Part 235: With A Little Help from Their Friends
The Sunday night train was as quiet as a Sunday night train. The other half of the four-person booth was empty so at least he could jut out his tree-trunk legs and rest his socked ankles on the other side as he sat staring thoughtfully at nothing in particular, comfortable in the melancholic atmosphere of the journey.
The outskirts of London were zipping by outside of the window, amber lights skipping through inky h, leaving the density of the city behind and thinning into the suburbs and home counties. The only noises were the low rattling thrum of the train itself and a couple of very faint voices from a conversation at the far end of this carriage, only the occasional emphasised word properly audible between them.
Ross sat at enough of angle for his shoulder and the side of his head to lean into the window, absorbing the vibrations of the carriage in a numbing, soporific way. His arms were folded over his middle, hugging the parka coat about his layered Aston Villa kit, the same club tracksuit in which he'd fled the Southampton hotel at the start of this long, strange day.
He hadn't been able to stick around at the team hotel after the morning disturbance and mix-up. It hadn't just been Jack, frantic and repentant, bouncing about their room like a deranged frog, or the prospect of so much attention on him again whilst he was hungover and emotional, his Saturday goal likely to have been cheered and toasted again at breakfast. He'd wanted to get out and search the streets of the south coast city for Eric, but he'd known that was futile even as he set out in this very outfit. Once he was out, he'd just wanted to be out, and away, and alone.
And now here he was, on his own, snoozing on a near-deserted train that would zip him from Euston to Birmingham New Street, and then on out to the edge of the big city and to the bland new home he had still barely settled into in the leafy neighbourhoods of Aston Villa's training park. It would be late when he got back, and maybe he'd get a taxi for the connection instead, to speed it up and to make sure he actually got a few hours kip before training came tomorrow.
He lay sombrely against the side of the booth and sighed grimly at the thought of the lonely house he would return back to, and the empty cold bed he would need to climb into for those few hours' sleep.
The 22-year-old midfielder had a spring in his step as he entered his apartment building. He was a little tired from his side's 2-0 home win earlier in the afternoon, but a timely benching had left him with energy to spare and the score-line given him a buoyant mood that even made him whistle brightly to himself as he punched the right number into the lift and sailed upwards through the West London block.
Mason Mount had worried a lot about his position at Chelsea in a post-Frank world, but the new guy seemed to have little but praise for him, and his centrality was carrying on -- there was a certain dose of guilt to enjoy the change of tone in training and team talks, and he did miss many elements of Lampard's leadership, but the guilt fizzled out when he smirkingly remembered the send-off he and his mates had given their lecherous DILF boss in his office. Mason still sprung a semi in his trackies when he recalled the four of them and the gaffer, and he sniggered now to think of it, exiting the elevator and turning down his corridor, a backpack slung casually over one shoulder of his blue jersey.
He saw the loitering male figure at the far end of the corridor, but he made no connection to himself until they were moving this way and, he realised, approaching the same doorway in the spaced-out row of them -- and then he looked at him properly, and realised how recognisable the bigger bloke was beneath the fur-lined hood of his chunky parka. He actually saw the Villa insignia before he saw the brooding facial features, but when he'd registered both, he started with a mix of alarm and pleasure, and called out at him. `Barkley!'
Indoors, the kettle was quickly filled and switched on, the heating dialled up, some overpriced health food snacks grabbed out of the fridge, and then Mason was staring curiously at his estranged friend over the counter that separated the parts of this open-plan space. This is mad,' he repeated for the third or fourth time, de-bagging one of the cuppas and pushing it across the surface to Ross, then stirring his own. I mean, good mad, always awesome to see ya, but...' He paused. `How did you even get in?' He squinted thoughtfully at the older bloke, who seemed pink-cheeked and shivery from the cold but had been lurking on the corridor waiting for him.
Slid in after a couple,' the Scouser muttered. Errm, few minutes before you got here, to be honest. I'd waited outside for a bit before that, like.'
For a bit?' Mason asked, with his eyebrows raised. You look frozen to the bone, big man.'
Barkley shrugged, and held the hot cup gratefully in two hands. I just needed to see ya.' He said this quite frantically, but then added in a slower, lumpier tone, While I'm in town, that's all.'
Well, sure,' Mount agreed a little hesitantly, then got to the point -- And what ARE you doing in town...?' First, he found himself frowning suspiciously, pointing out, You were in Southampton right? I saw your header, fucking first-class, buddy, but how come you're...' And then he found himself grinning ear-to-ear and leaning forward a little. No way. You're in talks with the boss man? You're coming home to Chelsea again? Shit, I did wonder, but the transfer window is closing at midnight, and...`
No,' his visitor barked hoarsely, not that. No word from Tuchel to me, none.'
Oh, right. No, guess not -- I just wondered, what if Frank going and all, maybe...' He trailed off awkwardly, wondering how Barkley really felt about the situation; from what little he'd seen and heard, the Scouse attacking midfielder seemed oddly settled at the new club, was really enjoying himself on and off the pitch. But you could never tell with this stony tower of a lad; Mason had eaten avocados that expressed more emotion. Then what's going on?' he demanded a little more pushily, starting to worry. `Why are you here on my doorstep? God, it's like... Mykonos, or summat.'
Don't,' Ross grumbled regretfully. I can go.'
`No, I'm not saying that, OBVIOUSLY,' Mason told him in a rush.
Ross took slow, slurping sips. `Where's... Dec?'
Mason blinked a few times, had to re-hear the question. Oh, work,' he said. I mean, West Ham are playing tonight, against the champs. Big night for them. He's optimistic, bless him, I guess you never know...' He grinned loosely, thinking of his own private plans: he'd been excited to have the flat to himself for the evening, if he was honest, not because he was at all sick of Rice's company, but just because he wanted to slob about and watch Netflix and, even more, he wanted the excited rush of Declan's late return and the pleasure of seeing him after a little absence.
`Right,' muttered Ross.
Mate,' chirped Mason softly, what's going on, eh? Are you in trouble?'
`No! Why does everyone always assume I'm in trouble, just cos I'm from Liverpool...?'
It's not that, you're just... Well. A bit unlucky. So you're okay? You just randomly happen to be sitting in my flat in Chelsea and not on your way back to Villa after a weekend win with your teammates, eh...?' He gave him a gently accusing look, pouted a little, and tilted his head. It's really good to see you again, you big sexy bastard.'
Elsewhere, the late afternoon leeching away into evening, someone else was pouting with realer sulk, stomping back and forth in a comfort lounge a on the near-top floor of the hotel, away from the majority of the other visiting Tottenham players, exiled from their ranks and staring out grumpily through the long high windows down onto the wintry seaside glamour of Brighton.
