Part 172: The Mykonos... Quartet
apologies for the delay on this one - you knew it had to happen after all that tabloid scandal...! hope it was worth the wait
It was swelteringly hot and uncomfortable inside the van, rattling off the main road and into the provincial confines of the island's little airport. The air was thick with not only this heat and the stale sweaty smell of the men occupying the hired vehicle, but with an atmosphere of tense gloom, one Harry Maguire was beginning to feel quite familiar with after the turbulent past couple of days. The combined guilt and indignation of his position felt heavier rather than lighter now he was freed from jail in the neighbouring island and simply to await a verdict from afar.
This morning had been a short preliminary hearing, his `not guilty' plea openly sneered at by every Greek man and woman in the room. Now an expensive lawyer dragged in from Athens would fight his corner while he slunk away with his tail between his legs, or at least that was the official plan.
Stuck awkwardly in the rear-left of the middle row, his pale blue short sleeve shirt taut and uncomfortable against his overheated torso, a strap of belt almost slicing into his chest muscles, he watched the lazy human activity of the airport grounds, the buzzing movements of tourists and employees. At least, he supposed, there would be no paparazzi waiting to mob and irk him here, Mykonos was a little too remote and idyllic for that. Though a few pushy photographers had already captured him in the past couple of hours as he left police custody and appeared at the local court to be accused of his misdemeanours; he dreaded to think how moody and aggressive he must look in the shots they'd got, his inner conflict probably pouring out of his face and hunched body.
When they were parked up, with a departing flight roaring overhead and the heat seeming more sickly and invasive here on the tarmac of the short stay car park, everybody spilled out of the vehicle, though in fact it was only Maguire himself who was departing. With him was his brother Joe, one of his close Sheffield mates, another friend of Joe's, and the expensive lawyer himself. The goodbyes from his brother and the lads were gruff and rueful, from the lawyer they were stern and instructional: draw no attention to yourself on the journey, refuse all interviews, stay off social media, wait out the storm. And so on and on and on.
The other guys were to see out the final days of their holiday, since expensive villas had been paid for in full and it hadn't seemed worth everyone having their break ruined. Joe had his wife and kids here with him after all, and the rest of their party were hardly on Harry's wages, couldn't just drop everything and waste holiday money so readily, even if he'd paid for all of their luxury accommodation as a group. And one of the elephants in all of these conversations was that Harry's fiancée was staying out too, had refused to see him today or join him on the courthouse steps -- had gone berserk when one of their party suggested that she and the little ones might head back to England today with him to show support. No, Fern was intending to finish her holiday in peace, had not responded to a single communication from Harry since he disappeared into the custody about... what, thirty-sex hours ago?
The plan then was for Harry himself, the centre of this storm and the one whose reputation was most brutally undone, should make a discreet but publicly announced exit from Mykonos to signal his repentance and his urgency to reassure the lucrative machine of Manchester United. The lawyer seemed to be in contact with his representatives and the club management and the whole thing was more or less taken out of his hands, his own opinion pretty much irrelevant as the crisis was taken up by people used to dealing with celebrity scandal of all kinds.
He was only vaguely aware of the bought testimonies that the lawyer was sourcing to reconstruct the narrative of Thursday night, or the early hours of Friday morning anyway; `The less you know the better,' the lawyer had grumbled simply when they met before today's hearing. Already the violent clashes were being reframed with himself as a near-victim and an honourable defender. Facts were being handled with that special stretchy manner only lawyers and journalists are capable of.
His older but shorter brother Joe was hoisting his luggage from the back of the van for him. He and Harry's mate had shared his brief but uncomfortable jail experience and looked as bedraggled and clammy as he did. Like him, they wore expressions of angry and begrudging apology, both regretful and aggrieved at their experience of the local law, the fighting that had seemed so justified and wise in the drunken hours. Their hugs were brief and consoling, tight with shared frustration. The masked lawyer simply tapped elbows on him and assured him that he would be making all of this disappear as quickly as possible; the big United footballer stared hard at him, slipping the face mask about his big rugged features, nodding slowly, unconvinced by the slick middle-aged gentleman's confidence and the slow unravelling of the drama.
He felt tainted by his own behaviour, had been unable to look at himself in the rear-view mirror inside the van without scowling and glaring at his own reflection. Big violent idiot, he thought, useful thug, why are you set on ruining everything for yourself?
The conversations by the van didn't last long, so much having already been said since his release very early this morning and the awkward meetings yesterday whilst still in custody. Harry resisted saying anything sentimental, quite keen now to be away from these guys, his fellow accused and his legal representation, who seemed to be standing symbols of his own crimes and foolishness. He yanked on the handle of his single large case and left them, stomping his worn suede shoes over the car park, all of his clothes tight and itchy on his big unwashed body. It had been a brief spell in custody by any measure, but the openness and heat of the morning airport still felt jarring and overstimulating next to the small dark room he'd spent all of yesterday and last night in, pissing in a corner and spat at by police officers when nobody could see them. He'd briefly been quite afraid for his safety, even towering over the swarthy Greek men as he did.
