Part 133: Helping Hands & Crossed Wires
They were bound for Sheffield, and the FA Cup quarter final. The mood was cautiously optimistic, but the drive felt long and it was already getting late; Kieran Tierney pulled the big Sony headphones over his ears and relaxed back in his social distanced seat, his Arsenal tracksuit sliding a little against the cushioned coach chair. Loud indie music blared in his ears and he tried closing his eyes for a nap, but it didn't come, so he settled for watching the English Midlands whizz blandly by beneath a stormy summer horizon.
The 23-year-old Scot was anxiously excited for tomorrow's 1pm game; the Premiership had hardly been going their way, but perhaps the Cup could allow them to salvage some dignity and end this season on a high of sorts...?
Watching Liverpool take the title this week, the mad celebrations of the players and the fans, it had filled Tierney with excitement and envy. Thing was, he knew the feeling. In his formative years at Celtic, victory had been reliable. Okay, so the Scottish league wasn't as big or as competitive, but Tierney was a young man who had entered his career with a series of table-topping seasons, and up in Glasgow he had experienced the highs and elation of that win, the rapturous devotion of the local following; the madness he'd seen up at Liverpool, both from the squad and the Scousers on the streets, filled him with the same yearning homesickness that had come and gone at many points this year. He was eager for a sniff of success here at his new London club.
He was disturbed from his distracted thoughts by a few figures traipsing up and down the aisle of the rattling, bumpy coach, players clearly restless at the journey from North London to South Yorkshire, pumped up by the afternoon training session before they all packed up to travel. Their manager, Arteta, was taking tomorrow's clash very seriously, presumably with the same thin hope as everyone else: making it to the FA Cup final, even if they couldn't win it, would do something to balance out the poor league performances that were haunting them all.
Just as Kieran glanced back and forth into the aisle, shifting his 5ft10 frame again in the spacious seating, he noticed a passing footballer slow and stop beside his row, a big grin spreading on his features. It was their talented striker, Alexandre Lacazette, coming to a stop and resting both elbows on the headrest of the inner seat next to Kieran, giving him a cheerful nod; with a tiny bit of awkward reluctance, Tierney slid the earphones off and addressed the older player, waiting for the smooth Frenchman to say something.
`You doing okay down here, eh?' Lacazette asked brightly.
`Super,' Kieran muttered vaguely, not wishing to be rude, but still faintly intimidated by the French forward after what had happened in his flat.
`Super,' echoed Alexandre teasingly, and he leaned forward a bit, bringing one knee up onto the spare seat so that he was leaning more privately into the booth of these two seats, resting on his elbows and flashing that broad toothy grin at the young defender.
`Just can't wait for tomorrow,' Kieran told him blandly, pulling idly at his seatbelt and feeling the uncomfortable grip of his headphones about his neck, his own music playing loudly into his jawbone. He flashed a nervous grin at the other man, kinda wishing he'd back off now. But nope; Lacazette was sliding further forward until he was dropping into the spare seat right beside him, breaking the slightly unhelpful coach rules that kept them all apart in transit.
`You are not comfortable with me,' the Lyonnaise footballer stated simply, tilting his head.
`Hmm? Och, nah, we're good, we're...'
`Super...?'
Huh... aye...' Kieran brought a hand up to scratch at his tufty brown hair and cover his face a little, cringing at the closeness of his older teammate, shifting his big buttocks and thighs against the chair and elbowing the window awkwardly by accident as he did. Lacazette, mate...'
Hey,' murmured the Frenchman more quietly, you must relax. I am sorry if upset you, but... was simply a favour, no?' He stared quite intently now, his smile swapped for a more steely look of assertiveness. `It is normal, Tierney, for older players to give young ones a helping hand.'
Kieran knew he must be blushing deeply at this wording. `Erm, buddy...'
A helping hand,' Lacazette said, repeating his phrase, then shrugging in that infuriating way, a little bit of guidance, as they say here...' He reached a hand for Kieran's shoulder, giving it a squeeze through the thin Arsenal hoody. `We older players must... look out for... the newbies, eh....' He chuckled, something condescending in his manner, as if there was much more than five or six years between them, though that was perhaps a couple of decade in footballing terms.
Tierney decided that resisting or avoiding this conversation was not helpful, he needed it over with and to be left alone with his thoughts -- more than anything, he couldn't have reminders of that lewd afternoon together distracting him from being in the right defensive mindset for tomorrow. I know,' he grumbled vaguely in his thick Scottish accent, I know that, mate, it's cool, it's erm...'