He knew Mourinho was justified: it was very odd behaviour, failing to turn up at the Spurs training compound and catching the coach down here with everybody else, as per the norm. He obviously hadn't admitted to anyone that the reason he showed up late at the Brighton hotel in his own car was an ill-advised road trip to Southampton further west along the English coast. And so his failure to explain himself had created an awkward vacuum into which the bosses could pile all sorts of negative assumptions: mainly that he was hungover or had done dodgy drugs, and just massively overslept.
Regardless of the truth, the consequence was the same. Eric Dier was dropped from the Spurs squad for their evening game against Brighton; he was still named on the bench as a substitute, but the intense Portuguese head coach had made it very clear that he would not be getting any minutes on the pitch tonight and would be lucky if he was re-added to the defensive line-up for their London derby against Chelsea later in the week.
The 27-year-old scowled and fiddled with the cuffs of his jumper, feeling grubby in last night's clothing, remembering that he didn't even shower before hurrying out to the car this morning, the rapid drive out of London already feeling days ago rather than earlier today. It had been so early then that he realistically could have driven back to the capital and turned up at the training ground with time to spare, and then he'd be safely in Mourinho's squad plans still... but after what he'd discovered at the Aston Villa team hotel, he'd needed time alone. Eric had driven out of the city but just found a quiet seaside village halfway between there and Brighton and sat on the shingle for a few sullen hours, tempted to abscond entirely from the Sunday football game.
It was probably for the best that he'd been harshly benched. He was hardly in the right frame of mind for a game, even one that Tottenham were seeing as low-risk. No, this was right, this was what he deserved. He glumly fretted over his own behaviour and the fact he would just have to keep his head low and take some pushy banter from his teammates about it for the whole of February, a repeat of last season's little ban for violence in the stands.
Dier prided himself on his professionalism and honour, hated being in the wrong like this, so it just sunk his already low mood further, and he couldn't even face going to his room to rest up with Lamela. Instead, he was avoiding everyone else and just pacing random communal spaces like this, internally ranting against himself for being so stupid -- so stupid to jeopardise his career like that, but even more stupid to think that... well, he had just... if only he had... He thought with brief resentment of optimistic young Troy and his naïve advice; sweet kid, but what did he know about the real world?! The resentment couldn't last, and he knew he could not blame Parrott at all. In fact, he thought, the poor lad would be travelling up to meet his new team in Ipswich this evening and dealing with a pretty shitty deal of his own.
Eric sighed and went back to blaming himself.
`Er -- excuse me, Mr Dier?'
The 6ft2 footballer half-turned, looking concernedly at the young female hotel staff now stood diagonally from him, looking apprehensive to approach him; he must be radiating such a horrible gloom or foul mood. He failed to smile but tried to look calm and approachable. `Yeah...?'
There is a visitor for you in reception, sir,' she said primly. I have told him that the rules don't really allow visitors -- your team's people were really very clear to us on how the rules work and everything, sir -- but he is just... well, he won't go away and...' She seemed about to explode, her cheeks going quite red. `Well, he's... erm...' She put a hand over her mouth for a moment, her eyes excited; she could only be 19 at the oldest. She told him the identity of his alleged visitor and he stared coolly back at her, not letting the rising anger show in his face or his shoulders, though his fists clenched painfully in the pockets of his bottoms.
Right, yes,' he said through gritted teeth. I'll be down in a moment.'
`Of course, sir!' She looked a bit like she might pass out from excitement over the handsome fucker downstairs, turning on her heel and disappearing. He followed her down at a distance, trying his best to steel himself and work out what the hell was going on. In reception, he saw the young woman disappear behind her desk and then his eyes found the loping, shifty figure of a guy in a tracksuit in the corner, pretending to rifle through a set of magazines and newspapers. The lad turned to look at him, and he simply nodded ahead, through the automatic doors and out into the hotel grounds. He didn't stop or say a word, just motored on outdoors into the fresh air. Eric didn't stop until they were a good distance from the hotel entrance, and even then just turned and stared icily at the incongruous visitor.
Eric,' the other guy said weakly. We need a chat, fella.'
Dier glared balefully at the handsome, floppy-haired prick in his Aston Villa gear. Do we?' he asked simply. Do we, really, Jack?'
Ross stared gloomily into the tub, watching it fill, bubble, steam.
It'll do you good,' Mason was saying nearby, you need to unwind, that's all. I wish you'd really tell me what had happened. I hate seeing you like this, Barks. Come on. Here, I've got you a towel. Well, you're not getting in there in your tracksuit bottoms, are you?'
Ross stared quietly at him, standing shirtless by the tub in the corner of the flat's spacious single bathroom. `Guess not,' he grunted, loosening the simple drawstring on his Aston Villa trackies then pushing down on their waist, peeling them down the muscles of his legs and stepping out of them beside the bath. He hesitated with the final layer, the dirty grey pants of yesterday evening that he still wore against his lower half, but saw the young Chelsea ace's wry grin.
Oh come on, it's nothing new,' Mount pointed out. And I won't take any photos this time, mate.'
Barkley grimaced at his cheery good humour but also felt a pang of gratitude. He'd tried to tell him, tried to explain himself, but had struggled with the words. He'd given only the vaguest outline to his predicament, his loose sexual behaviour and affairs of the heart, and quietly let Mason get the wrong idea that it involved his female ex in London. And of course, the sweet little cherub he was, the midfield whizz-kid was doing everything to pamper and comfort him and was assuring him that the spare room was his if he needed it.
Ross shed the undies, pushing them away and lifting his knees until they were tangled down at one ankle and could be left on the bathroom floor. Then, cock swinging loose, he stepped into the steaming hot bath and descended his big cheeks into it, then the rest of his tall strong body, draping his arms across the side and letting the hot water tingle and scorch at his bare skin. He let out a little moan of relief at it after all, proving Mason right, and prompting a slightly smug grin on his face.
There,' the younger footballer pointed out simply, disappearing behind him, though not quite leaving yet. He was adjusting the lighting, turning off the harsher overhead fittings and just switching on a mellow lamp somewhere, so that Ross could properly relax in the swell of hot water, breathing in whatever fancy aromatic products his host had mixed into it. He mumbled a soft-spoken thank you to the lad, expecting him to go then, a little surprised when he heard his quiet footsteps approach and then his presence just behind him. How's that feel?' Mason asked in a whisper.
`It's good,' he admitted.
`Just what you needed, right?'
`I guess.'
`You want me to put some chill-out music on, maybe?'
`Errrm, nah, don't think so.'
`No worries.'