At the corner, the 6ft4 defender turned and watched as the men got back into the van, ready to zip off across the island to the big set of villas he'd hired out for his large holiday entourage of friends and family. He pictured his Fern there now, sitting by the pool with an indignant frown on her beautiful face, unable to relax and enjoy herself because she was simply too angry at him. He imagined his own family members trying to dissuade her from her righteous anger and failing, because he did deserve this. He knew exactly how she felt about some of his bursts of violence with men in the past, the cautions that had haunted him in his youth, the almost-conflicts of many drunken nights in Leicester and Hull and Sheffield. He was supposed to be a changed and matured man now; since he became a father, since he moved to Manchester, since he was appointed skipper.
When they were gone, he turned on his heel and walked on, stomping his feet on the hard paving and glaring over his crinkled face mask at everyone he passed, always expecting suspicious or scandalised eyes to recognise and judge him, but no, the giant-like centre-back shifted through the sparse gathering of holidaymakers, taxi drivers, airport staff, loitering pickpockets. He felt oddly anonymous here after all, especially after the harsh limelight of the courthouse, the police station, the interview rooms.
Bristling with weary anger at the world and at himself, Harry Maguire trundled on towards the big open entrances to the Departures section of the airport -- trundled onwards towards it and then stomped straight on without going in to the rows of check-in desks and luggage loading. He marched around another corner and crossed a road in a gap between slow-cruising taxis, under the arch into the short-stay pick-up car park for Arrivals instead. His case bounced along on its wheels behind on the bumpy sun-warmed tarmac and his legs shone with sweat beneath the tight dark blue of his knee-length shorts; buttons on his shirt stretched and relaxed with each rippling movement of his muscular body and behind the mask, his face felt clammy and unclean.
There it was at the far end of the square car park, the red convertible described to him. Maguire rattled towards it, saw the driver slide out as he approached, leaning one hand against the side window, lowering large black designer sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to greet him with his sexy blue eyes. Harry paused at the rear of the car, relaxing his tight sweaty grip on the luggage handle, settling his red-rimmed eyes on the other guy's and relaxing his body for the first time all day.
Well you look like shit,' Luke Shaw said quietly, not yet moving his way, too conscious of the public car park and the cars drifting in and out of it not far from them, the roar from the nearby road adding to the crackle of background noise, all mingling with the low hum of crickets. But you know... the sexiest shit on the island, obvs.'
Harry cracked an awkward grin at his knight in a shining Porsche, and nodded his head slowly, tugging down on the face mask to his jutting chin to reveal more of his clammy red face, tensing an arm to lurch the luggage forward and try and pop open the boot of Luke's hire car. But the other holidaying footballer was advancing around the vehicle and gesturing at him. `Leave that, you oaf, just get in and let me, okay?' He spoke in a bossy and dismissive manner, but his voice was soft and caring, none of the harsh judgment and business-like griminess of the police or court officials.
Luke,' he began, stepping aside reluctantly, watching as his teammate and so much more clicked open the boot and grabbed at the suitcase without properly looking at him, I dunno what to say, thanks for...' His voice was cracked and sore like his head, and he trailed off because he felt so talked out and incapable of forming anything he wanted to say.
Grunt, thump, click, boot closed, Luke's splayed hands spread down on the shining red paintwork of the car's rear, his arms bulging briefly in the loose white tshirt he wore. He paused there and looked over his shoulder, smiling sweetly through his fluffy pale brown beard. `You gonna get in the car, big man, or am I gonna leave you hear to actually catch this flight...? Come on. You stink.'
He did smell, and the heavy odour of his sweat was a lot less decadently pleasant after thirty-six hours in police custody than, say, after a 90 minute Premiership battle; but still, Luke had to admit to himself that he'd never quite found his man sexier than as he slipped into the terracotta wet-room with him now and slid a soapy hand over his bared chest. The hot blast of water hit them both, a little too much, and he reached for the dial to gently cool it, needing some milder refreshment raining down on them as they recovered from the hot morning and the unkempt state of Harry's clothing and body after the piss-poor conditions of a Greek island jail.
Luke squirted more of the rose-scented shower soap into his hands and ran them side to side on the broad plateau of the tall man's shoulders, enjoying the rough cautious feel of his reciprocal hands finding his sides and waist and pulling him a little closer under the cascade. One of those strong masterful hands found its way up to his furry chin and tilted his head up to receive the kiss -- Luke was no idiot, he'd made him brush his teeth before anything else -- which was surprisingly slow and tender given the intensity of the situation and the reunion. He parted his own lips and felt Harry's tongue brush his, making him rock hard in seconds where the soapy water coursed down his tightening tummy and through the short fuzz of his pubes.
Trembling a little at the teasingly gentle kiss, Luke ran his slick hands down Harry's arms, tracing the firmness of muscle there, then brought them back against his torso and up his chest, circle his nips, and sweeping up his long neck then on into the short scruffy darkness of his hair. He reached for a little tube of shampoo and smooshed it luxuriously into his hair, reaching right up to massage his scalp until the big Yorkshireman purred and groaned and, like Luke, became stiff. He could feel it brush and prod at his waistline.
