Part 314: Barcelona Visitors
The Spanish city's airport thrummed with activity, even late on a Sunday night, and he moved through the arrivals lounge in a furtive manner - there was no particular reason that anyone in Catalonia should immediately recognise him, of course, but he still felt an urge for discretion as he dragged his small suitcase behind him on wheels, a large pair of sunglasses partially obscuring his face. He could certainly do without being pictured here on this short overnight trip, having lied to three different family members about his whereabouts as he briefly abandoned his girlfriend and two young children for the sudden extra bank holiday of tomorrow's State Funeral.
He'd trundled loyally through the past couple of days' training work, even though their Europa win on Thursday night marked their last game before the international break - but he'd sleepwalked through three days of light training sessions, still reeling from the events in Moldova. From his own greedy indiscretion, he supposed, but far more-so from the revelation that it had led him to.
The 27-year-old football star kept his head low, shoulders hunched somewhat, the light denim jacket hugging uncomfortably across the muscles of his upper arms and broad back, and his eyes scanned the line of drivers behind a flimsy barrier, all holding up their rectangular signs with variations on bored and impatient' etched onto their tanned, lined faces - and he successfully found the right one, bearing his name, or at least enough of it to discreetly seek him out: Mr L. S (Manchester)'. The driver holding it looked a little less irritated and put-upon, his black suit a little sharper and more stylish than the average slumped posture of his contemporaries; well-paid, clearly.
The arrival approached the waiting man by the barrier, giving him a slight nod, and immediately his small case was being taken from him, whilst he was given a heavily accented `Welcome to Barcelona' and a couple of disinterested enquiries about his journey; the muscular left-back barely answered, still self-conscious and unsure of the whole trip, as he followed the sharply dressed chauffeur between the huddle of bodies and towards the nearest exit - but it wasn't as if this was a mere train ride from outer Manchester, and he could just hop regretfully back onto the tram or into his own motor. He was here now, and it was time to meet his host.
If `Mr L S (Manchester)' had slowed or relaxed enough to look around him, he might have been surprised to find himself not the only Premiership defender passing through the crowded airport tonight, and this other young man only a little less self-conscious and uncomfortable with himself in the warmth of the Spanish night. This 25-year-old was free and single enough to have needed no lies or subterfuge to spend his bank holiday travelling briefly to Barcelona, and yet he was still hunched and nervy with the nature of his trip, and the friend waiting at the other end of it.
He leaned against a high bench outside the exit doors, not registering the slick suited chauffeur who whizzed past with a small case, or the hunched bloke who followed with his hands pushed into his sweatpants pockets, muscling his way into the gleaming Mercedes on the pick-up line.
In a gruff Scottish accent, the man by the bench answered the incoming call on his mobile: Hey, I'm here', before pausing and listening to the bright mix of Spaniard and Cockney that chimed down the line at him: I am sorry, sorry - I was just in the kitchen, I not see your calls. You will be okay in taxi? I have already had wine, I'm sorry.' There were other voices in the background, rapid low murmurs of Spanish, and the festive atmosphere behind the call made the Scotch man outside the airport tremble a bit with confusion.
Sure, yeah,' he grumbled on, over-shooting in his attempt at casual indifference, I'll grab one now and give him that address you sent me. Erm - see you soon.' He hesitated, as the voice on the other end of the line slid back into voluble Spanish, clearly addressing somebody else - he tried to get a better sense of just how many people were there with him, and whether he was actually at home, or out.
Perfect,' returned the voice in English, presumably aimed back at him. We are here now, at my place.'
He paused, unsure he could reasonably ask about the We', and realising that he'd made some weak assumptions about the specifics of tonight's plan - instead, just growling out another Sure, sure, see ya' and holding the phone screen against his cool cheek for a moment longer after the call clicked out, and he had to cast his eyes down the sidewalk to see how bad the taxi queue currently was.
Adjusting the straps of the lightly-stuffed retro Nike backpack over his shoulders, the Scottish defender strode awkwardly on down the row, and joined the small queue of more luggage-laden groups who were hailing down cabs to take them away from the buzzing terminal.
Back inside the arrivals area, a third well-known face of the footballing world was waiting, although this one was not trooping out of the security doors from an arriving flight, rather waiting on the other side of the barrier on home turf, arms hugged about the chest of his thick designer hoodie. He was also hiding himself a little like the arrivals from Manchester and Heathrow airports, a baseball cap pulled low over much of his handsome young features, obscuring his distinctive looks because the last thing he wanted here was a scene and a load of attention around their rendezvous.
He was waiting in a slightly different part of the arrivals zone to the black-suited driver who had picked up Mr LS, or that the backpacked London arrival had stomped through with a certain apprehension, waiting for the man to answer his phone - this airport visitor was waiting for an internal flight, rather than international, and it was a slimmer crowd who emerged with their baggage, making it easier for him to pick out his target, even if the other Spanish teen was similarly `disguised' for an easy journey.
Breaking the careful invisibility of his generic teenage garb, the 18-year-old midfielder raised and waved a single hand, and one of the hurrying travellers stopped and changed course, breaking away from the stream of cases, and darting this way instead. The pair hugged instantly, the arrival throwing an arm about his shoulders and nestling closely against him for a few precious moments, but the peaks of their low caps knocking clumsily and making both of them laugh as they pulled away.
`You didn't have to come,' said the arrival from the flight in their native language, his voice and face full of an easy smile that belied the comment itself.
The waiter grinned coyly, their eyes meeting briefly as they tilted their faces and escaped the obscurity of their baseball caps; he shrugged, unable to stop smiling, and just nodded at the traveller's pair of light bags. Can I help?' he asked, but the other young Barcelona footballer scoffed, still insisting that the arrivals greeting was unnecessary: Did you get a taxi here, or take the train? It's a good job I'm parked in long-stay, I can drive us back to yours.'
`I wanted to,' the 18-year-old said quietly, letting his sleeved arm brush against the bare skin of the other boy's, as they turned away from the arrivals crowds, headed now for a series of lifts that could take them down into the airport's parking bays.
The other player, 19 and darker in his hair and features, turned to grin broadly at him at this insistence, and for a moment their hands connected, fingers brushing if not quite holding, but separating cautiously as quickly as it had started. The younger of the two began to ask questions about the sports brand photoshoot that had taken his best friend away to Madrid for much of the weekend, but his own queries were parried by those of the 19-year-old lad, who nervously asked, `Am I still okay to stay over at yours tonight? Your family won't be... weird about it?'
He huffed at this notion, nervous in body language even as he shook his head adamantly and assured the other lad in the quiet elevator as they shot downwards a couple of floors; here, in the hopeful privacy of the lift shaft, the teens leaned in a bit more closely, and Pablo Gavira did close his warm hand fully about the strong fingers of Pedro Lopez's, and the close teenagers smiled knowingly at one another for the fleeting moments of the journey down - parting gently and carefully as the doors began to open and they were released into the petroleum aroma of the underground car park, making a beeline for Pedri's car.
`You can stay as long as you like,' he said with a mixture of earnest warmth and showy indulgence, waving his hand generally about the lofty interior of the single-story hilltop villa, and particularly out of the open French windows onto the sprawling lamp-lit terrace that overlooked the lights of the city where it hugged the coast.
