothing as he wills his breathing to come down, feeling empty but completely unsatisfied - all of the good endorphins from his release were swept away instantly by the tide of his racing thoughts.
Eventually the sensation of cool come on his skin is too much too bear and Joaquin makes himself sit up. He hunts around and is vaguely disgusted with himself when the best thing he can find to clean up is an old sock. His stomach then pipes up to remind him that it’s time for breakfast, mostly because it’s the most immediate alternative to lying there feeling sorry for himself. He slips a bit on some stray papers and then again while trying to separate his phone from its charger, but eventually makes it out of his room and into the kitchen without incident. Things have been messy since he moved out on his own.
There’s no one there to fuss at the coffee machine but him. No one to creep up on him and hug him from behind while he’s flipping pancakes. No more two a.m. slow dances in the kitchen. He sighs.
Marriage is hard. Thankfully, cereal is easy. Joaquin brings his bowl of shapes that taste nothing like apple into the living room and turns on the TV, finds a replay of last week’s Clippers game. He unlocks his phone. There are tons of texts from last night. All of them are from Rory after the video chat they had. The messages made Joaquin wonder if all broken marriages felt this way:
It was my fault we fought last night…I’ll always keep trying to make sure we have a solid understanding between you and I.
I may not say this as much as I should, but I need to tell you how much I appreciate you being there for me whenever I need you. It’s one of the reasons why I married you.
Do you remember when we went to Italy when you were covering FIFA? That windbreaker they gave you… I always remember that night.
Joaquin, I really am sorry.
So sorry.
Babe, please call me back.
We can fix this.
I love you.
Joaquin half-heartedly tosses his phone onto the couch beside him without answering and shoves some cereal into his mouth. It’s somehow already gone halfway soggy, which he determinedly ignores as he chokes it down, glaring at the television as if the Sens beating the shit out of the Islanders is personally offending him. He decidedly does not think about the last time Cassius wanted to ‘hang.’
He still thinks Cass is trying to apologize to him for sleeping with James all those years ago. Joaquin met Rory one night when he was trying to scrub the idea of Cassius and James from his mind, and because of this, Rory made it a point of inviting Cass to dinner that night. Certainly he would realize that he was forgiven.
Joaquin doesn’t think about the brush of his lips to the corner of Joaquin’s mouth before Cassius rolled off and promptly fell asleep. Joaquin could feel the almost-kiss tucked there like a secret until the next morning. Nor does he think about how in the darkness of his room he felt bold enough to settle his arm carefu
lly against the line of Cassius’s back, about how the empty bed the next morning made him feel dirtier than the come that had crusted over on his stomach.
He doesn’t think about any of it.
He stares at his phone out of the corner of his eye for a good five minutes before finally caving and picking it back up again.
What are you doing today?
Joaquin hits send on the last text, then throws his phone down again before he can overthink why he just did that. Cassius probably isn’t even up yet, and he probably has like, work and stuff today, and even if he did come over nothing would happen right? It’s early, it’s before noon and for as long as they’ve had this thing between them they’ve never once done anything at Joaquin’s house.
It’s always been quick handjobs in the bathroom at some over-pretentious club, rubbing off against each other on Cassius’s couch after a few beers, Joaquin going down on his knees in the footwell of Joaquin’s car. Never in the bed he shared with Rory, the one he couldn’t bear to part with in the divorce.
That seemed like the last threshold. One even Joaquin wasn’t willing to cross, anyway.
He doesn’t even know how it happened. It’s not like he’s cheating on Rory or anything. Their marriage had been shaky long before Cassius came around, and Rory had brought up divorce before then, too. They have been playing the longest game of One Foot Out the Door with each other, and now Joaquin just wants to speed to the end.
What he hasn’t figured out yet is if he’s speeding to something--someone, as Rory said--or away. It’s not Rory’s or Cass’ job to figure it out for him. He’s not even sure if he’s being fair to either of them.
Joaquin thinks of Rory’s unanswered texts and feels guilty.
