Part 244: M25
He swung gently off the motorway and into the entrance lane of the Oxfordshire services, leaving behind the steady early evening traffic of the M25 and swapping it for the relative quiet of the sprawling car park and drive-thrus that formed a mundane courtyard on the edge of the busy highway. Gentle rain was pattering the windscreen, swished aside in slow strokes by the wiper, as the 27-year-old driver fixed his eyes on the sporadic vehicles and sought out a suitable spot a little way from the small complex of buildings. He turned the car, a little surreptitious in its expensive model, down a narrow gap and pulled into an isolated space that backed onto thorny hedges and faced towards the rising cubes of the service station.
Eric Dier let the engine idle for a moment, resting his hands on the wheel and sitting very still in his driver's seat, wondering yet again if he'd just driven up the motorway for no reason and was about to be disappointed. A nervous tension held his tall athletic body as he poised there, procrastinating switching off the engine and accepting that he'd really come all this way, that he was here, halfway between London and Birmingham, and setting himself up to be... let down.
The rain grew a little heavier and the noise of it on the roof of his BMW snapped him out of his nervous reverie a little bit. He rested his back muscles through his fleecy top into the cushioned seat and then turned off the engine with a twist of car key, retrieving it and gripping the cool blunt metal to his palm as he chewed on his bottom lip. Here you are then, he told himself anxiously, and where is he...?
Ahead of him, vehicles came and went against the purple-blue twilight of the spring evening, and he checked the time on both his wristwatch and his phone (no notifications there, not yet) before deciding that he would need to get out and stretch his legs. After all, he would need to repeat that drive before long, and then it would be hours of sitting around as he and the rest of the Hotspurs boarded their flight to the continent and tomorrow night's Europa League game against Dinamo Zagreb.
Eric opened the glovebox, fetching a large woolly hat that could be pulled down love over his short honey-coloured hair and the shaggy sideburns that joined his patchy beard. Then he zipped up the neck of his fleece, elbowed his way out of the driver's door, and hunched his body instinctively against the rainfall. Patting needlessly at the bulge of his wallet and keys in the pockets of the tight dark blue tracksuit pants that hugged his footballer's legs, he ditched the car and began crossing the car park, head bowed low to create some shielding anonymity in the ebb and flow of motorway travellers that occupied this concrete paradise. The cloth face-mask over his mouth and nose helped, and he relaxed his body language a bit more as he neared the automatic doors and headed inside.
Inside, the defensive midfielder moved slowly, almost deliberately slowly, killing the precious minutes that he had before he had to hit the road again; he would be heading straight to Stansted and the link-up with his teammates, ready to check in his motor and join the chartered flight that would take them to Croatia. He didn't have so long here, not really; it had been a daft plan, a stupid use of his free afternoon and evening before the surprisingly late journey abroad, when he was meant to have his feet up and be getting extra sleep at home to make sure he was fresh and alert tomorrow. That was if he actually made it onto the pitch, he reflected grumpily, conscious of his own poor form and the heavy criticism inside and outside of the North London club. He knew he was likely to sit on the bench tomorrow night, but hopefully the boss would bring him on and show some faith...
The professional worry was almost light relief to Dier as he milled through the miniature shopping mall of the services, marvelling at the tat on sale and the strange mix of people who drifted in and out of it on their `essential' journeys across the country. Stupidly, thinking about his own poor run of matches for Tottenham and the question marks hanging over his regular starting spot in centre-mid was actually refreshing and distracting, rather than concentrating on the soppy fool who had whimsically suggested this meet-up and committed to the traffic-laden drive up the M25. A cynical and negative voice in his head began to point out that the two issues were perhaps not totally unrelated: the lovesick butterflies behind his steely abs and the fact he was ruining his reputation in the Premiership of late. In the past week or two, he had even begun to doubt if he would receive a call-up to the England squad for the Euros, having been an almost permanent fixture in the national team for much of his senior career.
