Part 292: Saturday Night & Sunday Morning
There was a jolly atmosphere to the training ground refectory, an easy swagger in the movements of most of the Chelsea players as they filed in for lunch - for them, it was a fairly light afternoon's work ahead at the London club's training camp on the edge of the city, as they'd travelled back from Manchester earlier in the day. Though the away trip to Old Trafford had only yielded a draw, there was still a mood of buoyant success among the returning men, their banter and laughter filling the long bright room.
Ben Chilwell was already in there ahead of them, tucking into his own blandly healthy lunch, and he looked up in alertness as the familiar voices arrived to join him, welcome company after his quiet morning of hard work. Still ruled out through injury, the 25-year-old Englishman was rapidly approaching a chance of return, and he was accelerating through his rehab programme in the hope that he might kick a Premier League ball before action closed for the summer.
Things were getting a lot better now that he was allowed to train here, though he was still often separated from the main pack of Chelsea players in his fitness scheme, it was just nice to get back in these surroundings and feel like a professional footballer again. His absence from Stamford Bridge had been one of ups and downs - a few fun breaks with friend and family that he might not have grasped without the leg operation, and a bit of posing for fashion photoshoots that had his Instagram messaging inbox crammed with thirsty interest, but also long unproductive weeks where he'd struggled to take much enjoyment in his usual interests.
The handsome young defender smiled brightly as tracksuit-clad players gradually filled up the table to either side of him, glad to not sit picking at his salad and baked potato alone, but also immediately a little lost for an `in' to their free-flowing conversation about last night's match and the short Manchester trip in general - inside jokes between Werner and Havertz about a rooming cock-up at the hotel, some ongoing analysis of Alonso's equalising goal by his buddy Reece James to Loftus-Cheek, and Mason Mount's breezy criticism of Jorginho for snoring too loudly on the couch this morning... all of it drifted by Chilwell somewhat, giving him that familiar little pang of FOMO that always haunted these injury periods. Still, before long he would be back in the midst of the team properly, not just getting sympathetic looks or turning up to matches in plain clothes, ready to loyally cheer on the lads - he knew his insistence on such appearances was appreciated by lots of them, but he did as much for his own sanity as out of real team spirit.
It was Friday afternoon of the May bank holiday weekend, and though the men's schedules were obviously dominated by another away fixture against Everton on Sunday afternoon, there was still plenty of discussion of what people would be doing on Bank Holiday Monday, which had been promised to them as a full day of R&R. Seated opposite Ben and a little to the right, grinning Mason was proudly boasting about the posh restaurant he was going to in the countryside for some family member's birthday - and then blushing and giggling when he somehow let slip that he and Dec would be driving up there early to get the decorations just right, earning a tiny bit of teasing from other blokes that he should be getting paid for such secret agent work at recruiting `Deccers' back to true blue.
Ben caught his eye for a moment and smiled warmly, glad that things were going so well between Mase and his boyfriend, even if most of the guys here just thought the Chelsea twink prince was trying to recruit his bestie into signing for them - Ben knew well enough how serious things were between Mount and Rice, and he'd lost the sting of jealousy that had once troubled him there. He'd sure had some fun with Mase in the past and had quite the crush on his pal last year, but he had no wish to ruin what Mason had with Declan and he kept his safe distance now instead of pushing boundaries - Dec was a good mate too and he was determined to put that difficult phase behind them, and stay fully friendly with both England teammates. Mase's dimpled smirk across the table didn't always make that the easiest, but at 25 Ben was learning a bit more self-control.
No comment,' the Portsmouth-born midfielder was protesting cheerily to the general Rice speculation around them, I'm not his bloody agent, am I!'
`Just give him a clip around the ears if he's thinking about wasting his time with United,' chuckled the deep South London accent of Ruben Loftus-Cheek a couple of spaces to Ben's right, and he turned to glance at the tall broad footballer who was coming into greater prominence on the team under Tuchel - the 26-year-old Lewisham bloke was now chatting pleasantly about the big family barbecue he was hosting with his girlfriend, and Reece James, seated between them, was trying and failing to remember the name of the boujie spot his missus had booked them for brunch that day.
A whole load of couples, Ben thought idly, as the plans were recited around him. He poked languidly at what was left of his lunch, having finished most of it before the guys started arriving in here, whilst most of them were only just getting started on loaded plates of protein that they needed for recovery.
Havertz and Werner were doing the same - talking about their German supermodel girlfriends and some double-date that the four of them were apparently going on in some Cit roof garden on Monday afternoon. Oh yeah, we've been there,' Ziyech was pointing out idly, and Ben suddenly felt very conscious of how blank his weekend was looking, with no away game to be involved in and not even rehab training lined up for the Bank Holiday. On cue, Hakim to his left and the faces opposite were turning interestedly in his direction - What about you, our Benjamin?' 29-year-old Dutchman was asking him politely.