The 28-year-old forward turned and shot his twinkling smile at his guest, picking up the freshly opened Moet from the low table at his side, and sploshing its contents into two ready flutes. Memphis Depay was more than delighted to be playing host tonight, throwing open his luxury property to the sudden and welcome company of his former teammate: Luke Shaw took slow steps closer to him, looking faintly uncomfortable in the warm opulence of the extreme bungalow, and shooting suspicious looks at the panting stares of Depay's guard dogs.
It'll only be tonight,' the guest said quietly, giving him a wan smile as he took the long thin glass from him, their fingers brushing. But thanks.' There was an aged weariness to his ruggedly bearded face as he smiled again. I could do with a longer vacation, but I'm due in the England camp by the end of Tuesday.' A pause, the two old friends holding each other's eyes. You must be the same with the Orange.'
Memphis nodded, and took a long sip from his champagne rather than speaking, before strolling out through the open glass doors and onto the smooth flagstones of his broad terrace area; underwater lights in the pool cast their dappled glow over the rear of the villa, including his own silky black shirt and loose-fitting trousers. He gestured for Luke to follow, moving around the pool and down to the low wall where the outdoor area gave way to steep hillsides and the view itself.
`One night only it is then,' the Barcelona forward announced in a voice of dry amusement, as much to the rolling dark treetops as to the companion slowly joining him by the wall, and then the two twenty-somethings shared another quietly meaningful look.
How often and for how long had Memphis suggested such a visit to his ex-colleague, his one lasting buddy from his short spell in the Premier League? Less so now, he supposed, understanding how changed Shaw's commitments where on his home turf, but it was still an idea he teasingly floated almost every time the pair communicated - yet he'd been astounded when his passing picture message on Saturday afternoon, a selfie of himself floating in this very swimming pool in just his wet trunks and a lot of heavy jewellery, had been met with a `Yes. Are you free tomorrow night?' and a rapid flurry of messaging about flight times and Depay's hired driver picking him up. And now here he was: the redeemed United star, hovering to his left, a somewhat jarring presence in the Iberian luxury of his Barcelona home, but the same fluffy stud who he'd bonded with back in the day, and later... well, a different kind of bonding, you might call it.
`You're looking well,' the Dutchman told his friend - he could hear the cliche and formality in it, but it was true, and worth saying - there was something leaner and more manly about the 27-year-old left-back, very different from the bright-eyed and soft-edged pretty boy who had been his constant ally in his Manchester seasons. Fatherhood, he supposed, had changed the pup of Luke's past, and... carved this more serious-looking stud who was now peeling out of his denim jacket and draping it over one arm, the short sleeves of his white t-shirt barely holding onto the swollen biceps at his sides.
We could have gone out,' he said, more casually. One of my teammate's is having a party, a sort of welcome home thing - you must know him, Hector was at Arsenal a lot?'
Luke nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. He was studying the view, but Memphis suspected his thoughts were someplace else, and wondered what had brought him here at last. Namely, he wondered what his friend was running away from.
Or just dinner,' the Dutch forward mused. I know plenty of great places now, you see. There is this nightclub just on the seafront with the most incredible VIP section, we could...'
`Here is fine,' Shaw said. His voice was low and unenthusiastic, he sounded sad.
Instinctively, Depay moved closer, and he brought one rustling sleeve up against the board shoulders in that white tee, holding Shaw loosely there. Then here it is,' he said, dropping his warm welcoming tone to a soothing whisper at the same level as Luke's voice. I cleared out the house so that we can be alone,' he added in the same intimate purr, and his old friend gave him a wary sidelong glance. `Is that not what you want...?'
The Londoner paused, chewing at his lip. It is,' he muttered at length, wringing his hands in front of him, drooped against the lap of his baggy dark green sweatpants. But... I don't want to give you any funny ideas, mate. I just needed to be... away. Even for one night.'
The Netherlands international nodded firmly. And you are,' he said sternly. You're here, with your Memph, and nobody else can bother you for tonight and tomorrow.' In the same quite formal tone, he added, `There's a spare bedroom made up for you, don't worry. I haven't assumed anything.'
Luke nodded, not saying anything. He lifted his hands to take hesitant sips of the overpriced fizz, and Memphis rubbed the flat of one hand against his back and shoulders, following his gaze out over the dark wooded hillside and down to the twinkling lights of the city below, glowing out over the sea. He moved his hand back and forward in a gentle arc, enjoying the firm warmth of the other taller footballer's strength and stature, then just squeezing at his far shoulder for a while.
You don't have to worry,' he told his visitor, as his fingers slid away from the warm cotton and, very briefly, brushed at the skin of his bicep, his hand then moving to the small of his back where it rested. I won't try anything.' He turned to meet the nervous smile of the other man, and winked at him. `Not until after dinner, anyway.'
Bellerin's apartment was a loft conversion that seemed to take up the entire top floor of an old warehouse or industrial building in an edgy district of the city; it was also quite full of people, and for the two hours or so Tierney felt lost at sea. After being briefly welcomed by his former teammate, the 25-year-old Manx Scot was set adrift with the other guests of the casual and sophisticated get-together - they were, it turned out, largely disconnected from football, which felt a bit odd for Kieran, and more of them seemed to be in the fashion world, or friends of Hector's who went all the way back to his school days. A handful of guests were connected to Barcelona FC and, of those, only a couple were players, not ones Kieran was overly familiar with - still, he gravitated towards them, half-recognising their faces from La Liga and Champions League coverage, but finding their English so poor and his own gruff accent such a barrier that he ended up spending most of the time on a low sofa in one of the several open-lan zones, eating finger food from a tray and speaking to two female friends of the host's, one a photographer and the other a fashion designer; the pair spoke better English than anyone else, and humoured him with questions about life at Arsenal. How well did he know Hector? Why didn't the London club appreciate their Spanish star a bit more thoroughly? Why wasn't he staying in the UK for tomorrow's formalities, and then politics: would Scotland be having another referendum now?
Tierney relaxed somewhat in their company, and plied with wine by one of them, though he was still gripped by a sense of how foolish he'd been to jump on that flight and come here at all, on his own. The invitation, after all, hadn't even been direct and personal. Bellerin had just thrown the cheery message into a little-used old squad group chat: `Hey amigos! Having a bit of a party here this weekend if you end up with free time and can make it - no pressure. Miss you guys! X'
There had been a lot of murmuring amongst the lads about making a weekend of it at first, since they'd half-expected their weekend clash with Brentford to end up postponed. But nope, the game had gone ahead, just earlier today, and Kieran had travelled almost immediately from the celebrations to the airport to book his last-minute ticket. He hadn't even bothered to tell anyone else at Arsenal, since they'd made it pretty obvious the Barca weekend was only ever a laddish fantasy - everybody was too busy with their families, their kids, their weirdly patriotic plans for the State Funeral. Kieran had sent his message directly to Hector from the airport queue: Definitely up for a party if I can make it over, got tomorrow off. What do you think?' He'd been breathless in the taxi, wondering why he hadn't communicated with the Spaniard earlier in the day, or last night, instead of just making this rash choice and rushing over London on a Sunday evening. But sure enough, the happy little reply had come through, first just a string of smiling emojis and thumbs-up signs, and then a brief caveat: Not much of a party now, I think, but still be good to see you!'
The 25-year-old Arsenal defender looked about him: okay, the loft conversion was not exactly crowded or wild, it was more of a cheese-and-wine night than anything that might get called a party where Kieran was from, but there were plenty of people here and he was now internally questioning himself over just what he'd expected when he got on that plane, or when he messaged Hector to announce his attendance.