Flashing his credit card, he bought a couple of bottled soft drinks, a bag of foamy sweets, a tube of crisps, a men's fashion mag and then, in a giddy little flash of impulse, he bought a stupid bug-eyed stuffed animal of indiscriminate species that hung provocatively at him from a cage of merchandise by the tills. And this,' he grunted at the spotty teen cashier, caught between his exaggerating his masculinity and subduing any hint of his Premier League persona. He'd made sure he wasn't wearing any Tottenham-branded stuff, even though he would need to be in his matching tracksuit when he joined the other guys at the airport. It was not a great climate to be caught miles from where he was meant to be with no credible reason to be travelling outside of London, threatening the bubble' of elite sport that would allow them to make the Croatian trip tonight.
Dier tucked the stupid stuffed animal under one strong arm and cradled the other items in his hands. As he strolled past the fast-food concessions and blocked-off seating areas of the food court, he realised he had almost entirely given up on the evening's plan. It wasn't going to happen, he felt instinctively, it had been a daft thing to suggest and try to organise, and the responses had hardly been enthusiastic or certain, had they? He left the services expecting to sit and snack alone in the car for the next fifteen minutes or so, and then turn back onto the M25 and head south-east.
But there it was: a second high-spec car parked parallel to his own, on that far row of spaces, backing onto the shaggy undergrowth that divided the parking from the edges of the motorway, a forest of litter and junk. The two expensive vehicles could be considered indiscreet and eye-catching, but the mixture of motors in places like this was so random and improbable that his worries were dampened. Service stations like this were in their own special veil of anonymity, nowhere places in between the more definite territory of proper towns and cities. Nobody here was paying any attention to anybody else, and it was both depressing and deeply reassuring.
But there it was, the car next to his -- and as he approached, weaving through the patchy car park with an arm full of his purchases, he could dimly make out the silhouette of the driver through the rain-speckled windscreen, staring this way from behind some dark sunglasses. Ross Barkley was distinctive in his blocky shoulders and head, sat stiffly there in his parked car; closer to, Eric could make out the shifting motion of his knuckles on the wheel, twitching and fidgeting and, he realised, not yet aware of Eric's own approach.
The Spurs player slid into the narrow canyon between their vehicles and squatted slightly, bringing himself down against the front passenger window and grinning through the lightly tinted glass. A moment's pause and then the window was scrolling down, removing the sepia barrier between himself and the Scouser. Still behind those shades, Barkley turned this way, knuckles still twitching on the wheel, and gave him an oddly formal nod of greeting. Wondered where you'd gone,' the Liverpudlian lad muttered then, turning back to stare out of the windscreen across the car park, then glancing sharply back Eric's way. What's that?' he demanded.
Eric had almost forgotten the fluffy beast under his arm, and he stifled an embarrassed laugh, then shoved it through the open window like a rugby pass, letting the bear, or whatever it was, bounce and spill into the passenger seat then into the gap by the gearstick, landing against Ross' thigh. For you,' he mumbled coyly, and then more easily, I got us some snacks and stuff, that's all.' Ross was staring at the toy where it had fallen, bringing one hand down to stroke it uncertainly, not looking up and making eye contact with him, not even through the sunglasses.
So,' Dier said, keen to ease the tension, both his own and Barkley's -- So, your place or mine?' He grinned at the other bloke, hunched still to bring his smiling face up against the open car window. There was a slightly awkward pause and then the Aston Villa player seemed to catch on, fiddling with a control until the passenger door clicked unlocked and Eric could finger it open, struggling a little with his armful of supplies, but swinging his body into the seat next to the driver and then letting the bottles and snacks spill into that gap between them with the furry toy, his anxious haul that he had half-expected to eat alone.
In the driver's seat, Ross seemed to shift his weight and lean away a little, resting his body into the door and window, and finally removing those stupid RayBans, still staring speculatively at the Pringles tube and sweets packet, and the almost offensively cute animal that rode against one of his bulging thighs. Eric caught his nervous eyes and he laughed warmly, a noise that Ross finally echoed and agreed with, some hint of relaxation or comfort in his shaky voice. Hey,' he said uncomfortably. Just hey', but it made Eric smile broadly and feel very glad to be in here with him. `Hey,' he said back, and he reached one hand over the space between them, letting it rest over his.