Luke rinsed off his frothy palms then, their bodies slowly circling under the monsoon shower, and he rubbed and rinsed at each section of his lover's big physique, cleansing and stroking at pecs and shoulders and biceps and down his six-pack. He stooped to his knees to run two hands at a time down each hairy thigh, massaging soapy water against faintly red skin, then the same to his calves; his face hovered close to the rising edifice of Harry's prick, but he didn't draw too close or let it touch his face or body at all, not yet. Then back up to his feet, flicking his own soaked hair and circling Harry again, guiding him in against the wall so that he could rub and stroke at his long powerful back now, down which ran little rivers of shampoo as his big head went under the blast of water. Luke dug the heels of his hands into Harry's hot skin and shifted down to stroke gently over the bulge of his buttocks, patting them softly.
God,' muttered the United captain, still facing the wall, you got magic hands, eh...'
Luke ran his hand back up the curving line of Harry's spine, cuddling in beside him slowly, letting them both be enveloped in the water; he stretched his hand in a massaging movement up Harry's neck and stroked through his hair to rinse out the rest of the shampoo, using his other hand to pull him around face to face again, squinting at each other through the cleansing spray. He elbowed the shower off after a few more blissful moments and they stood there in the lingering steam, water dripping from every edge and curve of their bare bodies.
Harry stared oddly at him where he stood, still so quiet and odd in the aftershock of his troubles, though physically more relaxed and loosened than he'd been in the car or tramping through the deserted peace of Luke's clifftop apartment. Luke stared back, measuring the swirl of emotions in those beady dark eyes, rubbing his fingers gently down his outer arms, feeling their stiff swords brush for a moment beneath their damp crotches -- instinctively, one of Harry's arms twitched into life and his big hand was reaching for Luke's piece, but he pulled away, deflected the slow grab, shook his head. Not yet.
He stepped out of the wet-room with a sleek slide of its door, taking Maguire by the hand and guiding him out on the spongy mat. Grabbed the fluffiest of white towels stacked on the thin shelving, unfurled it and threw it about Harry's body now. As he dried him, enjoying his sullen acceptance of the pampering, he reminisced about a similar moment in similarly fraught circumstances. That night when he'd rescued Harry from the Manchester streets and tenderly cared for him in his old bachelor pad... obviously it had been a night of trouble and conflict and near-tragedy, but just like today, he thought it was when he most utterly wanted and needed this big man. It was the contradiction, the clash between the big powerful alpha male whose testosterone-fuelled exploits got him into violent trouble and the huge vulnerable puppy ready to be loved and coddled. Here he was again, the brute who'd fought police officers on a strip of bars a few miles away, but now melted under the strokes of a soft towel and moaned Luke's name gently while he tousled it against his thighs and buttocks and lightly over the intense hardness of his cock.
Now,' the left-back told him in a murmur, you do me.'
He passed a fresh towel into those big strong hands and stood there, still dripping gently on the mat, letting Harry slowly and almost gingerly rub the towel up his arms and over his shoulders and then in the soft clean fluff of his dark blond hair. The sweet fresh clean smell rose off their parallel bodies and both men sighed a little as Harry returned the favour and dried his body, eventually dropping the white sheet down beside them so that the men just stood there, naked and erect and silent, staring into each other's eyes. Again, Maguire was reaching for him, stroking him above the elbow and curling his fingers towards his prick, but- Later,' Luke promised him. I told you. I can't skip this.'
And he backed off gently, knowing the unavoidable cruelty of his denial, trying not to enjoy it a little bit, the brief power trip of his unavailability. He wallowed in their naked beauty, doubled by the long wall mirror of the apartment's bathroom, then tiptoed naked out onto the airy landing, letting Harry traipse silently after him and into the bedroom -- the bedroom that until this morning had been shared with his girlfriend and the mother of his child, although it was better right now not to think too much about that fact.
Willing down his hard-on, Luke dressed, pulling on a stretchy training vest and then running shorts, stuffing his semi into their mesh inners; watched silently by Harry's hulking figure on the edge of the bed, a Rodin sculpture of sunburnt English flesh. The stormy desire in his eyes, but the drooping comfort of his body, relaxed and soothed by Luke's hands in the shower. He sighed loudly while Luke dressed in front of him, adjusting and yanking on the clean shorts, then lifting one leg at a time to roll white sports socks over his feet and ankles.
You can rest,' he said, lowering his socked feet to the cool smooth floortiles. Sleep? I dunno if you got much in your cell. It'll be only be a few hours, I've already cancelled the morning session.'
`Sorry...'
`Can you stop apologising? You're sexier with the brooding silence, heh. There's a bit of food in the kitchen if you need it maybe but I'll order us dinner in or something when I'm done.' He pulled on his trainers and moved around the bed to stand in front of him, between his spread legs; Harry reached his soft clean hands against his upper thighs and sat there, naked and still rock hard, staring mournfully up at him and wanting what had begun in the shower to continue. Luke stood over him, stroking fingers through the silky hair, smiling benignly down over the latest footballer to be shamed in the tabloids, just another quick buck to them.
This isn't how I wanted our summer escape to be,' Harry muttered somewhere just beneath his chest. It was meant to be... perfect.'
Luke made a vague non-comital voice. Would it ever have been perfect? Was their original plan really much better? He wasn't so sure. Okay, a gutter press scandal and possible criminal charges had never featured in the plan, but their Mykonos holiday schedules had been carefully aligned to try and create one perfect day where they would be free of their other commitments and could be together in Mediterranean paradise before heading back to Manchester. At least now they had two whole days stretching ahead of them and the rest of the world thought Harry was skulking back in Manchester hiding from prying eyes, rather than here in his loving clutches.