It is just a... rite of passage,' Alexandre was saying calmly and quietly. It is important that you are relaxed and happy, eh, a fiery young man like yourself...! Aha... and we sportsmen, well, we must... be comfortable with each other.' His grin returned, sparkling and easy, and it really was oddly comforting and reassuring for the younger lad, just as it had been in his flat while he sat there on the sofa feeling all sorts of shock and regret at what had happened. Looking Alexandre in the eye and hearing his subtle confidence, the young left-back felt vaguely foolish and guilty for the way he'd avoided his teammate somewhat in the weeks since; certainly, they'd parted on good terms when Alexandre quit his flat and left him and his throbbing arms and satisfied tool, and he'd made no complaints or accusations about the `helping hand', as Lacazette put it. It had only been afterwards, lying awake that night, and turning the incident over, that he'd felt queasy with regret and really began to question the why the hell another man had been able to... finish him off.
`I can see it troubles you,' said Alexandre, after he left too long and awkward a pause here.
`No...'
It is fine. You will learn in time. These things... they are not important. They are just... male bonding, eh?' That broad, charismatic grin, a slight retreat of the short powerful athlete's body from the seats, but then he was leaning back more closely again, the hand returning to the broad sweep of Kieran's shoulder, and the other... Tierney blushed more deeply, suddenly incredibly aware of the public melee of the packed coach, as one of those confident brown hands shifted past the broad spread of his thigh and rested, for about three seconds, on the bulging front of his tracksuit bottoms, then pulled sharply away. You are a big boy, anyway, you need help more than most, eh...! Haha...' And Lacazette was pulling back with a relaxed shrug and a smirk of mischief on his face, clearly aware how dangerous the little grope had been in this setting. Kieran shifted and twisted in his seat but tried to laugh and smile, not wishing to appear as prudish or naïve as he must have done so far to the other guy. To try and signal an end to the unwanted conversation, though, he grabbed the chunky plastic of his headphones and forced a broad leonine yawn of his mouth, and the hint seemed to work.
I leave you to rest,' the Frenchman said comfortably. Good to speak, Kieran. Eh?'
Aye,' he agreed warily, good to speak, aye.'
Dinner was a subdued affair, in the mid-range out-of-town hotel that the squad were occupying, stuck out on the fringe of the big old industrial city. The wary optimism that had left North London was turning to a collective nervousness; you could see the tension in other lads' faces. Kieran could see the hunger for victory, but the crippling fear of a few embarrassing losses. Arteta himself looked sorta rigid with anxiety, though he was moving around the dining tables and patting shoulders and making confident appraisals of a number of key men in the team; some lads were more boisterous and vocal in their confidence, like Sead Kolasinac and young Reiss Nelson; others actually looked blanched with dread and barely seemed to speak word, like bearded Calum Chambers and troubled David Luiz. Then there were some, like his neighbour and roommate for the night, who were just broody, exuding a sort of controlled confidence that could cover any number of private worries. But then that was typical of Shkrodan Mustafi, the big German-Albanian who hunkered down next to him at the table and made limited small talk throughout the meal.
Tierney didn't really have a regular roommate on the team's away trips, as he hadn't exactly made close friends. Ironically, thinking about that conversation on the coach, Lacazette was the guy he'd technically become, er, closest to, but... well, that hardly counted, it wasn't exactly the best basis for a good friendship down here, was it?! No, he felt almost at arm's distance from everyone on the team, which was nowhere near as close-knit as he was used to back up in Glasgow, even in the earlier days on Celtic's youth squads.
Mustafi was a good roomie in that sense, quiet and respectful, but in this atmosphere of Cup tension, Tierney couldn't help but wish he was paired off with someone a little chattier. When they got up to the room, the stern silence of it all felt immediately oppressive, and he was even glad by the unintelligible sound of his married roommate calling his wife for almost an hour; he couldn't understand more than five words of German, but he liked the warmth of Shkrodan's voice when speaking to his other half, and the background noise it gave to their otherwise gloomy hotel room. Whilst the 6ft centre-back paced the room and laughed at private matters with his model spouse, Kieran undressed from his squad-branded tracksuit, just in a baggy white tshirt and his black boxer briefs for bed, and tried to occupy himself with a bit of reading the news on his iPad, a bit of checking fan messages on social media, a bit of lingering at the windows and squinting out at the vague, dull Sheffield skyline beneath the heavy rain.
It felt like thunder and lightning might come tonight, a sort of vague pressure in the air.
Behind him, Mustafi had clearly reached the end of his long catch-up. He was apologising, Sorry my friend, sorry to be so long...' in a quietly distracted voice, which Kieran of course shrugged off politely, not looking back at him but waving one hand and muttering, No, no, of course, you got to check in...' His tone or his hunched body language must have given away some of his growing nervousness, though, because then the older bloke was moving his way, joining him at the windows, still fully kitted out in the dark Arsenal tracksuit from the coach, which his broad 6ft body filled and stretched out a little. A sharp figure of hypermasculinity, head to toe.
`You okay?' Shkrodan asked him, his accent making the question sound almost suspicious.
Aye, good,' Kieran said, leaning his elbows on the windowsill and flashing a brief smile at the other man. Just thinking it all over, all that shit from training today, you know? All these new strategies big boss was on about, and... Ach... okay, I guess I'm kinda nervous, haha! Isn't everyone...?'