The two women who had been rather friendly to him were now speaking across him in Spanish, and he wondered if they were talking ABOUT him - he'd got an increasing sense that one or both of them, both attractive Spanish women a little older than himself, were interested in more than his taken on Arsenal and Scottish politics, and he even dared to imagine now that the senoritas were in some way arguing over who got to make a move on him.
His unusually inflated ego therefore took a gentle slap when the pair got up from their separate seats and shared a kiss, and he realised that they were a couple in their own right. His face must have been beetroot-red as he bid them `Adios' and was left alone on the sofa, stuffing his face with another of the pinchos snacks on the table, and looking around for a wine refill.
The party, he suddenly realised, was over: guests were fetching jackets and bags and goodbyes were being said. Kieran, reluctant to be drawn into further conversation where he would just be stared at or asked to repeat himself more clearly, remained on his sofa, and just watched the disintegration of the social event with an empty wine glass in his hand - he waved awkwardly at the two Barca players who passed by with their partners, mortified that he'd failed to communicate with them properly, his chance to mingle with one of the world's most iconic squads.
And then he heard the door shut, and it was just Hector Bellerin walking back across the apartment to him. The 5ft10 defender was wearing a slim-fitting black polo shirt with long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and wide-legged grey drainpipe trousers that looked almost like 1970s flares - it was all a bit Continental and chic for Kieran, who'd gone with simple dark jeans that hugged his footballer's legs, and one of the nicer check shirts from his wardrobe, thought it felt creased and casual here in the sophistication of his friend's loft conversion, especially sandwiched between artsy lesbians.
He got up, smiling boldly at the former Arsenal player. Er, they were nice,' he said, nodding past him in the rough direction of the stairwell. Your friends, I mean.'
Hector ran one hand through the slick dark cape of his hair, and grinned back. Before he spoke, he cast his eyes about and found an open bottle of red on a shelf, which he brought over to drain into Kieran's glass. They liked you,' he said. Ana and Carla are old friends. They said I should invite you more often.' He was grinning as he spoke, making Kieran feel a tad paranoid, and wonder if he'd been discussed in slightly less glowing terms, having grunted and shrugged his way through conversation with the pair, but hoping dearly that the review was genuine. He wasn't 100% sure why he cared.
Tierney said none of this, just nodding, and sipping from the delicious red. He glanced back to the sofa he'd occupied for the best part of two hours, and his slim backpack stuffed down at one side of it, next to one of the big display cases of obscure items and lamps. I didn't sort a hotel room or anything,' he admitted, glancing back to Bellerin. I wasn't sure what the plan was, but I can...'
You'll stay here?' Hector said, cutting him off. It was a question and not a question. Kieran nodded quite quickly, smiling, but still not wanting to be presumptuous. I'm sorry I didn't bring any of the lads,' he said bluntly. Nobody was keen, but I... Well, I...' He could feel the awkward blush in his cheeks. I figured we never got to say goodbye to you, the deal here was so sudden in that last week of August, so...'
I'm so glad you did,' the other footballer said earnestly, unbuttoning the neck of his top a little in the warmth of the apartment, and rubbing the same hand loosely over his chest. I'm just sorry that it wasn't the proper party you were expecting. I was going to book out a bar and have a big thing, but so many people were busy, so just...' He waved about the bohemian place. `Just a few people over for wine and snacks. Did you like the snacks? I made them all today.'
`Oh, really? Er, yeah, they were lush. So tasty. Erm.'
`Good, good. I'm glad. Now - I need to find myself some more wine, if my guests left any! Come with me, will you?' Suddenly, the other defensive player was retreating and stalking back through the sprawling open-plan place, loosely divided by clusters of furniture or tall units of shelving, and into the large corner of it that made up its kitchen; he busied himself in several cupboards, and Kieran took up position at the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down into a relatively busy street of bars below. He became dimly aware that a lot of the bars down there had very colourful neon signs, almost rainbows in some cases.
This one,' the Spanish footballer was announcing, is particularly good vintage. I hid it while that lot were here, but I think it's time for a drop now. Finish that cheap stuff, will you? I want you to try this with me. And...' He'd removed something from the fridge, and was peeling back a foil covering from some slices of a fancy-looking tart. `I entirely forgot to deserve the sweets - I was just getting tired, and wanted everyone gone.'
The Scot couldn't help but instinctively echo this and air his own insecurity. `Everyone?' he murmured, following his friend's order and drinking the remains of his glass in a slight hurry, coming up next to the other footballer at the counter.
The 27-year-old Barcelona native just laughed warmly, busy cutting thick slices of the colourful patisserie creation. Everyone who wasn't staying. I will see them all the time. You, however, not so often...' He lifted his head and Kieran was struck by the hard lines and distinctive handsomeness of that face, directed quite intensely at him. You're my guest,' Hector added more quietly, `and it is great to have you here, though I suppose only for tonight?'
Tierney nodded. `Scotland camp on Tuesday,' he grunted, surprised at how reluctant and unmotivated he sounded, when playing for his country usually roused more fierce competition in him than any league football ever could.
Bellerin nodded too, and served the slices, before picking up the corkscrew and artfully unlocking the fancier wine for them, which he put down to breathe. Well then,' he said in a low mutter, we shall just have to enjoy tonight, eh?'
Pedri had looked forward to his night in with Gavi all the way back from Madrid, tired from the whirlwind trip across their country that had followed immediately on from Saturday's home game; he hadn't banked on the large meal and lingering drinks that the pair of teens would be subjected to on arriving at the Gavira home. Pablo told us you were staying over so we wanted to make it special!' his friend's mum told him repeatedly over the al fresco meal, and the 19-year-old prodigy realised that he couldn't exactly turn around and say, Ah, sorry senora, I just want to take your son upstairs and make out with him, gracias.'
It was late when the two of them were alone in Gavi's room, especially as Pedri had been forced to perform a pantomime of settling down in one of the spare rooms instead, before creeping back through the house and joining its teenaged owner in his suite instead. The pair of them couldn't help but snigger at the secrecy of it, holding each other just inside the doorway, and listening out to confirm that the rest of the large house was silent now.
`Come in, come in,' the 18-year-old whispered to him, grabbing and squeezing his hands.
Pedri squeezed back and leaned in, only fractionally taller than the other Barca midfielder, and went in for the kiss. The kissing was still new for them both and they did it self-consciously, bringing their lips together in an awkward fashion, not yet really using tongues, but feeling the beery warmth of each other's mouths, and clutching at each other's firm young bodies appreciatively.
Pedri pulled away and felt very aware of Gavi's breathless tension, the way the slightly younger footballer clung to him and looked almost heartbroken that one kiss had ended, his face so frowny and vulnerable. The cuteness of it made his chest surge with fondness, but it also scared him, the intensity of it all.
He took the other player by one hand and guided him across to the bed, letting their bodies both fall against it and spread out, close but not quite touching, and once more staring into each other's eyes. Gavi's were so richly brown and jarringly wide, almost something from a Disney animation, and Pedri felt he could get lost in them, their faces held close and their bodies beginning to pull gently at the other boy's t-shirt, or waistline.
`Pedri,' the younger teen murmured.
`Yeah?' he breathed, leaning in and kissing him a couple of times on the side of his neck, reaching one hand under the back of Gavi's loose t-shirt and feeling the muscular firmness there, sliding up inside it and following his spine as he snogged his smooth throat.