He leaned down and kissed him once on the crown. `Get some rest. You'll need your energy when I get back.' And he slipped away from him, leaving him in the cool shadows of the bedroom, skipping down the spiral steps into the open-plan downstairs of the duplex, then out into the late morning heat to get to work.
Harry lifted his feet up onto another of the stiff wooden seats, reclining across the two chairs, looking over the low balcony wall down at the sparkle of sun reflecting on the sea below, specked with the occasional passing boat. He leaned his left elbow onto the surface of the small outside table and in his right hand cradled the goblet of icy cocktail, feeling incredibly refreshed and revitalised compared to the moody dankness at the beginning of his day.
After Luke had left, he had sprawled back on the bed without dressing, and crashed into several long hours of sleep, much deeper than the patchy rest he'd gotten on his undersized bunk in his cell, or on the boozy holiday nights that preceded the incident and arrest. By the time Maguire drifted back into consciousness, it turned out Shaw was already back, tiptoeing around the duplex apartment playing quiet old-school tunes and prepping an early dinner. Almost guilty at his lengthy nap (four hours, five, six? Hard to be precise), he'd pulled on the spare swim shorts of Luke's he found on the bedroom floor (tight and revealing about his downstairs) and a floral shirt dangling from a hook (it wouldn't fasten over his chest so draped limply about his shoulders instead) and descended through the holiday home. Where he had been promptly kissed and guided out here onto the intimately private balcony and its gorgeous sea view, given a freshly made cocktail and made to wait for his meal.
He sipped it slowly, unsure what magic ingredients Luke had played with, but vaguely aware of its potency beneath the sugary flavours. He idly imagined this small but attractive luxury accommodation having housed Luke's partner and child for the past week or so, rendered exotic bachelor pad now that they were Manchester-bound and the footballer was `alone' to complete his last few days at Mykonos Performance, the elite fitness camp where he was being put through his paces and, as he idly chattered in between finishing the cooking, various other big names had been based at different points over the summer, from Grealish to Bellerin.
From Harry's point of view, the fitness camp was a clever ruse, an excuse for Luke to linger on a few more days on the Greek island while his partner jetted off to the UK, and somewhere Maguire himself was going to `visit' on the final day of his own holiday to detox some of the partying and excess. (A lie that would not be needed now, since he was discreetly holed up here in Luke's clifftop nest while his angry missus thought he was sulking on a plane to Manchester Airport -- when Luke flew home the day after tomorrow, Harry would be taking a ferry to another island for his own secretive flight.)
For Luke, clearly, it was more important than that. He pattered on about the hard work he'd been putting in as he brought out two big bowls of sharing salad and the steaming al forno pasta dish he'd been working on, freshly showered yet again and rosy-cheeked in his crisp little shirt and well-filled chino shorts, so domesticated and adorable after a week of holiday dad mode. Harry watched him with a dim satisfied smile and listened to him speak about drills and endurance tests and beating personal bests; he took his heavy feet off the spare chair and pulled in more politely at the table to enjoy the tasty spread, cutting the fresh bread for them and clinking his cocktail glass to Luke's while the younger man took his seat.
Sorry,' Luke said, his turn for needless apology, smiling over their early dinner or late lunch, what did it matter which, I don't mean to bang on about it, I know it's nothing that exciting, it's just...'
Harry, who had zoned out slightly just because he was thinking how fresh and cute Luke looked for his day's efforts, his whole holiday in fact, had to twitch himself upright a bit in his seat, poking experimentally at the gloopy delicious-looking pasta with his fork. Nah, go on, tell me,' he insisted vaguely. I'm glad you've enjoyed it so much, obviously.'
Luke nodded and tasted his own creation. Well,' he said after a minute, we can't all get away with boozy holidays and letting go, not after... well...' He glanced down at the table, serving himself homemade Greek salad in a quick self-conscious manner. Sometimes my holidays haven't been reported very flatteringly,' he muttered, mostly to himself, and Harry knew exactly what he was talking about. He ate his food with thoughtful and admiring looks over the table, questioning both how dumb paparazzi could attempt to fat shame' a sturdy young defender with a few dubious beach photographs, and how Luke could ever let himself believe their bullshit. And thirdly, how sensitive a topic this past insult could still be for him. For them.
So,' Luke said, interrupting his wandering thoughts, perhaps moving away from the same tainted memories of how cruel the British media could be, am I going to get the full story of how you ended up sweating your arse off in Greek prison, or do I have to rely on The Sun and Daily Mail versions of your adventures, bad boy...?' He smiled sweetly, impaling a large black olive on his fork and twirling it in one hand while he waited. Harry grunted, grinned awkwardly back at him, thought back to the mess of Thursday night.
He thought about the boozy afternoon where it had begun, guzzling pints of ale and ignoring text messages from Fern suggesting he should be back at the family villas for dinner rather than continuing his `couple of bevvies' into the evening with the lads. Dancing clumsily between deckchairs in the island's most expensive little pool bar, mingling with other famous fellas and their scantily clad lady friends -- reality TV types like ex-footballer Chris Hughes shedding a sort of Soho glitz on the Mykonos VIP bar while the sunset blazed on the horizon, or some snooker champ Maguire had never even heard of and was too drunk to pretend to respect. A scattering of other footballers from Premiership and Championship teams, even from a couple of other major European clubs. Some he knew well -- he bumped into a jarringly sober Eric Dier for five minutes at the bar, embarrassed himself by trying to subtly allude to Luke's birthday party, making the Spurs guy panic and retreat -- and others he was only vaguely aware of or had to pretend to know, his own England squad celebrity trumping most others'.