Chilwell glanced at him, acting for a moment as if he hadn't quite heard the question. Oh, me?' he murmured when the attention didn't pass by him. Drive up to the family palace outside MK, maybe, see how everyone's doing, I dunno...' He fidgeted in his canteen seat, sensing the moment of mild awkwardness by his failure to add to the general pattern of eager plans and coupled-up excursions.
Ben is free and single,' Timo Werner remarked, sounding like he was trying a little to hard to break the brief silence, and he has not got to run up to Everton to defeat those losers, so he probably has a much wilder weekend ahead than any of us. Ha ha.'
Chilwell grinned vaguely at this tease whilst the others laughed more heartily, and he felt Timo's beady eyes fix thoughtfully on him - there had been a time where the German forward was intensely interested in him, he remembered, but that had seemed to fade away quite rapidly after a few early fumbles together.
`Wild,' Ben echoed lightly, impaling a slice of cucumber with his fork.
Still single?' chimed Havertz. What the hell is wrong with you, Chilwell?' The question was jokey but felt harsh in his accent, and it made Ben start slightly - it was a question that played in his own quiet head from time to time, especially lately.
He is still single, right?' mused another guy thoughtfully. Nobody interesting on the scene?'
Ben glanced up, surprised to find just how interested all the guys around him looked at this train of thought - any news from him was perhaps a slight novelty to the closely-bonded squad, given that they had seen so little of him for months and were probably sick of each other's news and updates. He hesitated, partly wilting under the curious looks from his Chelsea friends, but also because he wasn't 100% sure of the answer, a fact which must have registered on his lean face.
Yes, there is someone,' barked Reece next to him, look at that blush.'
`Oh, leave him,' chuckled Mase supportively.
`Tell us all, Benjamin!' insisted Werner seriously.
No, nobody,' he laughed dismissively, shaking his head at them and leaning back in his seat slightly, finally putting down his fork. Don't all get too excited, eh?'
Now, come on,' Timo was saying - you can tell us, we're all friends here, are you seeing someone? Are you taken, or are you still single?' He was pushy and inquisitive, though Ben knew him well enough not to take this as rudeness; but he twitched uncomfortably under the blond German man's stare, and the ripple of interest from the other guys either side of him, their conversation pausing as his vague weekend plans were reinterpreted as evasiveness. Ben paused and asked himself the same question - well, AM I single...? - before letting out a breezy laugh and shaking his head.
Some of us just have our rehab to focus on,' he said firmly. The sooner I'm back playing with you dickheads, the better!'
It had been almost two weeks ago, Saturday night, and he'd had some mates around to his big London place for pizza and beers - mates outside of the footballing bubble, old school pals who he did his best to keep up with even though their lives had gone in such different directions - getting stuffed with carbs and tipsy on craft lagers with football and films on the flatscreen TV, since he would be attending the next day's home match with Crystal Palace as a mere supporter rather than an active player.
It had been a nice night, relaxed and old-school for the 25-year-old pals, and Ben enjoyed being able to host them so comfortable in one of the several lounge spaces of his swish West London townhouse, and he'd enjoyed hearing about a couple of the guy's engagements and another's impending second child - but a similar feeling had arisen during the evening to the awkward sensation in the Chelsea refectory today: a strange momentary sense of his own relative isolation as a footballer here, having not met anyone special and feeling less and less connected to his increasingly settled mid-20s friends.
Ben was too warm-hearted to envy or resent anyone, but it did leave him feeling reflective when the chilled night came to an end - the FA Cup Semi-Final at Wembley had been their first entertainment, but segued into a double-bill of daft horror movies on Netflix, bottle after bottle being opened and the premium pizzas from a local favourite passed liberally about the room. Chilwell had tried not to get too stressed when cheese and grease were spilled on his new sofas. It wasn't as if he couldn't afford to replace them if he had to, was it?
He saw the lads out into their booked cabs, taking their hugs and gratitude with the pleasant buzz of being able to treat your less well-off pals, then lingered out on the driveway of the house, his fingers half-tucked into the pockets of his slim-fit cargo chinos, a loose designer t-shirt hanging from his athletic upper body. His usual smile sparkled briefly on his face as he waved off the last car and then drifted back to the house, up the short flight of stone steps to return through the doorway.
He could leave all of the mess, in theory, since the twice-weekly cleaning staff would be over tomorrow morning, around the same time he would be setting off to go and vicariously enjoy the Stamford Bridge atmosphere as his teammates got to work against Palace. But his half-hearted self-comparison with his friends' lives had left him with a slight restlessness that conflicted with the beery sleepiness in his toned young body, and he set about clearing plates and crumbs, pizza boxes and empty bottles. The TV played quietly in the background, scrolling through movie trailers on the streaming services, and he padded barefoot through the ground floor of the spacious bachelor home, rinsing out a few glasses and wrangling with the complicated system of recycling options that he barely understood at his bins.