There's - mmm, mm - something I ought to - mmm, oh...' And then a wriggling of the 5ft8 lad's body, pulling loose from his, wriggling apart slightly on top of the covers of his bed. There's something I gotta tell you, Pedri,' he muttered, less breathy and ecstatic suddenly, his voice dull and practical and, if he was honest, a little worrying.
`What?' the 19-year-old ace demanded quietly, suddenly impatient - on the short flight, he'd been thinking about those soft pouting lips, giving him a barely hidden erection for almost the entire journey between cities, and he'd struggled to keep it at bay all the way through their three-course dinner with the family. He pawed on at the other boy's t-shirt, beginning to drag it away from his slim but dense body, thickly strong for his height and age.
`It's just...' A huffy sigh and Gavi was pulling looser for him, propping himself up and staring moodily at him, the kind of grim expression he wore when in business mode at the Nou Camp, not in these friendly little trysts of kissing that had sprung up since his 18th birthday and the closeness they'd shared then. Weeks later, neither of them had properly addressed what Gavi said to him in the heat of the moment, though Pedri thought about it often, and wondered what it meant.
Go on,' Lopez said more gently, stifling his impatience and ignoring the press of his semi in the front of his jeans. He looked nervously at the other young player, stroking his forearm. What is it, buddy?'
`Before my birthday, in the summer...'
`Yeh?'
`I mean, I just think I should tell you this, cos I feel bad about it - like, I think we need to be honest, you know, between us two, otherwise...'
`Come on, just tell me?'
Gavi's pause was heavy and shy. I did a bad thing, okay. I did it with someone else, not just you, is all.' He looked mortified. I thought I had to tell you. I know this isn't weird when it's just us, this is different and okay. But...'
Who?' pushed Pedri, and he couldn't help but sound as jealous or possessive as he felt, even if he knew such a feeling was unfair. He repeated himself, taking care to sound more neutral, more caring. He rubbed at that arm. Who was it? Someone on the team?' Gavi nodded, those eyes as wide as oceans again.
Pedri felt a pang of suspicion, and he frowned as he asked, `It was Memphis, was it?'
Huh? What? No! No...' Hot red cheeks and fluttering lashes, Gavi pulled closer. No, it was Gerard Pique, he just sorta... I think he saw me watching him, in the gym one time, I saw him getting sucked off again, like we saw in the sauna, so...' His lip quivered. `I shouldn't have done it, but we weren't really talking and I couldn't tell you at the time and-'
Hey, hey,' shushed Pedri, stroking further up the arm, taking him by the shoulder. Calm down - you think I'm gonna be mad at you? Relax. It's okay. When even was this? God. I'm a bit shocked, but... it's okay, isn't it? It doesn't matter, right?' He shook and grabbed at the other teen, pulling him in close and quieting his lips with a kiss.
No,' Gavi murmured, it don't matter at all, if you're okay. I just had to tell you.'
Pedri made a bitter little laughing sound. I mean... you wanna know why I guessed Memphis...?' And, unable to hold in his laughter and keep as quiet as they ought to in here tonight, he told his friend about Sydney, about the night of his bad headache, and how he'd allowed himself to be jerked off by the showy Dutchman, less than twenty-four hours after angrily pushing Gavi away from him and refusing to play any further. He squirmed guiltily as he confirmed these details, stroking up and down Gavi's side, and looking into those big shiny eyes. Now - is THAT okay? Do you hate me? I was such a dick, wasn't I? But it just sort of happened and I didn't really know what to think of anything - I mean, the jetlag apart from anything else...'
To his pleasure and surprise, Gavi was smirking and quipping. `Yup, the jetlag made you do it, right, and I was pretty jetlagged in America when I...' And they were both sniggering again, then kissing, and grasping at each other on the bed.
So we're okay?' Gavi whispered at him, and he could hardly believe he was the one being asked that, given that surely his confession was worse and more hurtful than what his friend had apparently done on the America tour, probably pressured and taken by surprise by a powerful older player who they were both still in awe of, perhaps even more so given what they both now knew of him. Pedri rolled them a little, partly pinning the other lad down, clambering on top of him and letting the tips of their noses nuzzle as their lips almost kissed. We're good,' he promised very quietly, through his lingering chuckles of enjoyment and pleasure, and then because he couldn't help himself, just to had to ask it: `And how was it, then? With Pique?!'
The two young starlets tumbled on into more whispered chatter, Gavi talking reverentially and almost fearfully about Pique, and Pedri confiding how surreal his hot tub handjob from Depay had been, the two of them unable to stop sniggering and smirking at the antics of their older squad colleagues, whilst unable to keep their hands off each other.
Luke paused at the top of the steps before climbing into the gently warmed pool water; Memphis was already in there, peeling off his silky black shirt and dark designer pants to reveal a close-fitting pair of gold-trimmed Gucci trunks. Luke was in just his black CKs with a white waistband, refusing his host's offer of spare bathing gear, and just stripping instead to his undies like this. He could feel the other footballer's eyes on him as he hesitated, ankle-deep in the pool water, and he liked it: the slow appraising roam of Depay's eyes, taking in the muscular contours that dappled lamplight seemed to exaggerate further. But then he was wading forward, dropping more of his thick 6ft1 physique into the lukewarm pool, and kicking forward into a lazy stroke that took him cruising past the drifting paddle of the Barcelona striker.
Quickly, Luke's limbs had propelled him to the far end of the sizeable pool, passing through the glow of several lamps, and finding the far edge; it wasn't quite an infinity pool, but the landscaping of the property was such that it shared the main terrace's magnificent view, and he pulled his arms over this edge with a little splash, resting there and appreciating just how beautiful it was - how beautiful, and how far from home.
He sensed more than heard the ripples of water behind him, and he twisted his body just in time. Memphis came him for him with a shark-like glide through the soft ripples of the pool, suddenly in front of him with both hands clasped to that same pool's edge, pinning him there against the edge, their bare chests coming so close, and their faces even closer. Two bearded men, bodies bursting with athletic muscle, contrasting only in skin tone. Memphis grinned at him through parted lips, his eyes slightly hooded in a laconic fashion, and the stud earrings twinkling aside his handsome face.
He'd been flirtatious throughout the meal and drinks, or Luke had felt it so, knowing their history, and knowing how suggestive his friend had been in the past. And yet a distance had been held, and questions avoided, a certain captain's name mentioned not once - until now, Memphis pulling up so close to him, trapping him against the pool's edge, and letting the muscles of their two bodies stroke in and out of the water. So,' Depay said coolly, where does Big Harry think you are tonight...?'
In a distant voice, Luke deflected it. `It's my girlfriend I've had to lie to, mate. Not him.'
`Hmm. I see.'
Luke felt one of the other bloke's hands rise from the water and stroke gently down one side of his face, their eyes locking. Careful,' he said, but it was an impotent warning, because now one of his own hands, underwater, was playing against the bulges and curves of one of those strong inked arms, following it to the ball of his shoulder, and resting there. Just because I'm here, doesn't mean this is going to happen,' he said dimly.