Shkrodan nodded his big head. `True, true. But as you get more experienced, the nerves are... less of an issue. You see too many cups, too many tournaments, to feel it quite the same. Just you wait until you win your first cup here -- it is... how you say, rite of passage?'
Kieran grinned back at him, something about his turn of phrase giving him an odd spark of de ja vu, but mostly just appreciating the effort at reassurance from someone who'd once been on a World Cup winning team. Aye,' he said wistfully, we'll see about that.'
Relax,' Mustafi chuckled at him. you must be relaxed for tomorrow, young man like you!'
Again, looking at the 28-year-old German hulking at his side, Kieran felt that vague pang of recognition, the familiar pattern of words, accented and a little fragmented; it triggered a frown of thought on his smooth young features, mistaken for greater nervousness by his fellow Arsenal defender. One of Mustafi's meaty arms swung about his broad shoulders in a reassuring gesture. `Hey, we older players must look after you young ones,' the usually reserved man said in a deep, serious tone, fixing him with a piercing stare from his hazel-blue eyes.
Kieran looked at him, and something clicked. The phrasing. Look after, relax, rite of passage... No, he told himself, you're being daft. But why was the older fella looking at him so intently? Touching him around the shoulders like that, when he was usually keeping to himself and very conservative in his behaviour. Tierney felt a familiar little spark of unexpected but not wholly unwanted attention, blushing somewhat beneath the stern gaze and shifting his body an inch further away from Shkrodan, who just patted at the centre of his upper back and laughed lightly.
All you need is a little guidance,' the German intoned, that is all. A helping hand.' He seemed to pause there, meaningfully, and look away from Kieran, out at the darkening view of the city, before going on. I think I can help,' he said, as older defender, you know? Just let me help, Kieran. You will feel settled in at Arsenal before you know it.'
Kieran gawped at him, feeling the warm solid touch near the top of his back. A little guidance. A helping hand. The young jock blinked and nodded and went to reply but didn't know what to say. Still, the blue-eyed German was staring deeply at him, his heavy-set features framed in gingery-brown hair and beard, accentuating his strong square jawline. Like Lacazette, he exuded a mature confidence that was reassuring and motivating for Tierney, getting a better sense of the team this could be, the things Arsenal really might achieve, if he stuck it out here.
`A helping hand,' Tierney found himself echoing, a question mark hovering somewhere after the idiom. His shoulders were tensing up and he brought his hands together on the windowsill, fingers fidgeting, locking and unlocking, suddenly keenly aware of his state of undress next to the bigger, broader bloke.
Mustafi let out a gentle laugh, pulling his hand away from Kieran's back and seeming to square up next to him, emphasising his couple of inches height advantage and the muscular breadth of his chest, filling out that tracksuit top quite magnificently. The grin on his lips was cool and almost challengingly relaxed, his eyes still sharp and intense. Yes,' he said, after a thoughtful pause, that is the expression, no?'
Kieran felt a hot blush in his cheeks and he was aware of an embarrassing stammer as he answered. `Er, aye, I guess, er... hah...'
Hold that thought,' Shkrodan told him curtly, backing off, I need to piss.' And with that, the bulky centre-back was disappearing across their room and into the adjoining bathroom, and Kieran was staring back at the window; not at the view of Sheffield though, at the pale ghostly reflection of his own nervous features, staring back at him in refracted outline on the double-glazing. Fuck, he thought, with an odd mixture of excitement and trepidation, Lacazette was right, then; this was normal, wasn't it? This was the way. Maybe not with the English, he thought uncertainly, they were so fucking prudish and up themselves, but amongst European players, clearly...?
Kieran thought back to the many vague warnings and talking-tos that had occurred in his final weeks in Scotland. It's very different down there,' one coach had told him. You'll be mixing with all sorts of fellas,' another old Celtic legend had muttered at him at one of his goodbye events, and at the time Kieran had just assumed he was an aged racist. `Things just work differently in London teams,' a family friend had informed him with a knowing look. Sure, the English league WAS different, but was it really this different?
Tierney looked at the bathroom door, still open a crack; he could hear the splash of heavy piss from the big German fella and his cheery whistling as he did so. He thought about all the things Mustafi had said, all the echoes of Lacazette's little pep talk. There was no mistaking what guidance' meant, what kind of helping hand' was coming to `relax' him. Fuck, fuck! Did he really want this again? Well, he'd certainly shot his load last time, hadn't he? It had felt... well, it had felt GOOD, having a strong man's hand do the job, but -- the 23-year-old turned back and forth both mentally and physically, pulling away from the window and rubbing at his face, looking about the room at their possessions scattered around each of the double beds. Among the many confused thoughts rattling through his brain, making him feel uncomfortable and distracted, was the awareness of what a dim Scottish bumpkin he must always appear to these sophisticated, experienced European blokes, how even his discomfort on the coach earlier on must have been embarrassing and pitiable to a man like Alexandre Lacazette.