He made to shove some more rubbish into the main bin at one end of his chrome-heavy kitchen, and found it full. Quietly pleased with his own little burst of domesticity, the footballer lad tugged up and tied the bin bag, then heaved it out and over one shoulder before heading back through the quiet empty rooms and out of the front door - down those steps again and onto the quietly crunchy driveway that connected the front of his house to the street of near-identical classy Fulham homes.
`Hey.'
Ben, having spent most of his Saturday night watching horror films, even when cackling stupidly through them with his old school buddies, immediately jumped in a panic and dropped the bin bag he was holding in front of the wheelie bins, whirling around in the half-light of his driveway. His jerky motion triggered some security sensor and a beam of brighter glow shot vividly past him, illuminating the apparent intruder who was stood a couple of yards to his side.
`Jack,' he breathed, steadying his nerves and glaring briefly at the other man, then stooping to collect up the spilled rubbish and shoving it awkwardly into the bin, not 100% sure he'd even got the right one - why hadn't he left this to the Sunday morning cleaner?!
`Erm, hi,' the unexpected visitor said now, his voice less jarring and unexpected, just familiar in its slow breathy accent, extra Brum. Ben turned to look at him in the harsh security lighting, blinking in sleepy surprise, and taking in the 5ft9 frame of the other player, now taking a step closer to him with a sheepish gait. He was in a clingy pale blue Man City tracksuit and he had a weekend bag slung over his shoulder and chest. There was a slightly haggard tiredness to his long face behind the drooping curtains of hair.
Ben blinked again and cleared his throat. Hey,' he said, a bit less coldly or worriedly than his initial outburst. Hey, come here...' Stiffly, with an artificial air of their former closeness, he beckoned the other guy closer, and put his arms briefly about his shoulders, then backed off, and nodded at the house. `You coming in, mate?'
Turned away from his friend and marching indoors, Ben's mind raced - what the heck was Jack doing here? Surprise, or a crate of lager and too much dough, was making his brain slow - once they were in the hallway, he stared abruptly at his friend and connected his presence with the fact that earlier on he and his friends had literally been watching Jack's team fail to beat Liverpool for a place in the FA Cup final.
`Shouldn't you be with the team?' Chilwell demanded, sounding a bit sharper than he wanted to, but confused and surprised. He slowly led the way into the kitchen, where he instantly set about making a cuppa for the Brummie guy without asking - he knew exactly how Jack liked his tea, and how many he could sunk in a day.
Uh, yeah,' Grealish was saying with that uniquely dopey charisma of his, kinda, but I just said I had a family thing to be back in Birmingham for and so it didn't make sense for me to travel to Manchester tonight, y'know. Um.'
`Oh, right.' Ben said this quietly, his voice a little brittle, as he fussed with kettle and teabag and sugar. More domesticity. Neither lad said anything for a couple of minutes now, until he had pressed the warm mug into Jack's cool hands and then backed off, rubbing his hands aimlessly on a tea towel and watching as the Man City star took a couple of noisy slurps from the too-hot tea.
But there was a little stiff resolve in the injured Chelsea player, and he forced out what he knew needed to be said. `What are you doing here, mate?' he asked in a soft, low voice, letting his arms hang at his side and watching Jack across the dark kitchen.
A long deep sigh from the 26-year-old attacking midfielder. Jack took a couple more sips from the tea, not quite meeting Ben with his eyes - though when he did, Ben wished he wouldn't, because there was that smouldering look that could be so totally captivating. Jack matched his tone, speaking so quietly that Ben had to take a step closer.
Just been a bit intense lately,' Grealish told him. Everything gets a bit much sometimes, y'know? I... just... Needed to be somewhere else. Out of that bubble.'
`...Right.'
Can I stay?' the former Villa captain asked, his voice becoming an even quieter gruff whisper as he did so. Ben met his eyes, briefly, then shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, scratching the fine dark stubble of his neat chin. It's okay if not,' Jack added quickly in a grunt, straightening up his posture and raising his voice somewhat. `I've checked and there's rooms at the hotel near the station and I'll be travelling up to my mom's first thing in the morning for the day, so-'
Of course you can stay,' Ben interrupted in a quiet rush. He heard the strained resentment in his voice, mixed with friendly concern. He hugged his slim strong arms across his chest. I'm hardly going to say no,' he added. Again, 50% fond welcome, 50% passive aggressive pointedness.
He thought for a moment for his big bachelor bedroom upstairs, dominating the front of the house, and how empty that stupidly big bed could feel on some nights - especially when your muscular young body wasn't as completed drained by sporting activity as usual, due to the leg rehab from his op, and he'd spent more hours staring up at the ceiling than he was previously used to. Too much time thinking, and running one arm across the empty sheets next to him, that was it.