Memphis didn't even blink. `Isn't it happening already?' he purred. And he was coming in for the kiss, mouth open - and worse, Luke was ready for it. He moaned slightly, their lips touching, and that big tongue entering in against his own. Instantly, he let go of the pool's edge, gripping instead at the sides of Depay's body, and just floating against him, holding on to his short stocky strength, feeling his mouth explored and tasted and conquered. And then, quite forcefully, he was pushed back against the edge, and it was his cheeks, his neck, his pecs and shoulders, Memphis was kissing him everywhere, his mouth feeling amazing, and his hands so authoritative, and the 27-year-old was just melting into his presence, letting go of control and restraint. After all, why shouldn't he?
Hector Bellerin lay awake, the thin white sheets only covering the odd scrap of his near-naked body. He'd drank a little too much wine, and eaten a little too much fine food, and sleep was hard to find; besides, tonight's little significances were all being slowly processed in his mind, from the minor snubs of players who'd promised to show and hadn't, to the behaviours of certain guests, to which recipes had or hadn't produced the popular snacks to make his friends gush with praise. And to the contents of the only other bedroom in the oversized penthouse, just a thin partition wall away from him, of course.
Tomorrow, though, could be a lazy day. He presumed that Kieran would want to see a little of the city, maybe the obvious tourist stuff, and he wouldn't need much sleep to summon the energy for that kindness. His mind spiralled pleasantly into options for where he might take his rugged Scottish visitor for brunch or lunch, and then to the week beyond, where he may or may not be called up for the Spain national team to join several of his clubmates.
But Bellerin also thought about London, and Arsenal in particular - he hoped he'd made the right move in finally bidding goodbye to the club that had snapped him up in his teens and transformed him, though really he had craved Spanish culture for years now, and the new contract with Barcelona FC had been the stuff of dreams for him this summer. A homecoming, a real privilege.
As a result, he might almost have forgotten that he HAD a visitor at all, so that the flicker of his eyes in the darkness brought him a jolt of horror movie fear when he noticed the door ajar and the tall figure silhouetted in it, gentle coloured lights behind him from some other window that faced out at the city streets. For a moment, Bellerin sat up sharply in bed, his heart rate and breathing suddenly racing for dear life, and then he was calming down just as quickly, and realising who it was, up and about and not in fact snoring on the other side of that partition.
The lights were very dim, and the pair of them stared at each other: Hector sat upright in his bed, only a pair of long tight trunks clinging to the middle of his bare form, and Kieran just a dark outline in the door, making it creak gently as he toyed with the handle. Eventually the Spaniard called out, his voice still shaking a little with his moment's panic.
`You okay, KT?' he called softly, stammering ever-so-slightly over the initials.
For a moment, Tierney said nothing, and he genuinely began to wonder if the Scottish brute was a sleepwalker, and was just drifting about his apartment in some kinda stupor, but then he heard that Glaswegian growl, so low that he could hardly make out the separate words. A Scottish accent, to him, was a little less wild and exciting than the strong Welsh he'd once been used to, but only a little. He lingered there, chest heaving, and supported by arms that were planted firmly into the mattress at his sides, and then the visitor at his door asked again, his voice a little louder and less gruff.
`I wondered if you could give me another massage.' There was something small and almost pitiful in Kieran's pleading voice at the bedroom door - or there might have been, if the simple request wasn't immediately a tearaway flashback for Hector too, returning to him behind-the-scenes at the Arsenal training ground, and all that dripping body oil.
He watched Tierney's silhouette falter and almost move back away from the door, as if the verbalised request could be forgotten and ignored if he just went back to the guest room after all, and crouched down under the covers. But Bellerin was up on his feet fast, sliding from the tangle of sheets and standing there in just his underpants, planting himself in the thin strip of light that crept in around Kieran's form.
Sure,' the 27-year-old Spaniard panted. Come in. That'd be nice.' He licked his lips, and glanced at the bedside draw, where among other things, he knew he had a small bottle of scented massage oil, far more pleasant than the stuff used by physiotherapists at their work. Kieran loitered in with slow dragging steps, and Hector grinned in the gloom, reaching out to pat him on the arm. `Just you lie down, amigo, and I'll help you to relax. Don't you worry.'
Gavi kissed and licked at it, growing more comfortable and confident with the large thick tool between those furry thighs every time he had a go - how many times now? Five or six? It was surprisingly difficult for the inseparable teens to get real private time together, always surrounded by such an entourage of friends, family, teammates, managers, agents, all the rest. It was the price of their rising stardom, and all of the media fuss this week around Gavi's new contract had heightened everything - he'd wanted Pedri to be there when he signed it and was presented to a home crowd, but the powers that be had insisted that this was a bad idea, and he needed to start presenting himself as an equally important young name, not just the sidekick to that iconic teenager.
But Gavi found it hard to see himself as anything separate at all, because he adored the Tenerife-born 19-year-old, felt devoted to him. And now he tried to show him that with every movement of hands, his lips, his tongue. He rubbed the insides of those legs and tried his face at many angles, working out how much of the other young man's big cock he could reasonably take into his still-inexperienced mouth, and what movements and pressure did the best job of earning deep moans from Lopez.
He liked it best when he felt Pedri tense up and grab quite roughly at the back of his head, clutching at tufts of his light brown hair, and then push down whilst also thrusting up, so that more of the veiny length than Gavi could handle was in there, making him gag briefly and snort for breath before being eased away and free to take over control, nostrils flared and eyes watering slightly.
And in his own pants, his cock ached and leaked, pressing against the material of his boxer shorts, but neglected as all of his energy and excitement was targeted at Pedri's tool instead, working that towards the inexorable conclusion, and the mouthful that he would soon earn!
Their bodies were both dripping wet as he led them indoors and through to the master bedroom, which glowed and shuddered with the light of all the candles he'd prepared earlier, turning the bronze-sheeted bed into a sultry altar. Once inside the room, he grabbed folded towels from a shelf to the side, throwing one about Luke's lightly shivering body, pulling him close and enclosing them both within the warm sheet. They kissed again, though he could feel the hesitation in the other man, even as he puckered up his lips and held his face firmly from one side.
`Is this okay?' Depay forced himself to ask, cuddling Luke's cool body to his own, wrapping the big towel more firmly about them both, folding it about their embrace, and playing their lips against each other in slow pecks.
Shaw heaved a complicated sigh at him, eyes closed, and hands slipping between his pectorals and biceps. `I don't know,' the Englishman admitted quietly, hugging onto him, just as he had in the warm pool water, paddling and snogging under the Catalan starlight. Out there, against that backdrop, the Man Utd player had seemed defeated, seduced, entranced; in here, he seemed awkward again, reluctant and guilt-stricken, and Memphis wondered if indoors had been a mistake, if he shouldn't have just made love to his beautiful friend out on the terrace, bodies rolling under the night sky.
`We've wanted this for years,' Memphis thought aloud, and he began to let the towel drop, dragging against their damp muscles, and draping to the dark wood floor of his overtly sexy bedroom decor, his bachelor's boudoir where he seduced supermodels and heiresses, and none of them had ever resisted his advances or held his attention for the timespan that this one former teammate had occupied, the source of all his other furtive experiments with the male sex: from his fumbling efforts at hospitalised Matthijs De Ligt to his hot tub indulgence with Barca boy Pedri, the cautious handjobs representing as much as he could bring himself to try apart from the real object of his desires. Back in the past, when the two of them had just been solid friends on the bench at Old Trafford, it would never have occurred to him: but Luke, in his naivety and trust, had awoken something new, three years ago this winter, in that Manchester hotel room.