He tensed a little at the feel of one of Mason's hands on his shoulder, right beside the neck, and then the second on the other side, but Mason made a soft cooing kind of noise, turning into another `Relax, mate', and then his fingers began to knead. Ross resisted the massage for several long moments, surprised and a little annoyed, but the thin strong fingers cut through the dense contracted muscles around the base of his neck and soon his body could only submit. He let out a slow purr as the two massaging hands and the lapping heat of the bathtub joined forces against his mood and his stiff defensiveness.
`That okay...?' Mount asked soothingly.
`It's... yeh, it's... okay.'
The fingers and thumbed pulled across his hot skin, massaging back and forth across the hard platform of his shoulders, then back around the base and sides of his thick muscular neck. He couldn't hold in the soft little purrs like a stroked pet, the rest of his body sinking a little more into the bubbly water, though his long loose prick floated ominously against the surface like a stray island in a fomenting sea. He barely noticed the grace with which his masseur's digits slid forward over his shoulders a little, inching forward with each gently oiled brush until they were rubbing the tops of his pecs and moving out against the joins of his arms and shoulders at times... mmm, it just felt good and relaxing, really quite nice... Ross closed his eyes and relaxed back into it, feeling the firm soothing push of Mason's fingers move further onto his chest and then...
`Mmm. Mate.'
Very soft, the edge of Mason's fingers tickled at the soft circles of his nipples, and then a little more firmly, and then just a mite of pinching and-
Mate,' he growled more firmly, tensing up, and lifting one assertive wet hand up to grip the cheeky youngster by the wrist, even as his floating cock twitched at the explorative touch. No,' he said decisively, pushing the hand away. `Just... let me soak, will you...? Please?'
Look,' he said firmly, it just isn't what it looked like. I keep telling you. I mean, or what it sounds like. I know what I said, but... I was being a dick, I was confused. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't even think I was speaking to Ross, for fuck's sake! I've told ya, mate, it's...' He ran out of words, staring desperately at the other bloke in this quiet hedged square `tranquility garden' that they had found for a scrap of privacy in their far-from-tranquil dialogue.
Dier just looked quite scornfully at him, sat on the opposite of the two narrow benches. Why do you think I care?' the moody big lad demanded, not for the first time. You've got your wires crossed. I don't give a shit what Ross Barkley does. I don't get why you're here.'
Grealish huffed loudly, frustrated by the circular head-banging conversation he was now in. He stared hard at the Tottenham player across from him, a little appalled by his dismissive bitter tone and the aloof way he held himself. Jack had to keep reminding himself how all this looked to the other England player, had to remind himself he was the villain of the piece in Eric's stony eyes.
`There's nothing going on between Ross and me,' he said for the tenth time.
Lovely,' snapped Dier moodily. Is that it? I could do with getting back to my teammates.'
You need to listen to me,' Jack insisted in his deep Brummie accent. Mate...'
Eric got to his feet, seeming incredibly tall and broad as he loomed over him, but Jack shot up to his, blocking his path to escape the secluded little square of space, the hedges coming up to their shoulders. He had come a long way and risked a lot of embarrassment by giving his clubmates the slip and travelling here to Brighton; he wasn't going to give up now. It had struck him as the only option, the only direct action available to him, and he'd barely stopped to think it through once the idea was in his head, but he'd honestly imagined it would be much easier. He imagined himself as heroic, sweeping in here and dropping the truth of the misunderstanding on Eric Dier, and the whole thing being entirely resolved, just like that!
He braced himself and lowered his voice further, and fought on. You know he's totally into you, right?' the wiry winger snapped at the Spurs man. You know he's crazy about you?'
`This conversation is over,' Dier informed him gruffly, shaking his head.
Has been for ages now,' Jack went on truthfully. I mean, I didn't get it at first -- I thought it was some bird, that's all. Could tell he was falling for someone though. You can just tell, can't you? You can see it in people. The way they carry on. Their mood, and that.'
`Right, are you finished yet, cos I need to...'
He's mad for you!' Jack hissed at him. I can see it. And he near enough said it to me last night, lying in bed. Yeah, that's what we were doing, TALKING. About you, for fuck's sake. You dunce. I mean, he never named you, he'd never "out" you like that, he's got too much fuckin' respect for ya, but he... Oh man, he's fucking out of his mind with love, he doesn't know what to do with it! Are you hearing me, Dier? You understanding me, mate?'
I think you've got this wrong,' the defender growled back at him quite aggressively. I don't know why you think I care about any of this. You've got it wrong, you jumped-up little Brummie. Back off, okay? Run back to your Villa, what are you doing here? This is mad.'
I needed to talk to you,' Jack said. I needed to explain things...'
`Well, you've done it, so just fuck off now, yeah?'
Why are you being like this? I've told you, I'm not the enemy, I didn't... we didn't-
`I'm sick of hearing about what you have and haven't done, Grealish!'
This isn't about ME,' he pleaded. Forget about me!'
`I wish I fucking could.'
`This is about you and Ross, nothing else. Please. Don't hate him because of me, or...'
`I thought this wasn't about you...?'
`Oh, for fuck's sake, mate...!'
Just get this straight, Jacko,' yelled Eric indiscreetly, shoving him in the chest and towering forward over him, the taller bulkier footballer. I don't give a rat's arse. I don't care about any of this. You think I give a shit? I do what I want, I see what I want and I take it, I'm not the one mooning around being all romantic and that kinda dumb shit, how stupid do you think I am...?' He looked venomous, and the rage of his motions both shocked Jack and brought up his own fiery temper.
`Don't you touch me again,' he began belligerently.
Or what, you'll drop to your knees?' spat Eric, quite literally. Yeah, I remember it, you and your bum-chum Benjamin, you both give GREAT head. Which of you was better, hmm? God, that was a funny day in the sun, at the cottage, wasn't it...'
Jack stared resentfully at him, recalling for a second the feel of warm lawn beneath his bare limbs and grovelling down in front of the majestic 27-year-old, opening wide to suck on his fat meat. He remembered watching, with the seeds of a jealousy that had only become stronger over the course of last year, Ben do the same. What's that got to do with anything?' he snapped back. Not here to talk about Harry Maguire's kinky parties, am I? Bloody hell, mate...'
I'm just saying, why do you think any lad matters to me?' Eric asked him frostily. I just get my fix and move on, I don't need none of this soppy shit like you and your Chilwell. You've got me wrong. But... well, he gives REALLY good blowies, your boy Ben, so... he must be popular at Chelsea, I guess...?' This was just bullshit, Jack thought, just stupid efforts to provoke and get back at him; Dier was pissed off, clearly, was still full of rage, but...
Leave Ben out of this,' he said moodily. Honestly, Eric, I just came here to tell you that Ross, he...'