Barkley looked down at it, his hand where it hovered amongst the rustle of packaging, with Eric's paler fingers now resting and stroking over his grazed knuckles, hand over hand, warm and a little rough as their skin brushed together. When he looked up, he found the other football lad was giving him a measured, cautious stare. `I'm glad you made it,' Eric said in a serious monotone, and Ross found he could only nod slowly in response, all possible verbal responses feeling moronic before they could leave his mouth.
He pulled his hand away then, disrupting the comforting feel of Dier's over his, and he found he instantly regretted it -- it was a rude, unwelcoming gesture, and he only realised how pleasant and reassuring the touch was once he'd shed it. But he didn't know how to initiate it again, couldn't bring himself to actually reach down and grab at Eric's hand himself. Instead, he just rested his paws in the lap of his close-fitting grey sweatpants and shifted his weight side to side, staring at the car park and buildings instead of at his temporary passenger. It was a little busier here than he'd like, though not so much at this end of the car park -- the number of people flitting in and out of vehicles and visiting the shops and food services was more than he'd pictured when he looked up this spot off the M25, picked from Google Maps as roughly equidistant. Roughly -- he knew it had been a longer drive for Eric than him, and he felt self-conscious about that compromise.
Beside him, one of the soft drink bottles fizzed weakly at the twist of its opening, and then the sound of Eric glugging back some of its contents in an over-eagre manner, as if it was better than the oppressive silence of the car. In his own stupid gesture to ease it, Ross found himself pushing thick blunt fingers at the controls and switching his music back on, a low thrum of dance music that instantly felt too upbeat and urban in this strange peripheral spot. He left it on but gave Eric what he hoped looked like a friendly, apologetic stare -- probably it just looked a bit dead-eyed and stupid, he thought embarrassedly.
Eric was licking his lips and lowering the bottle in his fist. `What?' he asked quietly.
`Nothing,' Ross mumbled immediately. He snatched up the tube of crisps and popped off its round plastic lid, then preceded to stuff four-at-a-time into his mouth, crunching them loudly and staring aimlessly at the wood-effect laminate of the dashboard.
`You feeling good for Friday?' Dier asked him.
Barkley shrugged, not meaning to be rude or dismissive, but unsure how to put into words his edgy anticipation of another Premiership game for his loan club, this time away in the North East -- he was struggling to regain his early promise from the start of the season, where his Midlands move had felt reinvigorating and restorative. Now he was hearing rumours that Villa had lost all interest in a permanent purchase, and he could hardly see a vacancy waiting for him back at Stamford Bridge when the one-season deal expired. He needed to make a bit more impact in the next few weeks if he was to spark interest in the Villa management and their chequebook. If that was what he even wanted... he stared back at Dier, conscious that this important friend lived back in London, where his life had seemed based until last autumn. Hmm.
It's Newcastle,' Eric pointed out fairly, unfazed by the lack of response, I'm sure you'll all be fine!' He grinned and winked. `It's not like Steve Bruce has any tricks left up his sleeve. Here, give me some of those before you pig them all, will ya...?' Eric punched him playfully in the arm and he tilted the tube over to him with a guilty expressions, crumbs and seasoning speckling his stubble.
They actually hadn't seen each other, or even really spoken in any detail, since their important meeting in Euston station. There had been messages, short and heartfelt, of support or interest, vague and euphemistic comments on what had happened between them in the station loos, but no proper discussion of the misunderstandings and anguish that had preceded it, or the deeper feelings that clearly surrounded that weekend's conflict. Oddly, since connecting so powerfully that Sunday evening in the London terminus, communication between the two football stars had dropped into a bland simplicity, as if neither of them really knew what to say or do next.
Now they were here together, sat in his car in the middle of the M25, both of them straying beyond the carefully controlled routine of their professional lives, risking exposure and very minor scandal just by being here -- and Eric had to be on a flight to Croatia in a matter of hours! And yet there hardly seemed anything to say. Ross winced and cowered a little in his driver's seat, thumbing at his thighs through the grey fabric, flexing his upper body so that the sports jacket hugged his shoulders and chest -- he was staring at Eric and thinking how rugged and wholesome the defensive player looked, how clean and sophisticated he smelled, how much he might like to touch and hold him a bit more, and yet he couldn't think of anything to say. It seemed as if any weak conversational attempts he made would come out in the awkward crackling stammer that sometimes dominated his speech in unexpected interviews or public attention. Instead of trying to speak, he just watched the other footballer munch on the same cheap crisps, and wondered if he'd made a mistake in driving down here after all.