`I'm not being a dick,' Grealish told him quietly, seeming to strain to read his expression and his mood. The other footballer had put down his half-emptied mug on the side (Ben could not ignore the delicate little lick of lips and facial hair that the Brummie lad did instinctively in a pause between sips) and was patting his hands together - he seemed cold, as if maybe he'd been pacing laps of the block before getting up the courage to actually show up on the doorstep like that, rather than just heading straight here as an unlikely bolt from the blue. The thought gave Ben great pangs of affection for the inconsistency of Jack the lad's confidence, but also cause for hesitation - don't romanticise this, you tit, he cautioned himself, this is more about him than you.
`City life getting a bit much then?' Ben asked quietly, ignoring Jack's ambiguous comment there, and coming a bit closer to him. He opened a cupboard and offered him a chocolate biscuit with his tea, then watched as Jack crunched thoughtfully on it. He'd lowered his bag to the kitchen floor, and Ben watched idly as the material of the City tracksuit pulled and flexed against his wiry body.
`Big fish, small pond... turned small fish, crazy pond, y'know?'
Ben raised an eyebrow. `You learned about metaphors, then?'
Jack snarled playfully. `Meta-what, mate?'
Quiet. `Tea okay?'
Slurp. `Lovely, mate.'
`Mm. Good.'
Jack repeated what he said before. I'm not being a dick. I mean- I'm not here expecting anything.' He lowered his gaze. I just don't know anyone in the city like I know you, and I couldn't face booking a car home to mom just now.'
Ben nodded slowly. There's nothing else, is there?' he asked a little nervously. Nothing wrong, or anything? Jack?'
Head shaken firmly. I'm just tired,' Grealish told him, and he sounded it. Looked it. A lot of pressure there, and...' He twisted his face. `It's funny how quickly things can get complicated, y'know?' Ben daren't try to interpret this, because he knew a jealous streak would burn up and he'd be wondering WHO might be making things complicated for simple-hearted Jack at his new club. Was this just about League pressures under the great Pep Guardiola, or about something more... intimate?
You can stay,' the 25-year-old defender assured him softly, but at the same time he took a careful step away from the smell of Jack's signature cologne, and manoeuvred past him out into the hallway. I'll just go check if one of the guest bedrooms is ready.' He said it firmly and in as detached a voice as he could muster, before hurrying up the broad staircase and hesitating on the landing - he knew full well that every bedroom in the house was made up, that he'd had them prepped in case any of the guests tonight wanted to crash and make a fuller weekend of it. Ben had made sure he had a couple of extra passes for the stadium tomorrow if they did, but nope... they all had their partners or young families that they wanted to be back among.
Soft carpets meant that he didn't quite hear Jack's approach up the stairs, but a creak of bag strap alerted him and he continued on down the passage a bit before turning to face him. He nodded at a door equidistant between them. That's the nicest,' he offered. Big en suite. You'll be comfy.' Jack was taking a step in his direction, but he carried on in this airy artificial voice, somewhere between a matron and a slick estate agent: `I don't have to be out very early tomorrow or anything so you'll be at your leisure in the morning, it's-'
Ben,' whispered the winger, coming right up in front of him, one hand hooked into the strap of his bag, and the other reaching for a light touch on his elbow. Can I not stop in your bed?' Ben heard his downstairs affirmation as a quiet echo. So much for `not being a dick'. He tensed, but as soon as he glanced at Jack's puppyish features and stood in front of him, he knew he was going to agree. He could sense the weariness and sadness about his best mate, and he ached to fix whatever was broken for him. He just nodded, and now Jack grabbed him the hug - it was tighter and warmer than his polite embrace by the bins, and he let out a shaky sigh.
Ben went quietly through his motions, talking blandly to Jack about his week: his rehab, his piano lesson, the car he was in the middle of buying. He brushed his teeth and moisturised and changed - in the bathroom - into a thinner t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts, whilst Jack perched on a chair by the window and did none of these things.
Ben moved like an automaton, needing to follow ritual and speak of boring details, because he could picture a very different scene unfolding if he let it - and neither of them needed that. In his bedclothes, he pulled back the covers and slid in, quickly settling into an approximate impression of easy comfort on one side of the bed. A minute passed without his room-filling chatter, and then he kept his eye not-quite-closed, sensing and half-seeing the movement of Grealish getting up from his seat and stripping out of his tracksuit layers, a bare tanned figure moving about to the other side of the bed and getting into it. Their elbows and ankles made the briefest of grazes and then they were apart, together under the cover but carefully distanced; Ben had already turned his back to the middle and, foetus-like, angled himself towards the windows in a practised pose of sleepy indifference. The gentle shift of bedding told him that Jack was doing the same, turning away with a huff of breath, and lying back-to-back with him, rather than defying the body language and crawling across to spoon him for old time's sake.