He pictured the way the pints begin to disappear a little too quickly in his hands, recalled his amusement as the other guys at the swanky venue ordered much more expensive bottles of spirits and fizz and ostentatious food. He had a very clear image of a pissed-off-his-face Ross Barkley, the Chelsea bloke surrounded by some other rowdy Scouser mates, tucking into a ridiculously huge lobster while knocking back delicate flutes of extortionate Dom Perignon like some kind of extra in a live-action Alice in Wonderland scene. Mind, Barkley had seemed to vanish from the scene soon after that, he remembered, just when things got to get a bit TOO drunken and messy, and the arseholes at the other side of the expensive bar began to hurl their smug insults his way, as if he cared! He paused in his irritated remembrance to try and picture at what point his England teammate Barkley had vanished from proceedings, because he could still remember the rattling accent of his Scouse pals somewhere on the scene when things began to get really tetchy and the night settled in.
The night had become slowly more and more volatile, and so did he. Drunk and insulted and carried along by the machismo of his friends and acquaintances. He knew that the night contained many near-fights long before the actual violence spilled out of them. Many awkward moments of turning the other cheek, huffing and laughing, ignoring the wind-up comments of the same group of rich English holidaymakers -- ignoring as his name and his team and his looks were mocked and jeered, grabbing and restraining various friends and his brother Joe as conflict was provoked and demanded by complete strangers.
Then the midnight curfew and the informal after-party of the streets: the moments when the night's long build-up of tension finally exploded were fuzzy for Harry, he'd been so utterly trashed by that point, hardly walking in a straight line or seeing clearly. But he knew what he'd heard, what had triggered him. One of those smug wankers from earlier on, standing right next to him in the messy kebab queue, loudly proclaiming to his pals: Fucking hell, he's almost as shite as that fat little bitch Luke Shaw, ain't he...? God that fat useless fag, why do United still pay him his wage of hot dogs and chicken nuggets, he should just be- The guy hadn't finished that sentence because Harry's fist was landing in his face, smashing at least one tooth from his upper jaw and sending him reeling into his equally preppy rich-kid cunt mates, and the streets exploded with the brawl.
From there it had gone from bad to worse, his mates and brother piling in and even his infuriated younger sister at some point -- he still wasn't even clear what had happened to her. By the point he was smacking what turned out to be a plain clothes Greek police officer in the gut, he couldn't even remember which prick had got him going with his careless stupid chatter, couldn't remember whose blows had stung at his shins and ribs and cheek, couldn't remember where he was or why he was fighting... the next thing he knew were the cuffs about his wrists and the inside of the police car.
Luke shifted in his seat, seeing Harry's flickering discomfort in sharing the patchy tale, but a little bit confused and frustrated. What, so they were just hollering the same daft insults at you, but because it was a few hours later you couldn't hold your cool?' He tried and failed to keep his irritation and disappointment out of his voice, driven by his concern at the thought of the big sturdy bloke taking a pointless beating in the streets. Harry,' he groaned, `they sound like such dickheads, can't believe you let their daft jibes get to you like that...! I mean, sorry, just... ugh. What a bunch of... total cunts.' He stared at Harry's odd distant expression, briefly entertaining a suspicion that part of that story was missing, that something must have been nastier or different about the wind-up merchant's craic to trigger Harry smacking him in the face, not just a slur against Harry's own talent!
But he just reached across the table, past the dishes of their finished dinner, and grabbed hold of Harry's fist, rubbing his thumb over the grazes and bruises of his knuckles, squeezing his bigger hand in his own, staring down at their interlocking fingers, his own deep summer tan against Harry's paler skin. I don't mean that,' he mumbled. I'm just so angry that you got treated like that, and then blamed like it was all down to you, and... I mean, how do the police here get away with treating you like that? What, cos you're a rich sportsman you don't get treated with any basic decency...? You didn't MEAN to hit one of them...'
Harry made a quiet snort of amusement. Perhaps you should represent me in court instead of the seedy fella United are paying for,' he mused, wrestling fingers and knuckles against Luke's a little, yanking on his hand gently but insistently. I could do with a few other people seeing me through your eyes, instead of...' For a moment he looked so crushingly sad. `The police officers were just kicking me in the legs and telling me my career was over... you think they're right?'
No,' Luke assured him vehemently, getting up at this, moving around the table, cuddling his free arm about his neck and kissing him on the forehead, so liberated by the privacy of the balcony to do so whilst still feeling outside in the glorious Greek sun. No, not a bit, it just... I dunno... it just makes you seem... tougher? Harder? Uh, if anything, people will respect you more, especially when they hear your side of it properly, and... well, maybe it'll make opposition more scared, ha, um...'
Harry twisted to hold him from his seated position. `Tougher, harder? Hardly...'