But you were good too, REAL good,' murmured Dier, and suddenly he was grabbing down at the front of Jack's pants, feeling him through two layers, massaging at the weighty presence of his cock. And I definitely remember how much you and your lover boy were packing, what a pair of heavyweights...! Mmm, I bet you'd drop to your knees for me here and now, wouldn't you?' Still fumbling at Jack's crotch with one hand, he pushed down the front of his sweatpants with the other and let his cock and balls daringly out in the fresh air, a view meant to arouse or provoke; Grealish found himself staring at it, both admiring and angry.
Stop it,' he muttered, you're being a twat.'
You come all this way, teasing me with that cute big arse, Jacko, and you're not gonna let me have a go on it?' Eric demanded hoarsely. I wanted to that day, y'know, I had to settle for Maddison eating my load, didn't I...? Just Madders, not the real prizes available...' He narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. `I don't give a shit what Ross Barkley is up to or feeling, he's nothing to me!'
Jack pulled away, releasing his crotch from the tempting and tantalising feel of Eric's fingers. Stop it,' he insisted angrily. Are you even convincing yourself?' he called challengingly into his face. `Who are you pretending to be right now? This ain't the Eric Dier any of us know. Back off, mate. I needed to come here and explain myself, and I've done it. I'll go.'
`At last,' muttered Eric darkly, pushing his privates away and taking a cold step backwards, his face all frowns and sneer, but a shaky tension gripping his body as if Jack's words had stung him at last.
I'll go,' Jack told him fiercely. Get out of your face, leave you to it. For fuck's sake, mate. Just listen to me. You've got this ALL wrong. Stop messing about and listen to me, please.'
You've said what you came to say,' he was told brutally, and he gave the older man a withering look before backing away from him and out of the secluded square, annoyed by the way his cock was curling into a semi and bulging in the front of his glossy tracksuit bottoms. He pulled his coat tighter about him to hide it, glaring at the Spurs man, and shaking his head. You don't have a clue what you're missing out on,' he called at him. `He's a solid bloke, our Ross. If you can't see that, you don't deserve him, or anyone else.'
Eric just looked at him with a kind of blank rage. I don't know what you're on about, Villa boy. Piss off back to Birmingham, will ya? We don't all need a cosy little boyfriend to cuddle up to.' He seemed to stop and think, and his voice became nastier. Wonder who he's cuddling up to now after they won their game, eh...? Plenty of talent on that Chelsea team these days....'
Jack scowled bitterly at him and turned away, sick of this humiliating exchange that had played out so differently in his head, furious at himself for failing to pitch it right or make more of an impact on the fella. He rushed away, feeling the cold coastal winds whip at his goateed face and the long loose strands of his chestnut hair. Behind him, he could almost feel Eric's angry blue eyes bore into him, but when he looked back, the other footballer was just striding dismissively back towards the hotel without another glance.
Mason grinned covetously at him across the room, pausing in the act of emptying out fresh buttery popcorn to admire the statuesque profile of loaned-out Chelsea man, sitting at one end of his new sofa with an expression of weary attentiveness on his face. Ross had submitted quite willingly to Mason's choice of early evening films, quiet and compliant after his long bath, and his big warm presence was not such a terrible interruption to Mount's plans for an empty flat. In the strange mood Barkley had brought with him, it was more like having a large docile pet or a very warm pillow to snuggle beside; not a real invasion of his briefly relished privacy.
The 22-year-old was allowing himself to become quite excited by it, he had to admit, and he returned across the apartment now with the large glass bowl of popcorn, depositing it over the blanket on his friend's lap and then dropping down onto the sofa with him, a little close than before since they had the buttery snack to share and munch as the teen comedy played out towards its predictable denouement.
`Thanks,' Barkley said distantly, plunging a fist into the yellowed corn, not taking his dull eyes from the screen, but relaxing a little further into the corner of the sofa.
Salty popcorn is the best,' Mason told him keenly, allowing himself to slide in against the relaxed curve of his friend's physique, resting sideways into the muscles of his arm and side, snatching a little at the Burberry blanket to pull it over his own sweatpants as he made himself comfortable. Only losers go for sweet,' he added contentiously, taking his own handful and picking noisily at it while he glanced from the screen to his restive guest. Barkley's body heat seeped against him and the feel of his docile strength lingered excitingly beneath blankets and clothing, reminding Mount of just how forceful and masculine the Liverpudlian footballer really was -- it was odd, he hadn't thought often of big Ross in the months since his Stamford Bridge exit, but now he was here beside him... Mason's cock twitched inappropriately and he found himself watching the 27-year-old stud more than the screen.
Eventually, a few handfuls of popcorn later, he dropped his hand against the side of the bowl instead, and let it hang for a few minutes in the space it formed against the folds of the blanket, a spot approximately over the man's crotch. The movie buzzed on and there was no obvious reaction from Ross. Mason lifted his hand again, adjusted the blanket, and then discreetly slid his hand under the blanket, so that it was in against the material of the borrowed West Ham tracksuit pants -- his knuckles against the hardness of the popcorn bowl but his fingers playing quietly against the superheated bulge under there, groping gently in at the crotch. He held his breath as he traced the outline of a big dormant cock and felt its slow warm response. Beside him, Ross emitted the slightest of sighs.
Mason grinned eagerly and squeezed a little more firmly, feeling his own dick begin to strain at his boxer shorts and sweatpants and make an outline in the lay of the blanket. He edged his body closer to give his arm more leverage, really plumping his fingers along the chubby form of the bigger man's gradually hardening member. Feels even bigger than I remember,' the Chelsea player murmured, letting his thumb play in circles against the side of the head. It's nice to have a... reminder.'
`Mate,' wheezed Barkley uncertainly.
Mount didn't say a word, he just closed his hand possessively about the huge shape, leaned in and planted one soft kiss on Barkley's shoulder through the thin hot fabric of his tshirt, longing to taste his bath-scented skin. He edged his hand to the waist, finding the space between top and bottom, stroking hard skin and edging his fingertips into the waistband, then... No,' coughed the older lad, not quite pushing him away but tensing and holding him at arm's length. No,' he repeated firmly.
Mason suppressed his annoyance and just grinned encouragingly. `For old time's sake?' he whispered.
`No!' Now he was pushed away, a little more roughly than he expected, and he slid across the sofa to compose himself. The popcorn bowl was upturned messily to the rug as Ross got up from the sofa and blanket, his hard-on a visible diagonal in the fabric of Declan's trackies -- Mason's would never have fit him. Mason stared with mixed feelings at the West Ham logo on the thigh, positioned right next to the shape of Ross' cock.