Alright, don't worry,' Eric grunted playfully, I won't eat them all.' He was pushing the cardboard tube of snacks back into Ross's hand, and their fingers brushed and rubbed as he did. The Spurs player gave him a lopsided grin and left their fingers touching where they did. Ross moved the tube away but left his right hand there, and then pushed a bit more boldly until their digits interlocked, dangling in the space between the seats. `That's nice,' his passenger pointed out casually.
Ross squeezed their hands together, gripping it too tightly for a moment, adjusting his grip, letting it become more easy and natural there, and nodded his strong silent agreement. How long you got?' he asked in a low voice. I don't want you late to the flight. In trouble, or nothin'.'
Very sensible of you,' teased Eric. I've got time. Don't you worry.'
`Right,' Ross said lamely. Eric was teasing a thumbprint over his palm in a way that was both tickling and soothing, their knuckles locking together as he did. It felt good. Safe.
`Time for what, that's the question,' sighed the other 27-year-old.
Ross shrugged a bit uncomfortably at that. `It's... just nice to, erm, see you, erm.'
`Stop it, Shakespeare...'
`Oh, fuck off. Huh. Erm.'
No, I feel the same,' Dier assured him in a warm low growl. You fucking sexy bastard.'
`Shurrup, daft prick.'
`Mmm, love it when you talk dirty to me, Scouser...'
`Idiot,' Barkley mumbled through his bashful laughter, letting his posture relax a bit more against the driver's seat, edging his legs a bit further apart so that their knees almost (but not quite) touched in the middle, two sturdy legs jutting inwards as they sat and just held hands, two uncertain lovers united by a motorway.
Dier leaned over, quite as if he was about to inspect the info panels in the centre of the dashboard, or reach for one of the scrappy parking permits tucked in against the windscreen, or something; but once he was leaning this way, he brought his right arm over and laid his free hand possessively against the inside of Barkley's right thigh, holding it there on the grey sweatpants while his left hand thumbed and teased inside his own strong grip. The hand remained there and the passenger hunched this way across the car interior, a gentle inviting smile curling his lips between the blond tufts of his beard.
`Here?' Ross found himself asking in an anxious hiss.
We don't have to do anything,' Eric told him simply, his hand stroking his thigh but not moving any more dangerously inwards into the crotch region, not yet. You know that's not what I drove up here for. I meant it when I said I just wanted to hang out with you for a bit, you know. We don't have to do anything dodgy or risky, not here.'
No,' Ross agreed tentatively. It'd be a bit stupid, wouldn't it?'
Terribly,' the Spurs defender confirmed, then slid his right hand a bit further up, nudging at the edges of the vague bulge between those slightly parted legs. Ross bit his lip and stared hard at him, their eyes meeting, the grip of their locked hands tightening. Terribly stupid,' purred Dier. `But I'm feeling kinda stupid, aren't you...?'
Ross tried and failed to control his breathing: slow, growling snorts. He inched his legs open a little bit more, felt Eric's fingers push and explore between the folds of grey, finding the mound in the front of his boxer briefs. He squeezed his hand vicelike about the other man's. `We have to be careful,' he muttered, even as he shifted his thigh muscles that bit more open, easing the reach of Eric's hand in against his bulge, pushing his strong back into the seat to support himself.
`I know, but... you are a sexy cunt, aren't you...? Mmm.' And Eric sank back into his own seat a little, swapped arms, broke the grip of their other hands; they sat side by side, with Eric's left hand dipped into his crotch, fondling and stroking at the swelling outline of his cock. He made a shaky sigh and did what seemed polite and proper, crossing his right arm over the other man's, reaching down into the front of those blue trackies -- where his fingers fell against the rock-hard diagonal meat that stretched the material there. Already totally engorged, almost breaking through the tracksuit bottoms.