He needed to stop fussing over his confusion and doubt, dind't he? Needed to see that `rite of passage' between he and Alexandre for what it was, become a bit more of a... man of the world? A bit bewildered by his situation and his own thought process, Kieran listened to the end of the trickling piss noise and the lilting peak in Shkrodan's whistling, and began tugging his tshirt up and off, thinking simply that he didn't want to get any mess on it. Then, bounding into the space between the two beds, he grabbed at the slack waistband of his saggy black undies and began shoving them down, nervously cupping one hand over his weighty privates but dropping the pants down his thick defender's thighs and onto his ankles. My bed or his bed? What's normal? Erm. He stood there, looking between the two doubles; his own was cluttered with his half-unpacked kit bag and his tablet and stuff, whereas all of the tidy German man's stuff was piled to the side and the beige bedding was clear and crisp. In the bathroom, the flush of a toilet sounded loudly, and the door began to open.
Kieran threw himself nervously onto Mustafi's bed, rash in indecision, and lay there awkwardly naked, staring up and across the room as the bathroom door widened and out stepped the tall, broad figure of his confident, experienced teammate, that cool look in his big features, damp hands being wiped against the front of his tracksuit and loose crotch bouncing a little in the dark fabric of his tracksuit bottoms, and- he looked up, his hazel-blue eyes wide and his relaxed grin vanishing. The centre-back took two long strides across the room and paused midway to the beds, and just stared straight at him. Kieran,' he barked, what the FUCK are you doing?'
It took a good minute of knocking before anyone answered the door. When they did, Kieran found he couldn't quite look his teammate in the eye, skulking at the doorway with his hoody pulled shut over his bare torso, only the black underpants pulled up over his bottom half; he'd been in too much of a hurry to escape Mustafi's indignant fury to grab at his shorts or trackies, and now here he was, two corridors away, glad he'd randomly managed to remember Lacazette's room number from overhearing it in reception a couple of hours earlier.
Kieran,' breathed the usually composed Frenchman in obvious surprise. Ca va...?' The 5ft9 striker was stood in the fluffy white of a hotel robe, tied at the waist, not fully opening the hotel room door, but filling the narrow space and staring confusedly out at him. There was a fine sheen to his dark brown features, and to the patch of defined chest on show where the robe fell a little open; he must be fresh out of the shower, Tierney supposed, to look so damp and glossy.
I've fucked up,' he grunted at him. Can I come in? Erm. Can I... crash with yous?' He stared grimly at the 29-year-old player, knowing how ridiculous his request and his appearance must seem, but really lost for what else to do. He was terrified to go back to his own room at the other side of this floor; as he'd rushed from the room in panic, Mustafi had still been slipping between English and German and Albanian as he cursed and ranted. A good Muslim man, his rant had repeatedly expressed, being mocked and degraded by an idiot savage from the highlands! That had pretty much been the gist of it. Suffice to say, young Kieran had entirely misread the signals.
There was an akward moment then where Kieran suspected Alexandre might just grin and laugh and assume this was a prank or bit of banter, and just shut the door on him. But no, he stepped back a little and opened the door more fully, though quite cautiously, and gestured for Kieran to come in. Lacazette's roommate, he noticed, looked just as damp as he; Granit Xhaka was stood in the centre of the room, a white towel wrapped about his waist, his long pale torso glistening wet. He was staring in an understandably alarmed way, clearly put out by the weird lateness of the interruption and the fact that Kieran was stumbling into their room in just an open hoody and his underpants, red-faced and gibbering.
`Eh?' was all the Swiss man asked in his confusion, frowning deeply at him and then at Lacazette.
Granit was about to shower,' barked Alexandre, almost dismissively. Kieran stared in puzzlement at the shiny dampness of the midfielder's ripped physique, sure he must be fresh out of the shower from the heated dampness of him, but then felt another note of confused surprise as Xhaka just nodded, gave him a strange scowl, and marched across to the bathroom door, leaving the two of them in the main room, with Alexandre pulling into view and patting him on the shoulder. Tierney,' he asked, the Scotch surname always sounding so smooth and saccharine in his French tones, `what has happened...?!'
They sat down on one of the beds, and Kieran told him: explained his own fractious nerves during dinner, the frustrating quiet of rooming with a bloke like Shkrodan, the confusing moment of intervention when the older fella started speaking to him. Mortified, he joined the dots of what Mustafi had said, the echoes of Lacazette's own speech, and the wild assumptions that had filed up in his head. Sitting nervously on the edge of the other man's bed, Kieran hugged at his knees and frowned apologetically at Alexandre, realising it probably sounded like he was blaming him.