Now Memphis began to peel down Luke's pants, stretching the wet black cotton of the CKs away from the broad strong rump, grazing his thumbs against that perfect skin and its downy fluff, then softly parting these doughy muscles, wondering what it might be like to-
`No,' whispered Luke, shaking his head gently, a little glint of difficulty in his eyes - he was conflicted, still, and Memphis paused with a hand on each buttock, licking his lower lip, and feeling his strong cock press at the front of his own Gucci shorts, which Luke's fingers were unwrapping even now. Still, Memphis squeezed at the tensing glute muscles and spread them more, beginning to inch his fingers into that fuzzy peach crack between them, wanting to feel it like he'd wondered for years now, demanding anal from each of his girlfriends and wondering what it might be like to finally bend over the English beauty.
`Not that,' Shaw told him, quite gently but decisively, and he felt his hands wrested away from that squeezing glory... pushed back to his sides, and Luke kissing his neck, his jawline, his cheek, beard tickling over beard... and Memphis started, his stocky 5ft9 frame coming up on his tiptoes, as he suddenly felt Luke's hands on his broad back muscles, descending across that canvas of body art, and downward... until it was the English defender holding HIS firm cheeks, and parting them gently, fingertips questing between them, exploring the untouched furrow between, and making him shiver. Luke's eyes had opened, and Memphis stared questioningly into them: he wanted him so badly, this beautiful friend of his, whose attention he had coveted possessively ever since he gave him up to that thug Maguire... but he did want him THIS way? Was he ready for THIS? Could he really...?
Luke snogged fiercely at his lower neck, and he groaned out receptively, weakening into the old of his strong arms - had they always been so strong and commanding? - and gently they fell backwards against the glittering material of his bedsheets, candlelight flickering on their skin, and Memphis knew the truth: yes, he wanted this badly, and he didn't really care how it happened, he just needed to know that Luke could be his, his and not Maguire's, as he'd always felt was right. Whatever it takes.
Tierney moved in a sluggish way, as if trying to kid himself or Bellerin that he was still part asleep, and not wired awake with restless excitement; first, the zombie-like stagger into the bedroom itself, and then the weak clamber up onto the bed, and then loosening his limbs to allow Hector access as his t-shirt and then Adidas shorts were pulled away from his body, leaving him bare in the dark, and kneeling on the other man's bed in the same way he had on the Arsenal massage table, hands and knees, face hanging low.
The room smelled powerfully as it happened, and he supposed it was the oil which the Spanish man now rubbed into his back, his shoulders, his thighs. He wasn't very good at identifying fragrances, but it smelled rich and exotic and powerful, and made him feel like he was some middle eastern lord in his court, being tended to by a servant. His imagination was a bit wild after so much fine wine.
The massage proceeded with a slowness that stoked a deep agony of impatience somewhere inside him, and became something to be tolerated... the luxurious attention of oiled hands on each of his limbs and up and down his back, a tenderness that should have relaxed him, should have felt so good again, just like it had on that rehab table, but now just felt like a silly delay. His body could not release its tension and fold into the pleasure of the massage, because it was braced for what he really wanted, and if Hector knew it, then he was choosing to torture him like this, to take his request at face value, and just labour over every pale white muscle available, excluding the heavy pendulous thing that dangled between his spread thighs.
Kieran didn't make a sound but for the heavy purr of his breathing, unwilling to ask or beg, or to let out the whimpers of impatient desire that welled up in his chest, his throat, in his rear - and when the rubbing dance of Hector's strong hands worked on the tops of his buttocks, he felt his tight little hole tingle and wink, thinking about how it had been treated under this skilled care back in North London. It filled him with a terrible burning shame to think that he'd travelled across half of Europe to chase this, left bereft when he overheard at a team event that Bellerin had signed for Barcelona and left the UK without a single goodbye.
And yet somehow, when it came, he was unready - that single slick finger on his hole felt terrifyingly thick and unwelcome, even after the slow agony of delay, and Hector had to take his time, circling it over his entrance, and patting and rubbing at each buttock, making soothing sighs from behind him, purring encouragement for him to relax, to let go, to let him do what he could... until it was in, just one finger first, and then two, lubed and hot, tearing in and out of his tightness, and making him groan loudly into the scented air.
Pedri came in a rush of release and enjoyment, pulling his shaky hands away from Gavi's face and letting him do as he wished, but feeling the sweep of that gorgeous tongue against the thick head of his tool, presumably licking up as much as possible of his surging young seed; and the 19-year-old cried out gladly into the room, briefly forgetting to whisper, and then clamping one of his own clammy paws over his mouth to stop himself, his bare body buckling and writhing against the sheets, with Gavi's hands roving about his hips and thighs and cupping at his fat hairy balls.
God, yes,' the Barca starlet hissed, as glad as ever to release like this, but never gladder than when it was alone with his beautiful friend, whose touches were so skilled and knowing, seeming to read his mind and give him every sensation he needed! Oh god yes,' he repeated, rolling onto his side and grabbing at Gavi's bare upper body, feeling the gloss of sweat on his lightly tanned skin, and tugging him close in a sideways cuddle, not quite level with each other, so that he had to bend forward to kiss him on the crown and then the brow and then the cheek, avoiding his spunk-sticky lips.
Like every man ever, Pedri felt instantly drained and exhausted, heavy and spent, and he remained on his back, but grabbing and pulling at the other teen until Gavi was nestling over his developing chest and its slight growth of dark hair, folding an arm about his neck and shoulder, and resting his other down his front, fingertips just above the floppy sag of his wilting prick. He heard a fap fap noise and opened one eye, remembering that Gavi was still wanking off, close at his side, tugging desperately at himself - his cock almost looked larger than Pedri's own, though he wasn't sure if it was, but Gavi was a little shorter and less hairy down there, making it appear all the fatter and longer. He stared at it, thinking that he should reach for it and jerk him off to help him out, but feeling wiped out by his busy weekend and by the sheer rush of his own orgasm.
He tilted his head and found Gavira looking at him with wide eyes and moist lips, red-faced as he wanked himself off at his side, and clearly building up to saying something. Pedri stared expectantly at the other lad, holding him close, resisting the urge to just yawn in his face, so spent did he feel; he was about to ask if he was okay, and thank him for what felt like the best blow-job yet, except perhaps for that first rushed time in the showers, when neither of them had known what they were playing at, but-
Do me?' his young Pablo hissed nervously at him, clutching his cock, lying almost on his side. Pedri had to stare at him, not understanding, but then he looked from Gavi's sticky wet chin to the outline of his own heavy dark cock, lying down one thigh, and the little shiny specks of his own juices that glimmered in his dark leg hair, and- Please,' urged the 18-year-old, `can it be my turn?'
Pedri couldn't help himself, and he saw his own honest reaction reflected in the quiet dismay and crestfallen weakness of the other youth's. His repulsion and refusal must have shown brightly on every inch of his expressive young face. And he could smile weakly now and look playful, but it was too late - his reaction had shown immediately, and Gavi had caught it all. And now their eyes averted and the younger teen was no longer playing with his cock, but just letting it sway loose, and curling up into his side. It's okay,' the Spanish boy whispered dimly, burying his face against Pedri's chest, and then moving it aside and pushing it onto the pillow. That's okay.'