Good, Ben thought wearily. That would be disastrous. Totally disastrous. And not at all lovely and comforting and everything I every fucking wanted.
Chilwell surprised himself by quickly falling asleep. If he'd been thinking with any clarity, he might have expected a fitful night of awkwardness and simmering tension, but the few drinks and a fairly busy Saturday took their effect, and he was off into vague Premiership dreams in a matter of minutes, and then out for the count. When he woke, he had to wonder if the whole thing had been a dream, in fact, but a glance over his shoulder confirmed otherwise: if he'd paused long enough, the rattling hiss of Jack's snores might have done likewise, and once he had slid out of the bedding, so might the messily discarded items of his clothes. A sock here, a vest there, the tracksuit top dangling from the edge of his mirror.
Ben pulled a thin dressing gown about his shoulders, though the morning was far from cold, and he left his own bedroom on his tiptoes. On the landing, he paused and dragged his hands bitterly over his sleepy face. Madness, what was the dopey lad playing at? He marvelled at his own nighttime resolve, the cool distance he'd maintained, for whatever reason he felt he must.
`Jesus,' the left-back whispered to himself, and he made his way downstairs.
In the kitchen, he found and woke up his tablet, using it to browse his socials and then the sports news, taking a quiet interest in write-ups from Liverpool's victory yesterday, analysis of the City defeat that had just allowed it; he shifted from that to speculation and predictions about his own club's weekend game against Palace, his own Wembley weekend, with that extra guest pass going to waste in his pocket.
After a while, he heard steps from above, and guessed that Jack was awake too. Thoughtlessly, he went to make another cuppa, grabbing the kettle and filling it at one of the sinks, then standing close to it at the counter as he took two mugs and readied them; it was a banal moment, but it gave him serious de ja vu for mornings when they had been more than friends, following this exact ritual in other apartments, brewing up for the pair of them. The sound of the kettle must have drowned out further footsteps, or that soft carpet - because now he could hear Jack's bare feet slap gently on the cool tiled floor of the kitchen. He deliberately didn't turn around, because he knew Jack would have slept in just his underpants, and he didn't really need to see that.
The footsteps didn't stop, but approached. He waited, momentarily, for Jack to pull up next to him at the counter and casually ask what was for breakfast - Ben had already been working that question out in his head a minute ago - but instead, they stopped just behind him, and then he felt warm hands brush his hips through the thin robe. `Jack,' he said once, his voice low and cautious.
Grealish didn't answer, but just rubbed him a bit more firmly there, and pulled in closer. He felt a musty breath rub at the back of his neck, and he sighed in unison, first tensing up and then relaxing as he felt Jack's bare hot body pulling close to him from behind. `Morning,' was all the Brummie guy said, a rough whisper of interest.
Ben straightened up. He was about to push back, to slip out of this familiar morning position, but... Jack's hands had reached around slightly, taken the lapels of his dressing gown, and pulled it back, letting it slide gently off his shoulders and down his back with only a faint rustle. And the hands were up on his arms at the border of his sleeves now, and then up on his shoulder. He could still feel those warm bed-breath sighs on the nape of his neck as Jack's hands, inexpert but instinctive, rubbed at his shoulder muscles through his t-shirt, and Ben could not help but let out a tiny moan of appreciation.
This, he thought, was dangerous - but he still didn't shift away, or say anything against it. He just stood there, resting his palms forward on the counter beside the mugs, and let Grealish massage his shoulders and his neck from behind, breathing quietly against him as he did so, but saying nothing. It went on, a strangely beautiful moment in the quiet kitchen with only a few shafts of morning light cutting between the blinds and casting the springtime sunglow on them both. Jack's amateur hands were experimenting - one was working up his neck a little to the base of his skull to softly massage his head, and the other was jerking over his shoulder and toying with the edge of one sleeve. Then he stopped, perhaps bored with it, but staying there, rhythmic breaths quietly disturbing the peace of Ben's skin and sending shivers down his spine. And then, just as he might have moved to reach over for the kettle and carry on with the tea, the hands were gripping at the thin white fabric of his pyajam t-shirt, and pulling upwards - Ben made a faint sound, as if of resistance, but then relaxed his torso and held himself in front of the slightly shorter athlete, even lifting his arms one by one until Grealish had delicately pulled the t-shirt up and away and, presumably, let it glide behind them to the kitchen floor. His hands were back on Ben's shoulder muscles, but now it was skin to skin, and he shuddered.