`Go on,' the French player said sympathetically, still in his robe, although Kieran now realised that he was not wet from a shower, smelt more of rich manly sweat than of any soapy product; both players must have popped into the hotel's gym after dinner, Tierney concluded with dawning understanding, they must have just got up here all sweaty and worked out when he disturbed them -- no wonder they looked so funny about it! Fuck, what professionals.
He explained, cringing and covering his face, how much he'd misread the signals from Mustafi, what he'd assumed might happen, how he'd stripped off and waited on his bed like some sort of seedy backstreet brothel customer. He recounted the furious confusion from the German, his own pathetic attempts to explain and defend himself -- Helping fucking hand!' Mustafi had roared, almost throwing him to the floor as they wrestled by the bed, slapping him over the top of the head like a naughty dog -- and how everything he'd said had just made it worse and worse. I never said your name,' he added rapidly, staring gloomily at Alexandre and playing with the drawstrings that dangled from the open collar of his hooded top, I never mentioned you, honest, I kept my trap shut about that, so-
Lacazette just made a vaguely soothing noise, stroking his shoulder through his hoody, shaking his head gently. `Calm down. It will be fine. A misunderstanding. I will speak to Shkrodan tomorrow, I will explain, I will make it better. Trust me. He is good man.' He gave Kieran's shoulder a gentle squeeze, just enough to be firm and comforting, sat there with his smiling bearded face and the lingering patina of sweat on his exposed neck and chest. Kieran stared at him and felt a complete fucking idiot, struggling to add up just how wrong he'd got things in the other room, how much he'd misinterpreted that dialogue. What a dunce! God, to be as cool and calm as a fella like Lacazette, he thought, so casual and dismissive -- and focused enough to put in a sweaty gym shift before bed, the night before a cup game!
At that point, Granit Xhaka re-emerged from the bathroom, wearing an identical hotel-branded robe to the Frenchman, a towel in his hands as he rubbed at his short hair. He stared at them with an odd expression on his fresh face, seeming to eye up their moment of confession with a suspicious air that made Tierney worried all over again about his behaviour, his need to come here, his desperation for reassurance and comfort. He glanced back at Lacazette, wondering if he should go, but Alexandre just smiled calmly at him. He began speaking, but though he looked at Kieran, he was obviously talking to Granit; rapid silky French to the Swiss player, punctuated by little scoffing noises from Xhaka, who despite this, came and sat on the edge of the parallel bed, half-smiling at Kieran and folding his arms over his chest.
`You can stay here,' Alexandre said eventually, returning to English.
You lads sure? Erm. I can sleep on the floor or summat, I don't need much comfort me, so-
Non, non,' Alexandre assured him quickly, hand still on his shoulder, you have my bed. I will, er, bunk up, as you say, with Granit... oui?' He passed a twinkling grin to Xhaka, who seemed to smirk at this, and Kieran felt terribly guilty for the impostion, the two older European players' kindness and willingness to accommodate him. He was about to try a gushing inarticulate thank you or some insistence that he could just nick one pillow and camp out on the floor by the windows, when he felt Lacazette's hand slip down his arm and onto his thigh instead; his big bare thigh.
As if it wasn't the very problematic behaviour that had put them all in this position, Alexandre slid his hand over this muscular mound and, for the second time today, ran his fingers gently over Kieran's crotch; he tensed up immediately and looked sharply at Granit, who was still staring at him with a curious expression. `Er, mate,' the Scottish footballer grunted sheepishly, shaking his legs and brushing those tender brown fingers away from his drooping package.
Hmm? Hah... oh, Tierney...' Alexandre was squeezing his upper thigh instead now. Relax, my friend. You obviously need the, aha, helping hand, after all...!' Kieran squirmed a bit, reminded of his full foolishness, but there was an insistence and tingling excitement to the other bloke's touch. You would not have misunderstood Mustafi if you were not... in need.' Kieran frowned guiltily at him then looked back at Xhaka. Oh,' Lacazette sighed, `he is okay, do not worry. Granit... understands. Don't you, Xhaka...?'
Another of those gentle scoffing noises, which amidst their secretive French had sounded almost derisive, but now seemed more playful and friendly. The Swiss-Kosovan midfielder grinned knowingly at Tierney across the room, his dark twinkling eyes signalling that he knew exactly what sort of relief and helping hand and guidance a hot-blooded young footballer might occasionally need from a more experienced colleague. He loosened the tight hug of his arms about his chest, his robe falling open a little at the chest in a similar way to Lacazette's. He didn't say anything, just smirked and tilted his head and patted his knees, where the hem of the robe came to its abrupt end. Tierney belatedly realised that his crotch was being fondled again, fingers gently teasing at the big bulging outline down there, and he sat back a little, unsure how to deal with this.