Pedri lay there, lifting onto his side, naked against the other lad, whose hard-on poked accusingly at one of his thighs, and didn't know what to say. He knew perfectly what he should say, or at least do, but he found he couldn't; the thought of doing what Gavi did for him made him feel nauseous at best, and so now did the prospect of even touching the other footballer's member. He shuddered, feeling a mixture of his own exhaustion but also guilt and disappointment, and embarrassment, and finally, a sad willingness to go along with Gavi's sudden silence and feigned sleep. And instead of addressing the problem, he snatched for a corner of duvet, and dragged it across them both in a fold, glad to still feel the disappointed other teen grab for his waist for comfort, but the tip of his unsatisfied erection still rubbing threateningly on the inside of his leg.
It was Luke's second deflowering in a matter of days, and this time took less coaxing and preparation. It was as if burly Memphis Depay, self-styled megastar, saw the act of bottoming as a purely physical challenge, or another way to prove himself as a global force - and he just grunted and took it, pressing back with his strong arse muscles as inch after inch of Luke's cock entered him. For Luke's part, he tried to take it easy, aware of how painful and tough it could be from his own formative experiences, but it was as if Memphis wouldn't let him, backing up into him and stretching himself around Luke's powerful rod, and encouraging him to hump quite hard at the 5ft9 hunk beneath him on the bedsheets, until both of their strong bodies were moving in an urgent sweaty rhythm. Clearly it was the opposite of what the Dutch stud had expected, given his earlier grabbing, but it was something he was shockingly ready for, grunting deeply and responding to every thrust and tug of Luke's weight and cock, almost businesslike in his participation in this hot and feverish fuck by candellight.
And the United left-back soon forgot any qualms about taking his friend's virginity, instead just releasing all of his emotional turmoil into the act, becoming quite rough with the inexperienced show-off; he pinned Depay to the bedding and pummeled his backside almost thoughtlessly, taking a while to realise just how pained the other man's grunts were, and slow down the force of his hips, feeling heartbroken tears well up in his own stupid eyes.
He should have let Memphis fuck him, he thought, like he'd once fantasised about often - but that was something he'd promised to Maguire ages ago, wasn't it? That was the kinda deal they'd once had, when they realised that neither of them was quite able to keep it in their pants and stick to just one male lover - though they both knew which of them was least controlled in that respect, which of them had always felt the need to dominate others and exercise their sexual power wherever they could! But they'd promised, Luke felt, to never let anyone else fuck their holes, and Maguire had only ever offered his hairy backsdie up to Shaw on a handful of occasions... to be taken like that by Cristiano Ronaldo, of all fucking people, it felt like the ultimate betrayal, the painful death of what they'd had.
When it had come to it, though, grappling in this sultry bedroom, Luke had quailed at his friend's touch on his cheeks, and felt unable to do it, to take another cock there. He hadn't really expected Depay to relent so easy and to bend over for him, but here they were, his balls slapping on the beautiful Dutchman's smooth round arse, and Luke felt horribly aware that he SHOULD be enjoying it more, he SHOULD be more thrilled and triumphant, like the strange liberation he'd felt doing Sancho over that sofa. But as he thrust more slowly and carefully into Memphis from behind, he felt almost numb, and it was something in the other man two - was Depay even enjoying this, or just tolerating it? There was no real passion between them here, not properly, and the whole thing just felt like a sweaty gym session, two friends pushing each other on their fitness, not... not like the intense animalistic connection he'd felt on so many occasions with his captain.
Luke wasn't sure when he began to sob, but it was definitely before he pulled his cock out and emptied his seed over the six-pack and thigh of his friend's gorgeous caramel body, encouraged with throaty gasps of `Yes boy, yes boy' from the Barca forward; and then he was hunched over, crying onto the other man's broad chest, and pulling limply at his cock, which he discovered was already sticky with dribbling cum, Memphis having pulled himself off as he braced through the pain of being fucked for the first time.
One of those muscular arms pulled about Luke's body and held him tightly as he cried, and the 28-year-old Dutch player said nothing, just remaining still and strong at his side, and it turned out that this was what Luke needed, far more than the sweaty fuck that had connected their bodies, far more than the explosion of his own spunk that was cooling dry on that tattooed skin.
Hector plunged the two fingers in deeper and harder, getting caught up in the hot rhythm of it, and unable to stop wanking himself through his underpants; he wasn't sure why he felt so reluctant to get his dick out, as if it might ruin the moment, but he'd been fingering Kieran like crazy for ages before he eventually pushed down the front of them and let the big Spanish meat free, taking it properly in hand and rubbing the same oiled tenderness down himself as he'd lavished on the Scotsman's entire physique.
He shuffled on his knees, moving a little more fully around to the side of Kieran's kneeling form, allowing him a slightly different angle as he frigged his two digits into that glorious muscular tunnel, making the white cheeks jiggle and clap at his hand, and making the deep throaty moans pour out of his prone guest.
But then Bellerin couldn't persist any longer without some attention of his own. He reached his left arm out, stroking at the top of Kieran's shoulder for a moment, but then sliding down the lean bicep and grabbing it just over the elbow - tugging Tierney's arm back a little, so that he was now just resting on his spread knees and one arm. Hector pulled back on this arm, taking him by the hand, and resting it, for a moment of such sensitive richness, over the girth of his own hard-on - for a fleeting moment, the Scottish footballer's hand stayed there, holding his aching cock in a strangely detached way, as if it was a lever or a handle, but then snapping instantly away in what must have been realisation, and pressing the palm straight back into the ruffled sheets below, not even lifting his head or looking this way for a second. In the aftermath of this rebuttal, Hector paused, two fingers still inside the hole, and he felt the flush of shame and rejection, but he didn't stop - he just fingered all the more brutally between those meaty cheeks, and reached under, holding onto Kieran's cock and milking him in breathy silence, until he could feel the greasy spill of cum in his fingers, and knew that the Arsenal player's grunting squeals had been through their climax.
And then he collapsed onto his back, every muscle and joint of his right arm aching from the repetitive strain of finger-fucking that broad white backside. He lay there, gasping and sighing, with Tierney still at his side on hands and knees, eyes firmly shut and mouth a round `O' of successive gasps, looking almost traumatised by the experience he'd clearly fucking chased by coming all the way here, and turning up in that doorway at night.
Bellerin lay next to him, waiting for some sense or response from him, but beginning to play with his dick. He knew that Tierney would hear the fleshy sound of it, the slick fap of his hand and cock, and wondering how he would react - he'd been so selfish with his pleasure, so horrified when his hand had brushed against another cock, and Hector wondered not for the first time what, if any, experience the Scottish stud had already had with men before his intimate massage.
Kieran,' he grunted in the shadows. All he got in response was quiet Mmm?', Tierney not looking this way or opening his eyes at all, just hunching forward on his elbows, his big pale body jutting out down the bed, arse in the air where it had been fingered senseless. Bellerin lifted his voice a bit more, keeping it firm and clear and as English as it could sound. Sit on my face,' he barked, and repeated it twice when the other lad didn't move a muscle. On the third time, the Scot seemed to twitch into life, and finally gave him a shaky look, as if not understanding the request or demand. But, shifting slowly in the dark, he did as he was told, lifting up on his knees and crossing awkwardly this way - Face that way,' Hector hissed at him, helping to turn his bulky form around, and guide his big white arse into place, until those soft cheeks were planted over his face, and he could taste the spice of the oil, a bit tangy and distracting, but unimportant. The Barcelona player lay on his back, his face smothered in Scottish backside, and he tongued at that quivering hole, hearing Kieran gasp in confusion, whilst furiously pulling on his cock until he was showering cum all over his thighs, his legs kicking convulsively against the bed and his tongue prodding more deeply inside the precious hole of his ungainly companion.