Sorry,' he muttered weakly, getting up to his feet and adjusting the lines of his own erection in his pants. I didn't mean anything, mate, I was just... playing about, y'know, like we used to...'
`And what about your man?' Barkley demanded with surprising force.
Mason coloured but rallied. Me and Dec are fine, thank you,' he said tartly. It's going really well and we're a lot more chilled than you'd think -- he doesn't mind a little bit of extra fun going on, we're just so tight together that we can...'
`Are you sure?' demanded Ross with piercing eyes.
Mason made a vague grumbling sound. If you knew the playtime we've had with others!' he said with awkward boastfulness, wanting to tell Ross all about the four-way with Jack and Ben or their shocking inclusion of chavvy Phil Foden. Maybe those narratives would get him really excited and tip him over the edge into some sweaty fun right now... Don't look at me like that,' he told his guest crossly, `I didn't mean to offend you, I thought you'd like it, there was a time you really enjoyed a bit of fun with me, mate...'
Yeah,' muttered Barkley, until suddenly I wasn't the main attraction any more.'
Mason paused at this, squinting suspiciously at him. What's that mean? You mean when my best friend became way more?' A heavy thud of epiphany. What, are you jealous? But...' His mind raced to recalibrate. What we did never meant anything special to you, you made that clear.' He laughed uncomfortably. Right? You were just letting off steam, you were never actually... INTO it... were you?' A specially preserved little memory came to him of this very room: the single tender kiss he and Ross had ever shared, the little explosion of tension after he had been forgiven for leaking those intimate photographs of his sexy older teammate through failing to delete them...
Barkley didn't answer this, but his manner was telling. Sulky, indignant, awkward. Tugging at the ill-fitting West Ham pants and adjusting the sit of his hard-on. He shook his head. Behave yourself, Mase,' he grunted. You're a good lad. We both know Dec wouldn't like this. You know he... doesn't trust me, not like that. You were out of order, yeah?'
Mason nodded slowly, accepting the truth. `I'm sorry, I just got... Well. You know what you do to me.'
`Don't say that, you're with him now.'
I know. I know. And I love him so much.' Mason felt the shame wash over him. I think it's better if we forget I did that, erm...'
Already forgotten!' Ross returned urgently. I ought to go.'
No, don't be daft. You can stay. Dec really isn't so silly and jealous now, he won't mind. I'm cooking up a roast for our dinner, actually, it'll be cool to have you help and stay, I'll just message him and warn him, say you're having an, erm, bit of a... bad time? I dunno.' He found himself frowning concernedly. What IS going on, Ross? Why won't you tell me? Is it your ex? Or something else?' And that memory again, nibbling at his conscience. `You never felt anything for me, did you? I just always -- I mean, I figured it was just... friends helping out friends, right...? You're not... you're straight, right?'
Barkley stared moodily at him and pursed his lips. Mason took a step towards him, reached for his arm, felt him pull sharply away. Don't be like that,' he murmured sadly. I shouldn't have messed about before, I'm sorry, I really just wanna be a good pal, you know? I'm not trying to cause trouble!'
`I know, I know,' Ross assured him heavily, but he was turning away, marching through the flat -- into the bathroom, where his dirty clothes were still a heap on the floor. He began to strip from the borrowed Rice items Mount had given him, and he felt a fresh embarrassment at the seedy thrill he'd felt in watching this brute stud pull on his boyfriend's underwear. Mason stood in the corridor and stared mournfully at him as he pulled on his own Aston Villa gear, silent but stormy, suddenly implacable.
You can't go,' Mason said, but it sounded pathetic out loud. I wish you'd tell me what's wrong. Who's got you down like this? I wish you'd talk to me, Ross. Or... talk to anyone. It would help.' He spoke fast, rushing out truths he'd wanted to share for a long time. `I do worry about you -- you keep so much inside, don't you? I worry you'll just blow up one day!'
I'm going,' Barkley told him gruffly, moving past him and finding his coat where it hung on the back of a chair. He didn't look angry any more, just sad. I need to be back in Birmingham. Training tomorrow morning. I'll already get a bollocksing for fucking off this morning, I guess.' He paused, as if he was changing his mind, and Mason hurried at him, grabbing at his arm, only to be shaken away. Thanks for having me,' the Scouser mumbled uncomfortably, giving him a very sincere look in the eyes. It was good, but it wasn't fair of me to come. Just like Mykonos. You were right.'
Ross, please...' He moved away, heading for the door. Mason plucked up his courage and called after him. Who is he then?' That stopped him, and he looked anxiously over his shoulder. `I get it. There's finally someone important to you. Who is he? Ross, please... let me help you, won't you? I just want to see you safe and happy! I'm sorry for being a dick, I can't help myself... stay here and we can talk PROPERLY, yeah...?'
Ross just sighed and shook his head. `I should go.' The door slammed after him and Mason stood guiltily in the centre of the room, still holding the West Ham pants he had picked up from the hall floor when they were discarded. An alarm chimed on the phone in his pocket: kick-off time for their match against Liverpool.
The phone buzzed in the pocket of his dark blue trackies, throbbing against a tensed thigh muscle. He ignored it, staring fixedly onto the pitch at the beginnings of the game against Brighton, but adjusted his seated position when it ceased and slid the device out to check. He'd expected it to be another missed call from Grealish, who had been doggedly trying to call him for the past half hour; fuck knows why, surely he had said everything he had to say to his face...?
In fact, it was a single missed call from Mason Mount, the other England regular's goofy grins and tufty brown hair showing from a contact icon beside the notification. Odd, the two of them weren't close and didn't often speak outside of England trips, both fiercely loyal to their opposing London clubs. Dier stared brutally at the additional missed call logged on his phone and then weighed the handset gloomily in his palm, staring back and forth between its impatient screen and the unfolding action below in the rather humble stadium of the south coast team.
The other Spurs substitutes ranged around him, spaced out in the two rows of seating behind the management dugout, all of them a little more fixated on the match than he, since they weren't explicitly banned from playing because of their bad behaviour. They would surely guess that he wasn't likely to be taken off the bench himself, all of them having seen his dressing-down from their intense boss when he showed up late in the hotel lobby, looking a little worse for wear. Disappearing outside for no apparent reason (how could he explain that Jack Grealish had been there demanding his attention?) had hardly improved things, making him walk in late to a team talk in the conference room and earn further glares and tuts from the coaching hierarchy.
Dier was too deep in his sulk to properly consider these consequences, just as he had been too deep in his misery to properly talk to Grealish -- too surprised, apart from anything else, to really process what the Villa captain wanted to tell him. And certainly too belligerent and defensive, too scared of being hurt further, to really stop and listen, and risk feeling more miserable about the direction today had taken.