Soon, the contact that those warm puffs of breath had been silently promising him landed on his sensitive skin, and Jack was kissing him on the back of the neck - not once, but over and over, soft wet pecks against his ticklish nape, whilst rubbing warm strong hands over his shoulders and across his upper arms, holding him firmly from behind. Ben tensed and relaxed again and he let his head loll to the side as he was encouraged, so that the rubbing hand could move forward onto part of his chest, and the kisses could rove from the back to the side of his neck... Mmm. This is... a... bad idea... But he didn't say it out loud, because what if it stopped...?
Grealish held him from behind, gently-haired arms swooping down now and crossing his sides, holding him while the kisses terrorised his neck and just below his ears with gorgeous morning intimacy. He could feel the firmness of Jack's chest and abdomen against his back, and the fullness of his underwear resting against his own rump, making him want rid of the loose cotton shorts - it was as if Jack could read his mind, because hands were pushing down his own six-pack and finding the knot of cord at the front - though not pausing to loosen it, just pushing the bed-shorts past his slim waist and dragging them down, inch by inch, until they were falling past his thighs, his knees, his shins. He was naked now, with them about his ankles, and Jack holding him quite tightly from behind, bestowing kisses along the length of his strong shoulders and then back at the base of his neck, oh holy fuck.
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but what could he say that wouldn't threaten the moment...? So he just pursed his lips and bowed his head a little bit, feeling Jack's hands begin to rove more adventurously down the sides of his body. The kisses were travellng, delicate pecks down the length of his spine, and the hands were above, then on, his hips, the sides of his broad sturdy bottom. He felt Jack's warm breath on the small of his back and, guided by the hands, he bent forward a little, resting more of his weight onto the kitchen counter, letting his arse push back gently - letting the cheeks spread naturally, and then more forcefully, Jack's fingers kneading his glute muscles, until he could feel the Brummie's stale breath tickle between them. A soft wet sound of spitting, and a lukewarm sensation in his crack, and then... Jack's muscular tongue, diving in there, the cheeks pushed more firmly aside. Ben felt a palm push his lower back more and he bent further forward, obedient, and let his buttocks be parted and his whole licked and prodded and spat upon.
His hole, not fucked in forever, clenched and quivered, and his whole body trembled as if the kitchen was suddenly freezing cold. Jack's hands moved in firm, comforting sweeps of massaging gestures, across his back and hips, up and down his strong thighs, and then back onto his cheeks, to pat and squeeze them, to prise them further apart and to spit on his twitching ring.
And then... Jack's face between his thighs, his soft morning hair rubbing ticklishly against Ben's buttocks and his balls, and his own cock kissed and licked from behind where it hung, increasingly pendulous with swelling, beginning to rise away and jut at the kitchen counter, but pulled back by Jack's warm lips as it was sucked gently from below. Then, twang, released, that mouth tending instead to his balls, one at a time and then between them... a tongue-lashing of interest that made him throb and shiver, made his breaths go shallow and rapid - he couldn't seem to move himself to reciprocate any of this, had no idea if that was required of him, he was just frozen to the spot against the kitchen, his hole aching.
It all proceeded with the same languid tenderness as the initial massaging and kissing: Jack wriggling about below, nipping and kissing his bollocks and then sucking a little on the tip of his hard-on again before letting it spring away, and then back to his arse, pushing between his cheeks and licking the fuzzy hair of his crack - the kisses moving up to the downy hair on the small of his back, whilst one of Jack's fingers found its way into his wet hole in slow gliding jabs, opening him up for the first time in ages, and making him let out a long thin whine of anticipation.
But soon, in spite of this glacial pace of excitement, Jack was up on his feet behind him, breathing against his neck, and holding him, and Ben could do nothing but ease his arse backwards and relax himself, feeling not a questing finger between his cheeks, but the fat head of Grealish's longed for cock. He let out long sighs whilst Jack's hands moved up and down his abs and onto his firm pecs, teasing across his nipples and up to stroke his neck and jawline... all the while, the fat tip of that great cock easing against his renewed tightness, testing and stretching him, finding its way.
`Oh, Jack,' he mouthed, unsure if the moaned name really came out loud, not that it mattered - their lithe strong bodies were communicating now, that was enough. Gradually, Jack was inside him, and he knew his muscles inside were welcoming and gripping the shaft, recognised the happy sighs and gasps of Jack's breathing on his neck and in his ear. The gentle tipping rhythm of hips as the cock was pushed more fully into him, the strain of their bodies as Jack found his angle and his rhythm, beginning to push him in slow jolts, so that he had to grip the counter more to steady himself and not go skidding away. Ben bent very slightly and held himself still, his arse fucked slow and deep, and his body grabbed and rubbed and massaged by those two large hands. Even Jack's animal groans had a Peaky Blinders twang.