In the morning, Pedri silenced his premature alarm, and readied himself to slip back to the guest bedroom, pulling on his boxer briefs under the covers, and then nudging and stroking at Gavi's sleeping form beside him. As that pretty face gurned and grimaced with wakefulness, Pedri closed their lips together in a slow kiss, which seemed to wake the sleeping beauty; Gavi blinked those full lashes furiously and stared at him in a strange, dreamy way, free of the quiet resentment that Pedri had woken up expecting.
Hey,' he said, stroking his cheek. I need to go to my bed. Just in case, y'know?'
Gavi nodded his head slowly, eyes barely open. `Sure. If you have to.'
It's best, isn't it?' Pedri whispered at him, running a couple of knuckles up and down the centre of his chest. You don't want your folks knowing I'm in here like this, right...? I mean, it would be...'
Go,' the sleepy 18-year-old purred. You're right. It's what we planned. Go. Mmm.'
Okay, okay.' Still, Pedri didn't move, frozen alongside his friend and lover, and thinking about how things had ended last night, taking forever to reach sleep, hot with shame over his own reaction. Gav...? Pablo...?'
`Mmm...?'
`Don't think I won't, okay?'
`Hmm...?'
Pedri took a deep breath. I'm just not ready for that yet. Sorry.' Gavi's eyes fluttered a bit more fully awake, and his face looked alert and worried. I'm happy with what we're doing, I'm having a lot of fun with you. But... I'm still figuring this out. I guess we both are. What we both did with the others, and what we're doing here... It's all so new, huh?' A nod of agreement from the other lad, at least. `So I'm not sure what I can and can't do, and I'm sorry about last night, I just...'
'S okay,' yawned Gavira evasively, but Pedri ignored him and gripped him by one hand. No, it isn't,' he muttered. I don't want to use you, or make you feel used, or- This isn't like that. I'm not like... I dunno, like Pique, or whatever.' He paused even more heavily, and with his last comment, he couldn't quiet meet Gavi's eyes. I think about what you said, you know, on your birthday, kinda by accident, and I...' The silence between them then was heavy and loaded, and both lads let their lips purse and hang open, on the verge of saying more, but unclear what it would be that could or should be communicated.
You don't have to...' Gavi was starting, and Pedri was just forming, Maybe I...' but then they both simultaneously heard the creak on the landing, and the twist of doorknob. Gavi acted fast, and Pedri dropped face-first to the bed, let the covers be thrown over him and his friend's body to twist against him, hiding him as if there was just one shape in the folds and mass of duvet there.
And he lay still, holding his breath and holding in the urge to laugh, as Gavi's sister relayed a message to him about breakfast, casually oblivious to the tangle of bodies beneath the tangle of sheets, and Gavi did his best to send her away, his naked form trembling against Pedri's hidden touch.
Luke got to the airport much earlier than he'd planned to. He found himself just not in the mood to lounge about Memphis' villa, unprepared to just relax in a deckchair and be waited on with cocktails; he'd slept in the spare room after all, leaving the master bedroom with the towel about his clammy body, and still sniffling back stupid regretful tears. In the morning, he'd been shocked by how breezy Depay was, strutting about in the nude and asking questions about how long he should expect his ass to sting for, inspecting his own bottom in a mirror and cackling about a red handprint Luke had allegedly left on one cheek. Something about his self-assuredness and almost smug pride in giving himself up last night had become infuriating over the morning hours, and driven Luke to dress and make arrangements for transport. He had refrained from taking out his feelings in any form of argument with his kind-hearted and big-headed friend, but he hadn't liked the way Memphis kept talking, and seemed to expect him to stay longer. `Think about the January transfer window,' the Dutchman was saying to him even as he put his case in the back of the driver's Mercedes and hugged him goodbye. Shaw just stared at him in conflict, finding it hard to read his real feelings or what he'd got out of last night, but knowing that he regretted flying over here - he'd known what he was coming for, hadn't he? He'd hardly flown to Barcelona just to see Las Ramblas or the Sagrada da Familia, he'd known full well that the sexual chemistry between he and his old buddy would reignite on arrival, and he'd got even more than he bargained for, really.
But at the airport, he felt confused and unhappy all over again, wishing he'd been able to relax and stay there. Memphis certainly cared for him, and had been very willing to entertain him and keep him there - how fucking mad that he'd even taken cock for him, just to... what, cheer him up? To support him? To... win him over, to beat a rival? It was hard to say. Luke found it difficult to believe that anything about him was special enough to capture the straight footballer's interests so powerfully, he always had. It had been his own naive curiosity that led to earlier play with Memphis, in the past, and no special effort on the Dutchman's behalf - could Depay really have some fixation on him after these three years, or had he just given up his body out of platonic loyalty...? It was all a bit much, and hardly the relaxing escape that Luke had needed from this trip, really.
It was annoying to be hunched over on a waiting seat in the airport, too early for his flight, but he couldn't have stayed there and indulged Depay's ego like that, or pretended that he'd properly enjoyed the fuck - it had felt robotic and grudging, from them both, and he knew that the chemistry between them had fizzled out somewhere in its climax. They were good friends, nothing more, and he knew who still had his heart; but could he ever forgive Maguire for what he did with Ronaldo...?
He barely reacted as another morose airport traveller flopped down into a waiting seat two positions down from him, not giving the other man a proper look, until he dropped an ear-bud from his pocket in the process of removing them from their charger pack. The other man stooped to pick it up, and Luke frowned in puzzlement at a familiar Premiership rival in the adjacent seat, holding forward his dropped earphone.
Oh,' was all Luke could muster to say, and then Thanks?'
Kieran peered self-consciously at the unexpected United player, feeling that his morning had become all the weirder for it. Recovering, he just grunted, `Been visiting Barcelona too?' The question felt silly and obvious, but what else was there to say? This was bizarre.
`Yup,' Luke Shaw told him with a nod of his head, reclining back into his seat, pawing at the pair of earbuds in his hands.
Right.' Kieran blinked and sighed. Er... have a good time?'
The other defender hesitated and seemed to grimace a bit. `Yes and no, I guess. You?'
Kieran twitched his mouth and nose, and scratched at one leg through his jeans. `Erm. Same, I guess? Er - it was just a fliyng visit really. Pretty much just overnight.' He felt very awkward - surely Luke would know that he had played in London just yesterday afternoon, and so his Spanish visit really was just incredibly brief. Suspiciously brief. He'd exited Hector's flat whilst the Barca player was still snoring loudly in his room, and hailed the first taxi he could to get him to the airport, unable to think about how tough it would be facing the man over breakfast, knowing that he'd sat on his face last night and watch him cum all over his tummy, tongue in Kieran's trembling arse. He felt queasy about it now, and he rubbed a hand over his blushing face, unsure what more to say to the left-back.
Same,' Luke told him dully. Just visiting a friend.'
`Oh, yeah. Erm. Same, actually.'
And that was that. The opposition player put his earphones in and went on to stare intensely at his phone screen, and Kieran unfurled a military thriller novel from his backpack, and sat reading the same two sentences over and over, waiting for the tannoy overhead to announce that their flight back to England was boarding.