You feel that?' murmured Eric. You feel how fucking hard I am for you, Ross?'
He gasped and nodded his head, their eyes meeting in the rear-view mirror that hung in front of them both in the centre. Yeah,' he grunted back, squeezing and gripping it, somehow stunned by its size and hardness even though he had held (and more) it before. Bloody hell, Eric.'
Eric sat back and enjoyed it: the stern clumsy touch of Barkley's hand on his dick, making it shudder sensitively beneath two thin layers of clothing. He kept up his half of this mutual enjoyment, really rubbing at the fat package now, wanting it to match his own earnest stiffness. And apart from the mutual touching of their big manly dicks, he enjoyed the way their arms rubbed near the elbow, friction between his fleecy top and the stiff waterproof material of the other bloke's jacket.
They both kept cautious watch, eyes fixed ahead on the nearer cars, both of them ready to adjust and correct if someone returned to those vehicles or came striding across the tarmac in front of them. But Eric was not FULLY alert, and nor was Ross, because every few moments their eyes would skip back to the strip and connect intensely in the reflection, Eric besotted with the aggressive square-jawed set of the other player's face, flushed a bit red in a mixture of nervousness or enjoyment. And then, conscious of Barkley's safety and reputation even more than his own, he would snap back to watching their surroundings instead, loving the controlled risk of this fumbled wanking through their pants. His excitable mind raced ahead, wondering how far things could be pushed here and now.
`Ross,' he said.
`Erm, yeh?'
Get your cock out,' he said. It was as much suggestion as command. He turned to the left and smirked. The other lad's expression was questioning, but he brought both hands back into his lap, and Eric stopped stroking at the growing outline of his member. Go on,' he encouraged. `Get that fucking beast out so I can look at it properly, will you?'
Barkley quite swiftly obliged, despite the nervous frown set on his face. He pushed down at the front of his sweats and the trunks beneath, releasing his veiny hard-on up into a curving rise, his balls squashing heavily against the elasticated waist. Dier whistled admiringly. He left his hand resting by his hip but did not immediately reach to touch or hold the cock, instead letting Barkley himself take it in hand and stroke it a few times. Then Eric took his hand, pulled it across, and spat heavily into his palm for lube. Ross took his hand back and spread the saliva up his thick shaft in a few more long jerks of the impressive Merseyside meat.
That's it. Fuck. Here. Let me...' And he spat more frothy liquid into the hand for him. Then, when Ross was beginning to wank himself properly in wet sliding motion, Eric reached his left hand back and squeezed it in against the small of his back, finding the edge of the jacket just by the base of his spine. He lifted it, prodded his fingers in against the tailbone through the waistband of his undies. You keep your eyes out for anyone getting too close,' he said, trying to keep his tone casual. He brought that hand back, spat on his finger, and then went back in there -- edging it inside the taut elastic, nudging downwards. Ross made a funny little moan, really squeezing his huge rod, but nodding his agreement, face fixed ahead on the car park.
The almost infamous buttocks of the attacking midfielder felt huge and hard there beneath the waist of his pants, making the narrow entrance at their top almost impossible. Eric just pushed his wet fingertip at it, tickling at this fuzzy skin where his spine dipped into the crease. He circled it in tight little motions, playing with the gap that wasn't even properly his crack, until Barkley shifted his posture just a little, and those mighty glutes relaxed ever so slightly -- allowing Dier's one wet finger to slide a bit further downwards between them. He knew he wouldn't go much further, not like this, not in this situation, but still... he slid his finger up and down in the top of that tight crack, running his damp finger against the hard smooth muscle and the fuzzy hint of hair between, for now just enjoying the tantalus of what lay deeper down. `Cum for me?' he said.
`Yeah,' Ross agreed instantly.
`Are you close already?'
`Yeah,' grunted the Scouse footballer, tinged with shame.
`That's good. I want you to. Go on. Mess up those pants.'
`Fuckkkk.'