Grealish didn't pick up the pace, didn't bring his characteristic roughness and urgency, this was... different. It carried on, slow and sure, making Ben burn and ache with the near-climaxing pleasure of it, his own huge cock rigid and swollen and deftly ignored by his lover's wandering hands for the duration of the fuck. He just remained pinned to the kitchen counter, his cock pressing up against his tummy as the slow thrusts got harder, and opened himself up to it, happily held in Jack's strong arm. They were both gasping heavily for air, and he could feel his skin dampen with sweat, not just his own.
He recognised the raggedness in the Brummie's gasps, knew he was getting close, and yet still, Jack's movements were slow and purposeful, firm but measured, even as he gripped Ben's hips and thrust his final ounces of strength into him and then, swearing under his breath, shot his load deep inside Ben's arse, collapsing forward more heavily against him as he did, guttural noises and clinging hugging. His chest felt damp against Ben's back muscles, squeezing him from behind and remaining buried to the hilt in his bottom, gasping for recovery, a moment that Chilwell found himself wanting to last forever.
As soon as Jack began to recede and withdraw, he felt a coldness shudder across his skin, a little nameless dread - and yet he shouldn't have immediately worried. Pulling back from him and downwards, JAck was manhandling his hips again to turn him around, to make him spin and plant his sweaty back to the counter, his fucked cheeks to the cupboard door, clenched about his stinging hole - and his big cock swinging free and into Jack's waiting face, all red and clammy. Immediately, Grealish was sucking him, slurping lovingly on it, seeming dazzled by its size as if he'd forgotten - his eyes squeezed shut and his blotchy red face fixated on the task at hand, which they both knew would take seconds at this rate. Ben stared wondrously down, clenching backwards and holding the edge of the counter, watching as the length of his fat bone went in and out of that slurping mouth, much of Jack's handsome looks hidden by the scruffy fringe of hair.
Almost silently, the Chelsea player climaxed, unable to hold out or stop himself or tell Jack to go easy - it was received gladly and noisily, queasy wet noises as Grealish slurped jizz from about the head of his cock and slobbered over the shaft to get every thick creamy drop of it. Ben's balls tingled and his head swam. He gripped the counter more tightly, worried he was gonna slide to the kitchen floor if he didn't compose himself. His leg muscles juddered and spasmed and he felt soaked in sweat, more than he'd realised as he was fucked with that slow morning passion.
And then it was over, and he was hanging his head and gasping for air, and he felt Jack get up and hold him gently, patting the outsides of his arms, their faces very close, his mouth drifting close and Ben puckering up for a taste of those jizzy lips... that never came. Jack was pulling back, still huffing and panting, and reaching past him, finding a tea-towel that he could rub across his beetroot face, sweat trickling all down his torso.
Ben spun to the side silently, gasping too, and reaching a hand to click the bottom of the kettle, letting it rapidly return to boiling point. He poured it into their mugs and stood there, naked and shiny, until Jack reached over to stroke and pat his back, and then disappeared to the fridge to get milk. In a minute, they were stood facing each other at opposite sides of the kitchen, sipping sweet tea and studying each other's bodies. Jack broke the quiet in a thin voice: `I best go and shower, then.' Ben stared at him and nodded, and sipped his tea.
At a distance, he followed Grealish up the stairs, bringing the tea with him, and then just lay down on top of the bedding, still naked and sweaty, and stayed lying there quietly, head propped up and sipping tea, when Jack emerged from the en suite and dressed in front of him, strangely at ease. Neither lad dared to say anything that might ruin it, and yet Ben knew eventually one of them might have to; it may as well be him.
Leaving Jack to it, he got reluctantly off the bed and walked downstairs. He ignored his other clothes but picked up the creased pile of the gown and slid it about his tightly-muscled body, tying it at the waist and then washing his face in the sink. Out of the kitchen window he saw the branded van of the cleaning company pulling up in his driveway, and he grunted unhappily at this interruption. `Jack,' he called warningly, moving out into the main hallway, but stopping when the other man was fully dressed and halfway down the stairs.
They both paused, staring each other down. Grealish was hard to read, but he glowed with post-sexual satisfaction. Ben held the bottom of the bannister and Jack descended to meet him, resting a hand on his.
I'm not stupid,' the 25-year-old said quietly but, he thought, quite brightly. I know this doesn't just mean we're back together and it's like nothing happened.'
Jack stared at him, not saying anything to confirm or deny this, and something in his remoteness cut at Ben's feelings. He pulled his hand away, though he knew he had no right to get angry, and he couldn't say what he thought the other guy was feeling about their early morning fuck.
`Do you have to go?' he asked in a hot mumble.
`I do.'
`Come to Wembley. I'm going to support Chelsea.'
A gentle scoffing laugh. `That'd look great, wouldn't it? After yesterday.'