He was ashamed of the cold shoulder he had given the lad. Jack was a player he admired and respected, just like almost everyone else in the League. There were few guys in the Premiership attracting more praise than the Brummie winger. And he was a fucking lovely guy. Eric felt horrible about the way he'd treated him, but he had been unable to hold down the anger, and basically just too terrified of snatching the crumbs of hope thrown his way.
But in the hours since... there had been a lot of silent thought, alienated temporarily from his teammates and unable to really give proper thought to a game he was so firmly excluded from. That left him mulling over every word that the Aston Villa player had yelped at him, slowly reframing the scene he had walked in on this morning in that Southampton hotel... slowly daring to believe that maybe he'd misunderstood, and more agonisingly tempting, to believe that Ross Barkley really felt something back for him in return...
The boldness that had driven him onto the road this morning, Troy's innocent advice reverberating in his head, was flailing in a sea of insecurity. His hopes were thin and wilting, but he kept seeing Jack's earnest face and hearing his deep, drawling accent.
Still in his palm, the phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and he looked at hesitantly. Sure enough, it too was from Jack. It was short and simple and just as earnest as anything he had said. `Look m8 sorry 2 upset u 2day -- but u gotta believe wot I'm sayin. He has real feelings. Don't waste them. Peace, bro.' It was desperately sweet, after the way Dier had shot down the messenger, and it made him squirm guiltily in his seat. He looked distractedly back at the game, which wasn't beginning well for the London visitors, trying his best to forget the messages and missed calls in his pocket.
The sound of the doorbell was a mildly annoying interruption, even though he was doing nothing more with his time than tidying up laundry upstairs and strolling moonily about the house feeling put out that he hadn't been able to play in today's game, sat out on the bench rested with a minor injury and denied even a short appearance in the second half. Almost kidding himself it wasn't an exciting moment to hear the door and head down to meet whatever delivery waited out front, Ben Chilwell headed down through the house, dragging his bare feet a little on the various laminate floors, a pair of baggy American basketball shorts draped about his legs and a loose overshirt covering up his upper body.
`Whoa,' the 23-year-old exclaimed in the doorway when he had pulled it in and looked at the man waiting for him on the step, standing there sheepishly with his hands in his pockets and his hair pulled back under a baseball cap.
`Wotcha,' the Brummie lad mumbled coyly, not stepping forward to the door.
Jack,' he breathed, recovering from the jarring surprise, and breaking into a quick smile that creased his lips and eyes. What the fuck?'
`Hey babe,' his lover said with the same awkward coyness that always came with any such pet name or more verbal affection, still seeming to snigger at his own sentimentality.
What are you doing? Is everything okay?' Chilwell stepped aside and gestured him impatiently in. Come on. Get in here.' He took hold of the door and pushed it shut so that as soon as they wee both indoors, he could slide an arm around the other lad's waist and pull him in, slapping a wet kiss to his lips that prevented any immediate answer to his own questions.
Is this okay?' Jack murmured. I was just -- well, I had to come through London, and... Aw fuck, I just needed to see you, Ben. I really shouldn't be here, but... mate, I've just spent about a week's salary on taxi fares. Ha ha. It's okay, right? I can stay? You don't mind?'
Ben just creased up with grins and could hardly answer for laughing. Okay? You tit. Get here. I love you.' He kissed him more slowly and passionately on the mouth. This is amazing. But... everything's okay, right? I mean -- shouldn't you be in Birmingham, or something? And don't you have training in the morning...?' He stared concernedly at his boyfriend, his own selfish delight mingled with genuine concern for Grealish.
I was thinking I might call in sick,' Jack told him with a more playful shyness to his tone and his smirking face. It's been a long time and I'm such a good captain, y'know... maybe I call in sick and we take the day together here before I travel up...? Hey, maybe YOU even drive me up there tomorrow... after brunch and about five shags?'
Ben giggled back at him and stroked his sides. You cheeky bugger. You know I won't stop fucking you long enough for brunch.' Another quick wet kiss. But why the hell are you in London? You were in Southampton last night when you were messaging me with that, erm, pretty special video... God, babe, I couldn't stop wanking off this morning when I woke up to it. My dick is sore! That was... wow.' He finished giggling and smirking and held onto his boy tightly. `You're not in some kinda trouble?'
A little,' Jack admitted quietly. Bit of a long story, I guess. But... nah, don't worry, it's not really me. It's... Ross. Ugh, it's complicated -- I would have messaged but it's been one of those strange crazy days. Better explained in person, Benji.'
Ross?' Ben asked slowly and thoughtfully, his hands engaged with stroking around Jack's waist and teasing at the hem of his pants, then slipping under his shirt to stroke his warm muscular tummy. That's odd.'
`What is?'
Well...' He paused, reluctantly delaying the fun of sliding his hands down the back of Jack's tight trackies, and returning Jack's thoughtful stare. It's just funny you mention Barkley. I had the oddest phone call about him from Mase, you see...'
The insides of Euston Station felt colder than the London streets outside of them, the main concourse just a draughty hanger of warring pigeons and crackling incomprehensible overhead announcement. In the centre of it, Ross Barkley stood staring up at the departures board from beneath the fur trim of his baggy hood, slurping on a Burger King milkshake while he waited to see how bad the latest delay was on his train up to Birmingham.
His feet hurt from stupidly walking across the city after leaving Mason's, rather than using the underground or just leaping into a taxi. He was chilly and tired and now just wanted to be home, which would be a good few hours away even without the incremental delays on the screen. The weak adjustments to his departure time chopping away at the hours of sleep he would snatch before facing the music tomorrow morning and crawling to the Villa bosses over his early morning disappearance.
He rocked on his heels, maudlin and impatient, just fixating on the sickly synthetic sweetness of the drink that had followed his burger and chips, none of it particularly enjoyable tonight against the sour taste in his mouth. He would regret the greasy junk food tomorrow but it had seemed a comfort worth seeking in the cold station.
`Ross.'
There was no doubting the low hiss of voice behind him, but still he did. He didn't doubt that he was identifying it correctly, more that he might have entirely imagined it. But then his name was called quietly again and he turned slowly on the spot.
Dier was approaching him across the quiet concourse, dressed in a similarly bulky winter coat over his Tottenham Hotspur tracksuit. Barkley stared at him for the few more steps it took for them to be together, his eyes darting self-consciously to the left and right before resting back on Eric's worried face and nervous posture. The station was so quiet and nobody seemed to be aware of the two Premier League stars meeting at its centre. Ross just stared awkwardly and kept his lips around the straw, waiting for Eric to say anything other than his name. Then it hit him that he had just been looking at the Spurs score on his phone on the way here.