Why not? That's how it makes ME see you,' Luke murmured, stroking his hair and neck, if I'm honest, I don't think I've ever wanted to jump on you more, tough guy... so your career is FAR from over...' He chuckled in the hope of cheering the moment, cuddling closer to him and feeling Harry's arms tighten over his lower back, a mild scoffing laugh absorbed by his aching abs.
There's a slight difference between how you see me and the rest of the football world,' Maguire chuckled into the fabric of his shirt, hugging onto him and slowly pulling up out of the chair until he towered over him by an important couple of inches as always, nuzzling his brutish nose down on Luke's brow and breathing on his skin. Probably for the best, it'd make me blush if anyone else was looking at me the way YOU do...'
Luke grinned, angling his face to chase a kiss that Harry teasingly withheld, but not for long. You'd love it, you big attention-seeker,' he poked. Everyone else staring at you and wanting you as much as I do every fucking day, Harry...'
`How much is that?' purred the bigger bloke, as Luke stroked his bare chest, worked his nipples into hardness, pushed the undersized garment away from his broad shoulders.
`Oh, you know, quite a bit -- like, this much?' With that teasing smirk, Luke leant in and kissed his chest very gently, edging his lips to the stiff nipples, making Harry moan immediately with his touch. He brought his hands up tightly to the man's thick neck as he suckled on his right nipple, biting it ever so slightly between his bright white teeth. Just as he hoped, Harry's response was quick and firm, grabbing quite roughly at him by the shoulders, just an electric hint of aggression in the way he pulled him back up to kiss roughly on the lips and the way he seized at his shirt. Three buttons popped noisily away to the glass table as it was ripped open from his body. Luke grabbed greedily back, provoking and spurring his lover by wriggling against him, trying to break the kiss, tweaking a nipple, squeezing the front of his ridiculously tight borrowed shorts -- until Maguire was thrusting him heavily backwards into the plain white plaster of the wall, pinning him there and kissing him noisily while wrenching his torn shirt fully off and thumbing his nipples back. Then, kissing now at Luke's neck, he was reaching not for his crotch but underneath, rubbing his gooch through the tight layers of chino shorts and CK undies, poking and rubbing him there.
Luke was spun around almost violently, his forearms crashing at the wall and grazing his elbows in a way that he knew should hurt but just felt so satisfying in the moment -- and still Harry was fingering at him on the undercarriage of his shorts, kissing the back of his neck, licking the downy blond fluff that grew there at the nape. He gasped noisily against the wall, whining Harry's name, feeling his big bubble buttocks squeezed and grabbed through his shorts -- it took him a moment to realise what Harry was doing, but he heard the rip as his finger pushed forcefully through a seam and inside his shorts and then pulled and dug at the soft layer of his underpants. Luke braced himself forward to the wall and hear more ripping fabric as Harry tore open the backside of his shorts and then did the same to his white trunks, exposing his reddened cheeks and stuffing one finger straight into his crack.
`Oh god...'
Harry just grunted, pressing his finger imperiously inside him, digging into his crack and then against his hole, gripping his side with the other hand and biting the flesh of his shoulder. It drove Luke wild and he had to control his grunts and yelps because he realised how much sound could potentially echo. Seeming to share this epiphany, Harry was suddenly clasping a hand to his mouth to help him, while roughly fingering him through his ravaged clothing, frigging his tight man-cunt and holding him in place, all brute strength and animal urgency. And then just as the pain began to overtake the pleasure and Luke worried he might have to break the spell, the finger was withdrawn, and the grip loosened -- or at least, moved. Harry was holding his hips and sinking low and Luke quickly felt him snuffle and kiss at his arse, licking his cheeks, pulling them apart a bit to slide it in and wet his crack. A wrench and a struggle and his shorts were fully off, utterly ruined, dropping about his ankles with his undies while Maguire began to noisily rim him.
Oh my god baby,' Luke rasped, you... are... the best... ohhhh...'
After losing himself in the tonguing of his lad's sweet arsehole, Harry fully intended to drag him right inside and back up the steps to that big bed where he'd napped. In reality, his lust was such that he couldn't make it that far. They were halfway across the slippery marble floor of the downstairs when he had to pull Luke against him for a snog, a few paces more when Luke began dragging down the ill-fitting swim shorts, on the central rug when the other Manchester defender took his dick in hand... and they didn't make it any further than that.
Bit by bit, they descended to the expensive Persian rug, locking lips then kissing at arms and shoulders and chests and necks. Harry lifted a heavy muscular arm in surprise at one point when Luke ducked in to lick his pit, making him tingle and moan and then laugh with ticklish glee, gripping and pushing Luke fully down to the floor in revolt.
He ground against him, humping his body without any thought for position or grace, rubbing his huge hard cock at his tummy and his thighs and against his own meat, always holding him, squeezing him, rubbing at him, pushing down on him. Even through the rug, the ground was hard and uncomfortable against their flailing strong bodies, but the entirety of the holiday apartment seemed to melt away from the white-hot lust of the encounter.
When he pushed his cock into him, he felt the relief of its loose wetness from his long loving preparation of it, but still it felt so good, so tightly muscular around his shaft, so satisfying to push slowly into -- those whimpers and groans and repeated gasps of his name. Some submissive mutterings of `captain, my captain!' and other snatches of dirty talk. He fucked him in missionary, squashing him into the fibres of the rug and slapping against his big chunky backside with long strokes that were so frantic sometimes they slid out, his cock sliding over buttocks instead then hurriedly re-inserted into his twitching entrance. Luke writhed and grabbed back, kissing him at every chance, holding his shoulders and hoisting his thick legs at all times.