`Who would know? Who'd care?' Even as he muttered this, Ben kinda knew it was daft, and would hardly pass unnoticed - a new-ish City player turning up on the fringe of he other semi, watching Chelsea perhaps succeed where City had obviously fallen short. He was being daft, and he cringed at himself. But to his relief, Jack dropped off the bottom step to come level with him, and pulled him into a tight hug that broke the momentary awkwardness, or perhaps just immortalised it. Ben grabbed him back and the two young footballers held each other. Ben heard the sound of a key in the lock outside, the cleaners usually having to make their own entry if he was either having a lie-in or already out to training.
He pulled away from Jack, who he saw looked surprised and worried, but he just patted him on the arm. The door opened and Ben shouted a polite good morning to the masked lady who bustled in and immediately went past them to get started on her rounds. They were left alone again, but with her footsteps and rustles sounding throughout the ground floor of the townhouse. Jack smiled a bit, and walked towards the door with his bag. Ben followed him.
At the door, he took the risk, and pushed it.
`Is there somebody else now?' he asked.
Jack didn't answer, and there was a worriedness in his expression. No answer was an answer of sorts, and Ben quailed. He sighed, and rubbed at Jack's arm gently, then let their hands slide together and their fingers briefly lock together. Still no kiss. Just a hot lingering stare between them in the doorway. I just don't know,' Grealish admitted in a huffy breath, and Ben wasn't sure precisely what question was being answered, but he honestly whispered, No, me neither, baby.'
Somewhere else in the house, a hoover roared. It made them both smile stupidly at each other, and Ben guessed Jack was thinking how easily they might have been caught at it in the kitchen just now in the slow throes of their passion. It made him laugh giddily and he squeezed Jack's hand in his. He realised how wrong his words had been just now, how pointlessly ambiguous.
`If you figure it out, you know where I am,' he said earnestly.
Jack did look a little surprised, raising his brows and biting his lip. But he didn't say anything affirmative or dismissive in response - though his hand did grip meaningfully back at Ben's for a moment more before he reached for the door and let himself out, stepping away out into the bright Sunday morning, leaving a naked Ben in his robe, resting on the doorframe and relishing the old ache in his arse.
He checked his phone as soon as he left the shower, finished with his day's training scheme and needing to get out of the centre and on the road back to his place. There were various notifications from a number of apps, but there was nothing from Jack. Still. As there had been nothing every day for the past two weeks since that Saturday night and Sunday morning.
He sighed and locked it, and went on drying his compact muscular body, alone in the player changing facilities since the other guys were still at work on their light afternoon session. He took his time, drying and styling his hair and lingering over packing his things into his kit-bag. He almost checked his phone again, as if for some reason Jack Grealish was going to pause in his Friday afternoon and finally text him: `That was the best sex of my entire fucking life'.
On the way out, he bumped into a few of the other players, who seemed to have given up doing anything productive after all and were just drifting around the fitness centre in an aimless fashion, all still in recovery from a quick away trip halfway up the country.
And somehow their kindness irked him, made him feel even more single and alone than he had before. It was lovely, really - big Ruben loping up to him outside the changing rooms, that handsome smile cracking his large face, and laying a big hand on his shoulder as he asked whether he'd liked to join them for the BBQ on Monday; and antsy Christian Pulisic only minutes later, explaining that his girlfriend was away on a photoshoot and he had nobody to hang out with either, maybe they should do something - and then Werner in the foyer, calling across to him and bluntly asking if he wanted to be a fifth wheel at this table with he and Havertz and their girlfriends. Then, the icing on the cake, a worried-looking Mount jogging after him in the car park, then slowing down and giving him a cheeky wave, and telling him there'd be space in the car if he fancied coming along with him and Rice and helping to set up the birthday party.
I'm not some charity case!' Chilwell protested as brightly as he could, backing away from his buddy and heading on to his car. I've got plans, don't you worry - you guys just go and smash Everton to pieces, will you? Don't go easy on them just cos it's Frank.' He gave his friend a meaningful look, fully aware of everything that had gone down between the midfielder and the former Chelsea gaffer, INTIMATELY aware.
Hah, we will,' Mount promised him. I didn't mean to be annoying there, Benny. Just a bit worried about you, that's all.'
`Worried! Don't be worried. I'm cool beans. Buddy, I'll be back on a pitch in no time and I'm feeling great. Honest. Just gonna have a chilled weekend and see you all at training next week, that's all. Yeh?'
`Cool, yeah.'
`Give my love to Deccers. Well, not love, but- y'know. Something that doesn't piss him off. Enjoy yourself, Mase. Go get a goal against the Toffees, will ya?'
He waved him off, laughing and shaking his head, and let himself into his own sports car, then before he could start it up, gave in to instinct and hurriedly fished out his phone, checking his messaging apps and sighing sadly at the lack of new communication; never mind. Not yet.