On the one hand, it felt good; even with another lad watching, weirdly, it felt comforting and relaxing to be touched with such certainty and novelty -- it really had been the longest dry patch of Kieran's formerly very active sex life, after all -- and he DID want a repeat, that was the scary truth, he HAD been incredibly ready to read something into Mustafi's chatter. A wank would be very relaxing, that was always true, it would certainly help to cool his anxiety about the prospect of Arsenal crashing out of the FA Cup tomorrow afternoon, if their play was as dogshit as it had been lately...!
But then, on the other hand... The counter argument of uncertainty, nervous homophobia, remembered panic, was cut short before it had time to plod through his churning brain, because one fingertip of Lacazette's hand had found the tip of his nob and was circling gently over it through the thin black cotton, sending shivers from his crotch down each limb and up his chest. He went to speak but just let out a little gurgle of pleasure; this made Xhaka emit a soft, almost affectionate laugh, and when he looked to the right, it was making Lacazette grin that broad confident smile once again.
Why don't you just lie back on the bed and close your eyes?' the Frenchman asked him. Kieran expression flickered uncertainly and he resisted the urge to push Alexandre's hand almost violently form the space between his big thighs. The prospect was more than inviting. Go on,' added Alexandre soothingly.
Just relax,' chipped in Granit's voice from the other bed, still an edge of playful laughter to it. Lie back and let him help.' No, he hadn't said that, Kieran realised, a moment later, as he began to shift back on the bed, lifting his thick legs up over the silky duvet, eyes on Alexandre's grin; he'd misheard the pronoun, there. `Lie back and let us help,' was what the Swiss bloke actually said. The little mental correction fizzled on the edge of consciousness like a disappointing firework.
Following murmured French-accented instruction, Tierney shucked the hoody from his broad shoulders, its inner lining warm beneath his bare back as he lay down on the bed, head hitting the carefully arranged pillows, and thick footballer's legs stretching out below, brushing a little at the towelling of Lacazette's robe. As advised, he shut his eyes, and did his best to relax, but this was no easy task, in a strange room, with two guys looking at him, aware of what a dickhead he'd made of himself in another room nearby; presumably Shkrodan was still fuming, or back on the phone to his bird, calling him all sorts of offensive words.
Fingertips back against his bulge: calmly controlled in the way they felt up the outline of his big soft prick. It was more slow and deliberate than the spontaneous, helpful grabbing in his flat, where his porn fixation had been exposed by Alexandre's lusty curiosity. It had felt almost accidental there, a heat-of-the-moment intervention when his own arms seemed so pathetically weak form the gym; here, it was very gentle and gradual, making him shiver against the bedding and fight to keep his eyes closed, curious at what his friend was gonna do. But he did as he was told, just lying there, trusting in his experienced teammate's ability to relax him completely. He could remember the rush of last time, the shocking satisfaction of it, the breathless disbelief...
The other hand was touching his thigh, just above the knee, massaging warmly into his hairy skin; no, wait, not the other hand. There were two hands at his crotch, carrying out the achingly gradual exploration of his lumpy package. Which meant that the other hand, stroking gently up and down his hairy outer thigh, belonged to... oh.
That hand crept up the outside of his leg, and now several sets of fingers (three, four?) were taking hold of the slack elastic waistband and pulling back. Kieran seized up a little at this but his cock was twitching uncontrollably. He pressed his arms flat at his side and obediently lifted hips a little bit, so that his undies could be pulled smoothly down from his waist, stretching across his legs, then down, down, down, off. Naked, now, with two fellas touching him. Fuck.
Stop worrying,' Lacazette's voice said smoothly, as if able to see into his rising panic. You are tense, Kieran. Let us help.' Xhaka didn't speak, but he thought he could hear his breathing. Well, they knew best, he figured uncomfortably, they must do, they'd been playing top-flight football in Europe for years, he was just a spotty schoolboy when they were making their Premiership debuts...!
Hands on his thighs, two on each, massaging at him. No contact with his dick, where it hung awkwardly over the platform of his sack, stretching and waking. Instinct told him to lift his arms off the bed and use one of them to attend to this semi, and the other to push away the ticklish hands that were teasing into his inner thighs. Trust them, some inner voice told him, in line with the French player's gentle instructions. Trust it. It'll help. But... He pressed his palms into the bedding, slim arms at the sides of his torso, dick rising a little as it stretched and thickened. Was that a little gasp in Granit's slow shallow breaths...?
One hand, maybe Alexandre's, slid all the way up his right inner thigh until the fingers were prodding at the droop of his balls, lifting and nudging them with each rub, in turn making his cock bounce and flop a little. And another hand, on the other side, doing the same thing. Kieran suppressed another little soft moaning sound, turning it instead into a nervous chuckle. Relax,' Alexandre was saying again, quietly, just relax... nobody will get angry at you here, boy...' The reminder of Mustafi's rage was, oddly, comforting in part: the reminder of that misunderstanding should, he supposed, bring back more guilt and self-loathing about this, but instead it just created contrast. He'd fled from confusion and uncertainty and hot tempers to this place of weird, unexpected comfort, but also now kinda familiar, because he knew with dizzying certainly how good the Frenchman's grip would feel on his cock when it eventually came. This was all too much for Kieran's brain to take tonight.