Wait,' he grunted, you should be in Brighton...'
I'm already in enough trouble,' Eric answered quickly. What does going AWOL at half-term count when Jose Mourinho is already pissed off at you, eh...?' He shrugged his broad shoulders beneath the coat. `I can't imagine you're gonna get off without a good slap to the wrist tomorrow yourself, Barks. Pair of troublemakers and runaways, aren't we...?'
I don't get it,' Ross mumbled honestly, how did you find me here...?'
Eric made a weak smile of mischief, shrugging again. With a little help from our friends, that's how. I've had an, er... interesting day. I guess you have too.' His smile was nervous and edgy, his eyes wide and emotional. Ross stared longingly at him, still churning with confusion at how this guy could be here standing beside him in the middle of London when they were both meant to be somewhere else entirely. Mason?' he hazarded uncertainly.
Mason, Ben, Jack,' Eric said with a vagueness that suggested the story no longer mattered, now they were here together. Ross, I... Is it true? Is everything Grealish told me true?'
Barkley shrunk back shyly. `I dunno. What'd he tell you?' In his head, he was screaming: Grealish?! What the fuck had Jack been up to? How was any of this happening?
`That you feel like I do,' Dier told him, his voice almost breaking with feeling.
And,' Ross said slowly and uncomfortably, how do YOU feel?'
There was a heavy silence between them. Somewhere a pigeon squawked. The rough noise made a stupid grin curl on Eric's mouth and then his own, and they both laughed uncomfortably. And then Eric said the magic words. I think I'm a bit in love with you, you know,' he said, his tone wobbling a bit as he said it, and I wish I hadn't messed things up between us last year. I've never felt more shit about anything before.'
You didn't mess up,' Ross blurted instantly. I did.'
`I think maybe we BOTH did, can we say that...?'
Yeah,' he said readily. I really like you Eric. I dunno about love. I dunno if I've ever been in love. Dunno what it would really feel like. But I really like you and I miss you.' All of the monosyllabic words tumbled out in a clumsy rush but as soon as they had he felt incredibly light. It made him burst out with another awkward laugh. He could see the relief and desperation in the other man's face. Yeah,' he said after a pause, I really really like you, Dier.'
Dier hadn't exactly known that he would find Barkley at Euston, but it had seemed likely; he'd had almost no plan at all when he was making his discreet exit from the Brighton stadium and getting back into his car to set off, initially for Birmingham. And then one by one, the voicemails had come through, confusing at first, but clicking slowly together. Chelsea boys Mount and Chilly both keen to inform him that Barkley was in London right now, and trying to get back to the Midlands; Grealish insisting that he needed to forget what he'd seen and heard in the hotel room and just make things right. He'd listened to them all and diverted his drive back home into the city, crawling through its turgid traffic on the fringes and rushing as much as he could into the north of the city centre. He'd sprinted from the impossibly located parking space into the station itself.
And now he was being guided away from the concourse, Barkley's hand on his elbow. Well, there was a poetry to it. Things had began in a station toilet, why shouldn't they pick up there? The unromantic seediness of it hardly mattered, although he did laugh as Ross made the gentlemanly gesture of fishing out the coins that paid for both of them to cross the turnstile into the roomy bleach-scented gentlemen's facilities at the far right of the chilly station. There was something sweet too in the way that Ross found and squeezed his hand once they were in the deserted bathrooms and questing on to the furthest of the cubicles down one side.
Eric licked his lips in anticipation, remembering how satisfyingly large the Scouser's equipment truly was, a good inch or two lengthier than himself and just as thick. He was practically hard already in his own two-day underpants, just being so close to Ross and feeling his hot rough hand on his. He let go o it only to fiddle with and pull to the bolt that locked the stall door after them in and trapped them in a narrow cuboid of each other's presence.
Instantly Ross was grabbing and kissing him, clumsier and more desperate than he could have imagined; it reminded him of first forcing a kiss out of the heartthrob in the stadium toilets during that Villa-Spurs match early this season, when he'd really just been goading and teasing the hunk, yet to discover how sweet and endearing he really was on his own. Now he was kissing all of that, both the rugged footy stud and the beautiful lost boy, snogging his face off and reaching for his cock -- but oddly, his hand was always dissuaded and pushed away and he could only grab at his hip and the side of his thigh, the edge of his mighty buttock. Ross didn't seem to want to let him near his crotch, just focused on the wrangling kisses -- and then, delightfully, grabbing insistently at him instead, finding him rock-hard to attention where it counted.
`Don't make too much noise,' was the only cautious talk he was given before Ross disappeared downwards, and he knew his face lit up with anticipation as he realised why he wasn't being allowed to grab at and feel the Scouser's manhood; he hadn't been dragged in here for a replay of their encounter at Liverpool Street Station months ago, but for a role reversal.
Dier was pushed back against the tiled wall by rough hands on his hips, luckily the external solid wall rather than the flimsy cubicle divide. He let himself be pushed, bringing his arms up against the wall and holding his hands flat in the air Barkley crouched before him, his breaths heavy and rasping, and his fingers scratched a little as they ragged down his sweatpants and the same white briefs that had been eased down by Troy Parrott more than twenty-four hours ago in his own room.
`Ross,' he whispered, but that brought the beautiful man rising up against his front, their chunky coats catching and rustling; Ross brought one hand up to his bearded chin and slid a single silencing finger over his lips, then sank back down, determined. Eric bit his lips and held in the gasp as he felt a mouth close on the package in his briefs, which must be sweaty and musty after too long on. Oh god. His cock had never felt so sore or sensitive, it was SO hard. Every rub or bristle of the other man's mouth made him feel like he might cum prematurely on the soiled cotton.
Then Ross had hooked his thumbs up under the sides of the pants where they curved below his hips, dragging them downwards, exposing his fluffy cheeks against the chill of the wall, and allowing his thick cock to spring dramatically free. It was caught, held, stroked, then kissed. Mmm. He looked down, sure that this was only the second time Barkley had ever dared to take a prick in his mouth, and appreciating it so much for that, but also the tender feel of it, ohhhh.... His cock was leaking pre-cum and it slicked against Ross' tongue but he didn't flinch or retreat like Eric might have expected, no... he just rolled his powerful tongue over the head to get more of it, holding him tightly at the base and licking his lollipop quite determinedly. Oh god,' he whispered, unable to keep to the commanded silence, oh Rosssss...'