Eric pushed his finger in a bit more, forcing it just between those taut globes, tickling his way just a little further into the crack. He bit his lip and stared hard into Ross' lap, watching his cock bounce and his tip glisten wet. Go on,' he urged in a gravelly voice, spill that massive load for me, you sexy bastard. Mmmm...' He pushed a bit more authoritatively with his finger, feeling the sweaty moistness between the clenched cheeks, unable to even get in there and make the slightest tickle of his ring, but still loving the feel of his finger between the buttocks... next to him, Barkley groaned, and strained to keep his eyes open and focused on the car park, while several ropes of thick cum shot in a little arc and splashed against the pale grey of his sweats. That's it,' purred Eric, make a mess for me, beautiful.'
Beautiful?! The faintly effeminate compliment rang confusingly in his head. His balls ached and his cock tingled, the last oozing rush of his seed welling against the tip and dribbling about the glans until it brushed his fingers. He gasped and moaned again, resisting the urge to close his eyes and lean back on the headrest, instead fixing his watchman's gaze on the concrete ahead of them, wary of pedestrian or nearing vehicle.
Then he looked almost pleadingly at the man beside him, whose finger was still jutting invasively in against the very top of his arse-crack. In some vague effort to show that he was okay with this, he pressed his back muscles into his seat, temporarily trapping Eric's wandering hand there. He stared at him while he gasped, then looked furtively back ahead of them, conscious of his exposed cock trembling and lolling over his pants, cum still dribbling down one side of his shaft.
Oh yes,' Dier was murmuring for him appreciatively. You are so fucking perfect, Ross.'
Perfect! Beautiful? Bloody hell. He laughed it off awkwardly. `Shurrup.'
He shifted his body, allowing Dier's hand out from behind his lower back. He looked on as the single finger was brought slowly back to the mouth; Eric slowly and sensuously sucked on his own index finger a moment, then smirked. Ross shuddered with the seedy knowledge that it had been questing down between his glutes a little bit, and that really Eric was tasting his own odour there. Then he was looking down at the obvious erection there in his lap and wondering if he now needed to sort it out, or what -- but in a moment, Dier was doing it for himself, pulling his own cock out and staring firmly ahead of them at the miraculously empty corner of the car park. Ross just sat there, his dick wilting and his cum drying on his sweatpants, unsure of what he could or should do -- did he actually want to bend down there and take it frighteningly into his mouth, like he had at Euston, or did he just feel like that was what Eric wanted...? It was so hard to know his own thoughts, especially in the headrush after that premature orgasm.
Do you want me to-?' he began, but was cut off. Just sit there and be fucking beautiful,' snapped Eric almost crossly, wanking his own long member in slow forceful jerks with his right hand; his left came over and clamped at his thigh, rubbing against the wet sticky patches there. Then, still wanking himself, he brought that hand back up and rubbed it over his nose and mouth, sniffing and licking at the traces of spunk. Another sordid shudder of excitement ran through every inch of Ross's body, and he made sidelong glances back to the windows, but then stared back at Eric instead, just fixated on the muscular Cheltenham boy wanking off at his side.
Eric's hand left his thigh, and he felt a weird little buzz of disappointment as the grip left his muscled leg; he was, oddly enough, reaching again for the tube of crisps. Slipping clumsy fingers into it and removing one of the curved discs. Taking it and holding it between his legs. When he came, stifling his moan, his spunk splashed and dribbled against the curve of it, icing it with his own salty flavour. Ross knew instantly what was expected of him, and he sat there, giddy in the aftermath of his own ejaculate. When the curved serving was brought slowly up towards him, he just dipped his head and opened his mouth, his eyes meeting Eric's, and allowed it to be pushed roughly between his lips, crunching into his mouth, coated in the strong salty cream that he'd lapped and swallowed in the station toilets. He shuddered at the strength of its taste, its fading warmth on his lips and tongue, but he ate it all up, and then rolled his tongue against the crumbs and stickiness of Eric's fingers, cleaning them against his mouth before pulling slowly, shakily back. `Oh fuck,' he murmured through the mouthful of jarring tastes: cum, and cream cheese and chive. He felt a bit queasy but also immensely satisfied.
Now that the moment was complete, Eric actually looked a bit embarrassed and guilty, rather than rugged and authoritative. They were both taking their limp fat dicks and pushing them back inside their pants, hands grimy with their own loads. Sorry,' Dier said very quietly, I think I got carried aw-`
No, no,' Ross mumbled quickly, lifting his sleeve and wiping some crumbs from his lip. It's... okay.'