Becoming a tiny bit more aware of the discomfort, Harry scooped just one arm beneath Luke's back and with a huge burst of effort and only a momentary pause in his fucks, hoisted him up and forward and slapping onto the white leather of the big couch, into whose spongy fold he fucked him even more stridently. It squeaked and shook beneath their weight but Harry pushed and thrust and pounded and then, giving in, the whole thing toppled and their bodies rolled clumsily over the other side and across smooth glossy marble, never letting go.
For a while, Luke took control, pushing him onto his back, which rubbed sweatily against the flooring, then straddling his huge erection like a cowboy, giving him a rest from his strenuous thrusts but keeping his cock rack-hard and pulsating with enjoyment. Harry lay there, barely holding Luke's thighs, just enjoying the tight rise and fall on his meat, looking up at the bouncing muscularity of Shaw's well trained body. Fat? What the fuck? He reached up, stroking the firming muscle of his six-pack and finding the smooth bulge of his pectorals, then running his fingertips scratchingly back down and jerking him by the cock with the rhythm of his bounces.
Luke soon came, unable to stop himself at the double pleasure of a cock deep inside him and a tight fist about his bone; his cum sprayed messily up Harry's torso in long white streaks and hit him in the chin. He curled his tongue out to taste it, enjoying the way Luke watched this, seeming still in awe of his willingness to do such things after the early one-way dynamics of their sex. But Harry liked to share: he scooped two fingers down through the sticky mess then lifted it up to Luke's lips to make him suck his own jizz while he bounced up and down with enthusiasm.
Harry, though, had no intention of climaxing in such a passive position; pushed Luke from him and rolled upright, grabbing him roughly and bending him over the upended frame of the white sofa, one hand flat on his sturdy back and the other gripping his side as he planted his tool back inside him and tried to fuck with more strength and earnest than in all the 27 years of his life. He came inside him, days of cum unloaded in there, his howl like a wolf or bear in the wilderness. He took his cock out in the midst of orgasm so that he could jerk the final spurt of his long-held juices onto Luke's quivering red cheeks, heaving with every breath until finally he collapsed forward, hugged Luke's shaking body, and they slid back down onto the rough scratch of the rug, enclosed in each other's arms.
Luke opened the second bottle of wine and returned to the mess of cushions and blankets that formed their nest over the rug, the sofa still upended and various other bits of furniture disturbed or toppled, almost unnoticed, in the violence of their lovemaking. He sloshed a generous measure into Harry's glass, then his own, then slid in beside him, naked and already semi again, a serious expression on his face despite the utter delight of all that had occupied their warm Mykonos evening. He had a dangerous thought welling up in him that he needed to vocalise, but he was waiting for the right moment.
When he was snuggled back down on the mix of cushions and Harry's physique, he clinked their blood-red glasses and examined Harry's patient, satisfied expression, fixed on the action movie flickering on the huge plasma TV. But Harry noticed him looking and glanced this way, his own expression quite severe and sad. He spoke before Luke could. They'll never keep me as captain,' he said very quietly. No way. Not after this.'
`But you acted in defence,' Luke replied loyally, kissing his shoulder.
I've blown that,' Maguire told him certainly. And England... fuck. I should call Southgate tonight.'
Luke winced at the thought of these blows to his man's ego, at the injustice of such consequences when clearly a mix of loutish British wankers and dodgy Greek officials had conspired to make this hot mess. But he had his own take on these matters and it had be said, now. Look,' he said quickly, pulling himself a bit more upright, I thought a lot about this while I trained today, and...' He huffed it out in a rush of words. `You're right about all the scandal, though obviously you're being hard on yourself and I reckon even Southgate will be pretty understanding, he loves you -- but Harry, babe, I think there is gonna be some hard time for you, you know, and... I think you and I should cool things. I'll back off. I'll keep out of the way. It's the last thing you need, right? What if anything leaked or slipped? They're gonna be out to get you, you know, the press, the haters, it's like... You are facing so much here and what if I make it worse, or what if....'
Harry stared at him so fiercely that his ramblings died in his throat and he wilted forward, finding Harry's hand in the folds of blanket over their waists. Are you finished?' his captain grunted at him. Then Harry was rolling on top of him, pushing him into the cushions, lying heavily over him and staring into his eyes. Luke. I can't do this without you. Any of it. I'd rathe rot in a Greek prison than miss any chance to be on you, in you, with you. That clear, lad?'
Luke almost cried. `Crystal clear,' he murmured back.
The headlines glared out at him from the phone screen as they had done all of yesterday, aggravating but unable to stop checking. And this story finally dragged his name into it, although barely as a footnote, a pointless mention of someone present at the party while their carefully chosen words created the most sordid and extravagant depiction of well-paid athletes blowing off steam like anyone else probably would.