And then his cock was buried in that mouth, Barkley lunging forward with his intense face, trying to take as much of him in as he could and doing surprisingly well. Dier's balls tingled and burned like they were on fire and his cheeks squashed back at the wall and the fabric of his coat. He struggled not to cry out, lowering his arms and his hands until he was stroking the short wiry hair on Barkley's head, tickling across his scalp and reaching down to trace the outline of his ears, then down to that thick neck... ohhhh! Yes,' he whimpered, oh YES....' This time, Ross didn't bother making effort to silence him, he just brought his mouth back and forward in a rapid pull of lips, and Eric felt himself rising and crashing towards the inevitable, doing his best not to scream out how good it was and how much he was trying just to edge and contain it -- and then wanting to yelp out warning, thinking of last time how Ross had almost stared at his volcanic cock in horror, unwilling to taste or be touched by his jizz.
`I'm -- going -- to...'
Ross ignored him, bobbing back and forward with his eyes wide open and staring fixedly upwards, so brooding and intense. Eric stared back, mouth hanging open, and he did his best to control the strangled noise that broke free as he orgasmed and emptied his balls on the strong tongue that massaged the bottom of his shaft. Ohhhh yesss.... He had to close his own eyes and push back against the wall to contain himself. His hands, hovering by the other man's shoulders, were gripped then by Ross and squeezed, fingers interlocking, and still the magic tongue rolled around his convulsing prick as his cum was spilled shot by shot into that virgin mouth. Yes,' he panted weakly, oh yes, Barkley...'
He trembled and winced, the pleasure so heightened that it was almost pain. He could hardly bare to look at the gorgeous sight of Barkley's uncertain face draw back, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, a little cum dribbling from the corner of his bottom lip. His tongue came out in a swirl and tidied it away and he hunkered down there in silence for a moment, as if deciding what to think of the taste of it. And then he came up and brought that dirty mouth back to Eric's, kissing him and letting him share his own salty flavour. They gasped into each other's mouths and those strong hands coursed up and down his sides, under the warmth of his coat, holding and squeezing him. Eric tried yet again to push a hand between them and find the prized cock but he was blocked and resisted. He grunted in frustration and just clung to Barkley, letting their tongues meet.
The kiss broke and their faces rested close together, panting. Let me,' Eric hissed. I want to taste your big prick, Ross, I fucking missed that thing... yeah?'
No,' Ross murmured, and the grunted words were haunted with danger for Dier, expecting some disastrous removal of the physical affection he had just enjoyed. No, my train,' grumbled the Scouser. `I honestly have to go. It's leaving soon. I have to be back there. I'm in trouble, like you said. I just fucked off from the hotel this morning. They'll be fuming.'
Eric didn't know what to say to that, the truth being so patent and unavoidable. Yet he could hardly bring himself to let go of the other 6ft2 muscular body crushing into his in the cubicle. You can't go now,' was what he gasped stupidly, hearing the reedy weakness of his own smitten voice. Not after that, not with...' He reached down and felt it, the urgent bone in the Villa trackies.
I have to,' Ross told him, sounding strong and confident between the kisses. But soon... soon it's yours... okay? I...' He licked his sticky lips, looking embarrassed but adoring. `I have to go, but only because of our work. This isn't the end, Eric. This is just the start. Heh.'
Eric nodded with furious agreement, pulling him right against him and kissing both of his cheeks, then his chin, then his lips again, tickling at his light stubble with his own furry features. Yes,' he gasped in agreement, just the start. God, you're incredible. I want you so much. I'm almost hard again.'
Don't,' wheezed Barkley, lowering his face and kissing him on the side of the neck so that he writhed back against the wall, bitten and licked just below his jawline. He pawed down the back of that broad back and stopped short of his glutes, not wanting to reawaken THAT particular problem. Not yet. He just let himself be crushed back against the wall and whimpered in post-coital pleasure, his cock smearing at the front of Barkley's clothes. Mmmmm....'
And then, very slowly and reluctantly, they began to part. His cock and balls were returned to the hug of his briefs, dragged up his legs by the other guy's hands, and the sweatpants coming up to, all attended to by Ross with that strange gentlemanly air despite the seedy surroundings of a train station toilet. Then more kissing, some rearrangement of the Scouser's privates, and then just a lingering cuddle. Then the door was unbolted and Ross was moving out into the open space; they hadn't communicated the sensible plan but Eric remained where he was, gasping against the wall, for a good twenty seconds before opening the door and stepping out himself, just about discreetly separated to avoid any attention if there were men pissing at the urinals, which as it happened there weren't.
Dier followed slowly, still catching his breath, staying sensibly back, but following all the way to the ticket machines and standing there with his eyes trained on the platform, watching every step Barkley took until he was mounting the train. No wave or called affection, just a shared look, but between men of their intensity, it was enough. Not a goodbye, just a see you later.
On the other side of the city, in the West London apartment, Declan Rice was almost bowled over on return from West Ham's shock win over Liverpool; he laughed and grinned as Mason pawed all over him and kissed him in the doorway, dragging down his pants before he could even remove his coat, hat, or the bag strap over his chest. He loudly demanded to know what was going on as he was pushed back against the door and sloppily fellated, then dragged by the prick into the bedroom. The hat, coat and bag were hastily thrown away, and all the rest of their clothes, and he was dragged into bed by Mount, who just kept staring at him seriously and not seeming to want to let go of him for a second. You know it's only you I want?' Mason whispered before the fucked. You know that, right? You know nobody else matters?' Declan just laughed and silenced him with a snog, and fucked him until they were both breathless with passion.
A few miles south of them, Ben Chilwell planted his hands against the majestic headboard and groaned at the top of his voice, fucked wildly into the pillows and wall by the pneumatic force of the man behind him, who kissed lovingly at his shoulders and neck at the same time as ploughing him with that big Brummie cock. You were a hero today,' he whispered adoringly to his fiancée, shaking with each thrust of the big weapon in his perfect round arse. You're a fucking hero,' he said again, his nape bitten and kissed by Jack's teeth and lips. He could feel the lank sweaty strands of his longer hair tickling his skin as he was cuddled and pounded form behind, and it was amazing.
And a few miles north of London, here he now was, on his own, snoozing on a near-deserted train that would zip him from Euston to Birmingham New Street, and then on out to the edge of the big city and to the bland new home he had still barely settled into in the leafy neighbourhoods of Aston Villa's training park. It would be late when Ross got back, and maybe he'd get a taxi for the connection instead, to speed it up and to make sure he actually got a few hours kip before training came tomorrow.
He lay sombrely against the side of the booth and sighed grimly at the thought of the lonely house he would return back to, and the empty cold bed he would need to climb into for those few hours' sleep. A few hours' sleep where all he would dream about was going down on his knees for that awesome man, taking his cock into his mouth and returning all the pleasure he'd received in the last year. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the vibrating glass, a little smile playing on his lips.