And still, nobody touched his cock. Fingertips stroked over the pale reddish growth of his pubes and teased around the inside where his thighs met his crotch. His balls were lifted and weighed and stroked; he no longer knew quite which fingertips came from what hand. His cock was getting harder and harder, rising up fully, and he felt weird shame at how visible and obvious his excitement would be to the two of them. He was so exposed here, so vulnerable. Just as he thought fingers might finally meet his swollen shaft, one hand came running up his tummy a little instead, and his dick brushed against an elbow and a bicep as this happened; the long-awaited contact made him shudder and let out a fuller, more vocal groan.
That's it,' Lacazette said appreciatively, just relax... enjoy...'
And there, FINALLY, was a hand curling around his cock. Lacazette's? Xhaka's? It was impossible to tell where each sensitive touch was coming from. He clamped his eyes shut to fully resist the temptation of finding out, shutting away the many confused thoughts and questions, just allowing him to focus only on the deep, warming pleasure of this touch. While one hand slowly, SO SLOWLY, pulled up and down on his erection, another was still fingering gently at his balls; another was stroking all the way up and down his left thigh, tickling at his kneecap, and another was still on his softly defined abs, tracing the little line of fur from his navel back to his pubes. He shuddered and felt his breathing become ragged and heavy.
Did the hand on his dick swap then? Hard to tell. Did it matter? Probably not. Felt so good. Ohhh.
Hands, uncertain how many, where under his thighs now, lifting a little, pulling to the sides. He let his legs be guided; his bruised footballer's heels dragging back a little over the covers as his knees lifted up and to the sides, another hand-swap seeming to happen and fresh, tighter drags closing around the upper half of his tool. `Ohhh,' he gasped out loud, less embarrassed by showing his sensual enjoyment now, just lost in the physical sensations. It no longer felt weird or exposing, being naked on the bed, he was barely aware of his own physicality, or there being two other guys in the room. It was just a warm sexual gratification that reminded him of his first teenage wanks or the loss of his virginity in a Glasgow back-alley.
His legs were now quite lifted and spread, thighs and calves touching, his cock pulled back towards his tummy as it was stroked. Hands were creeping down the back of his thighs, from hamstring to glute. It tickled more, the touch on the edges of his buttocks, and he gave another nervous giggle between his hot panting. He felt like a warning `Mate...?' or some pushing gesture of his own tingling hands was needed, because there was an invisible barrier somewhere there that wouldn't feel RIGHT, he thought. But he did remember, in his moments of climax, that Lacazette had...
Uhhh, there it was: someone, Granit or Alexandre, had slipped fingers off his full fat balls and onto his gooch, circling a thumb over that sensitive hairy skin, while another hand began to squeeze ever so gently at the prime meat of his right buttock. He opened his mouth to protest, despite his shuddering enjoyment, but a long firm finger pressed down over his lips in a silent gesture of hush. Kieran tried his best to relax.
Sniff this,' came the surprising instruction; not Lacazette this time, certainly, but Xhaka, more hoarse and throaty in his quiet speech. What this' was, Kieran had fuck all idea, but the hand that had silenced his lips was brushing its knuckles at his chin and lip and seeming to hold something before his nose. Kieran breathed in and got a shock of intense scent and funny, chilling sensation in his nostrils, like when he used to sniff marker pens at school or tried silly laughing gas with mates on Friday nights in the park; he was breathing something in, intensely, into one nostril then the other, a relaxing rush pouring into his whole being.
The thumb on his gooch was replaced with a finger and it went south. Kieran opened his mouth and gave a silent moan of surprise as the finger slid all the way down his hairy arse-crack -- what he knew should shock and repel him, under the influence of that deep sniff, he felt weirdly detached from, just relaxed and curious. The finger moved back up, and then again, sliding calmly between his big buttocks, making his lifted legs wobble a little, until another hand gripped him by the knee and stilled the wobble soothingly. The effect of the inhalation seemed to wear off, he felt a surging panic, his ring tightening in terror, but then those clumsy knuckles grazed his chin again and the bottle of whatever was by his nose. He sucked in a breath of it, one nostril then the other, and the effect felt even more rushing and mind-emptying. A finger or a thumb was rubbing repeatedly over his hole and he found himself concentrating on that attention with only a mild, languorous enjoyment, no worry or questions for a long minute of stimulation.
A hand, someone's hand, was back on his cock too, and on the power of this drug, whatever it was, the touch felt even better, even more sensitive, even more wildly necessary. Kieran pushed his head back into the pillows more, hunching his shoulders there, unable to keep his hands still at his sides; he lifted them and threw his arms back until his fingers clutched the wooden headboard, and he pressed his ankles into the bedding to keep his legs still and apart. Four hands. One on his cock, one inside his left thigh, another on a knee, and lastly, the finger circling back and forward over his twitching, innocent sphincter.