`Is it?' asked Dier, and it felt like a question loaded with so much more discussion. Ross grimaced uncertainly at him and tried to force a smile that could convey his confused but deep pleasure at what had happened.
Not so long later, he watched the Scouser munching on a more conventional treat, sauce and cheese dripping from the greasy burger as he chowed down on it. They were sat on a kerb at a different corner of the car park, clothed arses against the damp concrete and a few specks of rain still dropping against their faces as they relaxed in the dying light. Eric himself had felt ravenous when he ordered for them at the Burger King -- oh, so romantic -- but now found himself quite disinterested in the meal on his lap, and all he wanted to was stare amorously at the other footballer, enraptured even by the hurried and ungentlemanly way he wolfed through his dinner of burger, chips, mozzarella sticks.
Barkley stopped then, wiping some ketchup from his chin. `Sorry,' he grunted, suddenly seeming mortified and on edge.
`For what? Go crazy. I just like looking at you.'
A huffy noise and then he was speaking through a new mouthful of fries. `You say some daft things, Dier. You dafty.'
`Mmm. Maybe. But... you don't think you're handsome as fuck, then...?'
`God, shurrup. Stop that. Ha bloody ha. Mmm.'
Eric smiled fondly and shook his head. `I'll convince you somehow, sexy.'
`Fuck off and eat your Whopper.'
They both paused, the innuendo unavoidable. Ross cringed and sniggered and relaxed all at once, picking at his food a little more slowly. Eric dabbed at his own, but without enthusiasm, his appetite far more fixated on what he wished he was allowed to do to the strapping footy hunk across the kerb from him, taut and muscular in his stained sweatpants and zipped up waterproof. He thought about how good his clenched arse cheeks had felt. Tasted.
`You'll have to go soon, I guess,' Ross mumbled. He sounded... sad? Relieved? Hard to tell with him.
Yeah,' Eric quietly agreed. But... not yet. Another ten?'
Ten became fifteen became twenty, but Barkley eventually insisted, pushing and laughing at him and making earnest predictions about a fussy scene at the terminal if a player was late for checking in on a European tournament trip. He was overthinking it now, sitting in his own car and watching the registration plate of Dier's BMW disappear into the settling darkness -- had he sounded too keen to get rid of him, or had it been obvious that he just didn't want to be responsible for him getting in trouble...? Ross was always very insecure about his communication skills and whether the things he said and did came across as he wanted to, since they so rarely seemed to hit the mark.
The car park and the interior of his car suddenly felt stupidly lonely and bleak, sat here behind the wheel with burger grease around his mouth and on his fingers, thinking about how bad the traffic might be as he made his way towards the outskirts of Birmingham. But still he was slow to start the engine and leave this spot, which for all its sudden loneliness, also felt... erm, what was the word? It felt like a special spot, this dodgy car park corner where he had reconnected with the Spurs player and tasted his spunk again. As if he'd done that. So dirty. So weird. So good.
He drummed his fingers on the wheel and whistled tunelessly, then looked into the passenger seat and into the foot-space beneath it, where a pair of cartoonish eyes bulged and stared at him. He made a single blunt laugh and reached down, fishing the furry teddy from where it had fallen, and sitting it on the leather cushioning beside him, a miniature substitute for the masculine figure who had sat there and played for him. Ross stared at it: such a stupid gift, so odd and out of place, so sickeningly twee and childish. But also... He grabbed it and pulled it in against his chest, squeezing it firmly to him, and taking a deep breath of the lingering smell of whatever posh boy aftershave Dier doused himself in these days, the stupid stuck-up ponce. Mmm.
He leaned back in the driver's seat, hugging the stuffed animal to his chest, closing his eyes for a moment, and picturing the moment Eric had appeared at the car window, grinning with relief and pleasure and proud of his purchased delights. Soppy romantic bastard! What a daft lad! He squeezed the teddy a bit more tightly inside his arm, and felt a satisfied sigh leave his lips, wondering how soon they could arrange to meet again.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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