And yeah, he had been there, and that was what bothered Ross Barkley most, aside from his natural empathy for another working-class footballer being demonised for defending himself -- and, god forbid, enjoying himself first. Even as he twirled idly over the surface of the pool in the inflatable ring that held his loose body in place, watching the sky darken over the rooftops of the surrounding hotel, he couldn't QUITE relax into the moment and appreciate his final night in Mykonos, because he kept imagining how easily he could have been the one to spend a night and a day on an island jail, name dragging through the muddy press.
Ross had been pretty wasted too, he knew, again. When would he learn? Pissed off his head with his brother and pals, an early afternoon re-run of the other messy nights that had filled their Mykonos break, even after he returned from going AWOL so clearly battered by their excesses and aggravated by their thuggish attitudes. He'd sternly silenced any more Chelsea jibes and the guys seemed to have taken the hint, but that afternoon they'd been a mess. It was hard to imagine how fucked up the night ahead of them might have become if he'd stayed put.
But he'd been... rescued? He'd ran into Dier, again, the second time in two days. The conversation was hazy because Ross had been so fucking drunk at that point, and it must have been beyond obvious to Eric -- to Eric who he had confided his awful hangover misery to twenty-hours before in a quiet beach bar, wanting to confess to so much more but unable. To Eric who he'd finally opened up to about the pain of his break-up in a way he hadn't told a single pal at Chelsea or from Liverpool, lips loosened by the `hair of the dog' technique that also led to him puking in an alley when he finally made his way back towards his accommodation with the lads.
Somehow, there in that VIP pool club, Eric Dier had seen what a state he was in, and sensed that trouble was brewing for someone. He'd cajoled Ross into a taxi and away from the place, sober as a judge himself -- his last afternoon in Mykonos, as he explained at some point when Ross was seeing more clearly, and he couldn't face flights drunk. He'd had such a great summer, island-hopping and boating, and he was in no mood to spoil it by getting into a drunken fight on his final evening, he explained. He fetched some takeaway food and helped Ross to sober up in the hotel garden before explaining that, while his flight to London left that night, his room was paid up for two more nights: it had taken drunken Barkley a little while to appreciate that he was being gifted an escape from the hedonism of his holiday.
And so here he was. That night, the same night that Maguire was raging through Mykonos and fighting with policemen, Ross was dozily waving goodbye to his apparent guardian angel and snoozing in a huge comfortable bed in a big penthouse suite of a hotel overlooking the whole resort town. While Eric flew home, Ross snored in his paid-up accommodation, made up all sorts of bullshit excuses in messages to his holiday mates, instructing his brother to look after his things -- he let them fall into belief about him pulling some loaded supermodel and spending time at her hotel, actually fucking delighted to be all by himself. He didn't even give the hot female bar staff down by the pool a second look. He'd spent yesterday and today just sleeping, swimming, eating. It turned out that THIS was the holiday he'd REALLY needed from summer 2020, not a wild blow-out getting noshed off by Arsenal players in club toilets.
Today he'd also rang Mason Mount to apologise -- been told to forget it, to relax, things with Declan were fine after all. That had made Ross particularly happy, to his own surprise. If his own stupidity had ended that sweet young tryst, he would never have forgiven himself. Wow, he thought, I must be getting really fuckin' mature.
Eventually, the Scouse football stud stopped reading tabloid accounts of his old England teammate's troubles on the island, stopped inventing nightmare scenarios where he was the centre of the same scandals, and dragged himself from the pool. He found his fluffy robe and wrapped it about his damp body then stopped by the pool bar, intending to take a strong drink to his room and load up some Netflix for the rest of his final night of holiday. In the morning he would rejoin the lads and fly their separate ways, them to Liverpool and he to London.
As he got his drink, Ross was also given a final bill for the room -- he must have looked alarmed at this because the hot Greek woman quickly explained that it was all paid for now but this was just a receipt. He laughed it off, judging his own scally reaction when he could afford to live in this fucking place forever. He thanked her, took his whiskey cocktail and the paper receipt, and made his way up to the lifts in his robe and flip-flops. Resting against the wall of the elevator, he scanned the receipt of Eric's few days here before he took over to complete the week. Gym use, massages booked, a luxury diving excursion, and... `premium video content'. Barkley was unable to contain a little smirk of mischief at this euphemism.
In the room, he put down his drink on a side-table and binned the receipt, then sat cross-legged on the little chaise longue by the bed, grabbing a remote and flicking on the huge screen, With the grin of an overgrown schoolboy, Barkley thumbed through some electronic menus, loading up the premium menu' to see if he could indeed still view whatever his room's previous occupant had bought and enjoyed. Sure enough, there it was: your premium purchases', and an incomplete title Hot Greek B...' Ross laughed aloud in the empty suite, leaning forward slightly in his position, so amused by a worldly stud like Dier splashing his money on naff porno while on holiday! He hit ok' to load up the purchased movie', if you could call it that, and then there it was. The full title, crossing the screen in 1980s neon, overlaying a panning shot of an island much like Mykonos. Golden sand, azure water, bronze bodies. Ross Barkley stared at the opening frames of Hot Greek Boys Go Wild 3' and blinked three times. Eric's preferred and paid for porno unfolded slowly before him as a scantily clad lifeguard climbed down his tower and exaggeratedly surveyed the busy beach for trouble, bulging from his red speedos and scratching his rug of chest hair.
Ross stared at it, paused it, looked at the title in the corner of the screen.
What. The. Fuck.