Ohhh,' he whined loudly, ohhh...'
`Oh yes,' rasped Xhaka's voice close by.
`Let it go,' murmured Lacazette silkily.
The hands moved. The one on his knee slide down his firm shin, tickling at his leg hair and training bruises; the one inside his thigh pushed in to thumb at his gooch and gently squeeze his balls; the one between his cheeks moved away from his twitching sensitive hole and seem to splay fingers all the way up his crack until something very small, maybe a pinky finger, was pushing firmly and unstoppably at his secret entrance; the hand on his cock shifted right up to the tip, pulling his foreskin back and thumbing around the helmet, ohhhh god...
Exactly as the little pinky finger found its way two inches into his untouched hole, exactly as the other hands roved his powerful legs, and the main active fist around his cock began to drag back down to the base, Tierney reached his peak. Fuck fuck,' he grunted loudly, fucking hell...' He kept his eyes closed as he exploded, but felt drops of it smear the insides of his knees and down his thick calves. `FUCK, SHIT, OH GOD...' A splash of his own seed even seemed to fall on the squashed curve of one buttock, where that most daring hand was retreating, leaving his tight stinging ring alone, quivering at the brief invasion. Kieran gripped the headboard with both hands and lay there in a shaking daze, the last gush of his seed oozing from his cock head.
Hands left his body one by one; gentle creaks signalled weights lifting from the bed, until he felt incredibly alone for a moment, lying there panting and naked. He concentrated only on his breathing and the tingling glow around his crotch, slowly relaxing his knees until his legs fell heavily down against the bedding and his ankles stretched to the foot of the bed. He became aware of low chuckles from the other men, reminded that the hands belonged to other humans, other men, after all; quiet voices in rapid, syrupy French. Kieran ignored it, just lying there, recovering.
When he opened his eyes, the room seemed empty for a moment. A gentle twist of his neck told him that no, he was not actually alone, but the other two had crawled into the bed they must share, committed to him having this to himself. Why the fuck were they being so kind?! He lay in a state of naked, bewildered gratitude, thinking about the way those two big masculine footballers had gently brought him off. His eyes found the little bottle of poppers on the bedside table, alien and familiar all at once; he'd seen it in clubs, or at house parties, but... he wasn't totally sure he knew what it was. He felt like he associated it with a whole other cultural world, but he couldn't put his finger on what. He stared at it for a moment and then closed his eyes again, and fumbled around him at the bedding, dragging up at it and pulling it slowly over his own bare body, curling into an almost foetal position, far too relaxed and satisfied to question what had taken place. Of the others, all he could really see was the vague outline of Lacazette's short dark hair and a bit of black shoulder muscle; beyond it, the faintest suggestion of Xhaka's hairline. Tierney rolled over onto his other side, away from them, pulling the duvet around him more rightly; if he looked at the two older footballers in their bed, he might start to overthink, to visualise what had really happened between them, to remember his mortification in front of Shkrodan Mustafi.
No, he thought, none of that. Just... mmm, that tingly happiness in his big floppy cock, the strong sense of physical completion that came with blowing his load. What a slow, sensual climax it had been, nothing like he was used to, nothing at all like the urgent relief Lacazette had allowed him last time, squashed in on his own sofa, barely able to lift his throbbing biceps. This had been like a little taste of paradise, gently allowed him out of some patronising wisdom from more experienced blokes.
The young Scotsman cuddled innocently into his pillow and duvet, leaving the questions and doubts for tomorrow morning, for now just closing out the world and letting himself drift into a happy dream; it was last summer, and the Scottish league was won, and Celtic were triumphant. He grinned his way into sleep, picturing the green and white stripes of his old kit, the tight rough hugs of his Scottish allies, the Glaswegian victory and the messy drunken nights that would follow. He'd been so fucking happy up there, a prince among his countrymen.
He looks so fucking happy,' Granit whispered in French, lifting his head a little to look past Alexandre's chest at the tight grin on Tierney's face as he slid into deep, snoring rest on the other bed. He is almost as beautiful as he is stupid.'
Now, now,' murmured Alexandre, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, let him be...'
`His cock,' the Swiss player added in reverent tones.
`I know. Haha. I don't think he even realises.'
`Mon dieu...'
`And his arse...'
`You slipped a finger in...!'
`He didn't seem to mind.'
`Only because I fed him more poppers than...'
`Shh. You'll wake him. Let him be.'
Oh Alex... that was so hot...' A cheeky snigger in the dark. Can we keep him?'
`You've changed your tune.'
`Mmmm. I want you to fuck me again.'
`With him asleep there? No... no... We need our sleep, Granit. Tomorrow. The cup.'
Yes...' A long quiet sigh. Yes, you're right. Goodnight, my love.'
`Goodnight, friend. Goodnight.'