7. 7

7

S ean woke up and he wasn’t sure why. He’d stopped taking the morphine and the tramadol; he had some if needed, and while he’d had trouble sleeping at first, he’d managed to stay off both and get to sleep, and even sleep through on his own. Something had woken him. He strained but couldn’t hear anything. The low light Jack left on in the kitchen cast a glow that stretched up to his door. He lifted his busted leg and swung it over the bed with a soft grunt, tapped his phone and saw it was just after two in the morning. Lola jumped off the bed ready for action. Clearly no one was robbing them—she’d be all over it.

“Good girl,” he said softly.

He’d properly graduated to crutches and permanently gotten rid of the chair. He reached for them and hopped out of the room.

The living room lamp was on, an old dome that looked like an antique, the green haloing the room in a muted glow. Jack always left that one on too. Sean couldn’t figure out if this was Sean-accident-related or if he’d always kept the house in a soft glow with lamps on in every room.

Sean startled when he saw Jack in the kitchen. He painted an unexpected figure with his hands braced on the edge of the counter, head hanging between his shoulders, an open beer next to his hand.

“Jack?” Sean asked and hopped closer.

Jack jumped and looked up. “Shit, sorry, was I too loud?” he whispered, voice slurred. His eyes were bloodshot like he’d been crying, his face loose like when he was drunk.

“You weren’t loud at all,” Sean leaned against the bench, tucking his crutches beside him. “You doin’ alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, all good. Sorry,” he replied, his smile nervous. He was drunk, but there was an anxious energy under the surface, like he’d done a few lines of speed with the beer. Except Jack never took drugs. Sean had overheard him laugh off people’s concerns for Lacy—an infamous booze hound and coke head and Jack’s ex-teammate, but Jack neither confirmed nor denied the rumours—yet he’d vehemently said he’d “never touch the stuff” when it came up. Sean believed him. Even at functions, Jack was a one light beer kind of guy. Sean had only seen him drunk twice. Once when they were teenagers, and once when the team did a pub crawl to celebrate end of preseason Jack’s first year back. He was a terrible drunk—obvious about it, too friendly, very handsy. Sean was glad he didn’t do it very often.

“What’re you apologisin’ for? Man can have a few in his own house,” Sean replied.

Jack grabbed the back of his neck and squeezed. “Yeah, yeah, course.”

He kept his eyes down, his body tense. Sean had never seen him this fucked up. Like a junkie strung out and waiting for a fix.

“I better go to bed,” he said and dropped his hand.

He went to go by and Sean stopped him with a hand on his forearm. Jack went still and his eyes slipped closed. The room was dark save for the small kitchen lamp above the stove and it made the shadows under Jack’s eyes seem harsher. The clock ticked. Jack stayed where he was, but his body turned towards Sean’s as he breathed audibly into the space between them.

Sean wrapped his hand around Jack’s arm and squeezed; he didn’t know where the urge came from, but he did it and Jack’s eyes opened, lashes fluttering as he tried to focus on Sean’s face. His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. Sean loosened his grip, his fingers moving of their own accord as they fluttered up the inside of Jack’s forearm, caressed the fragile skin inside his elbow.

Jack’s shoulders dropped, eyes sliding closed again as he leaned further into Sean’s space.

Sean didn’t know what he was doing, but his body knew, it felt like what he knew footy was going to feel like—even if he never got the last two years back, even if he’d lost more than that, lost all the way back to when he was a toddler trying to keep up with Jayden, his dad, his cousins, his body would know what football was, would know how to handle the ball, would remember the feel of the leather skin and laces on his palms, his hand would know how to bounce it as his legs accelerated, his left foot would know how to sail right through the middle and connect with that ball on a perfect angle so it slotted right through the middle of the posts for a goal. Even if he’d never known he could do it, footy would come and find him in his dreams; his body would remember.

As his hand slid higher, it was the same. His body knew this.

What the fuck?

But he didn’t have time to question it because Jack gave a full body shudder when Sean ran his hand up his arm, rested it on his shoulder and dug his thumb in. Jack’s head dropped forward and he swayed closer. Sean rested his weight against the bench and slid his other palm under the waistband of Jack’s shorts and tugged him in. Jack went with him, dropping his head on Sean’s shoulder, his body shook as he brought his hands to Sean’s hips, rested them there, fingers pressing and releasing. He was breathing heavily, short pants of breath that shot over Sean’s chest.

Sean moved his hand up, a firm caress as he dragged it up the back of Jack’s neck and cupped his skull. Jack shuddered. He scratched his fingers into the strands of his hair, his mind reeling; but his palm felt sure as Jack melted into the touch.

They stood like that, Sean rubbing Jack’s head, stroking his hip, while Jack squeezed and released his fingers on Sean’s hips, breathed heavily, and slowly seemed to calm down from the posture Sean had found him in.

Sean’s leg was beginning to feel heavy, so he readjusted his stance and Jack stepped closer like he was afraid Sean was going to push him away. Sean was shocked when the movement brought Jack’s very hard cock against his stomach.

He gasped and Jack let him go and tried to step back. Sean tightened his hold and held him in place. Jack resisted for a second, his lips ghosting over Sean’s clavicle as if he was speaking but no words came out. Sean pulled him in and Jack’s erection pressed against his shirt.

Sean’s cock responded, stiffening in his tracksuit pants. He felt a buzzing in his hands—he could loosen his grip, put pressure on Jack’s head, push him down to his knees; he imagined Jack sliding to the floor, pulling Sean’s pants down, taking him out and sliding down his shaft in one go. Sean’s heart pounded and he worked his jaw, his mouth trying to come up with the words to ask Jack what was going on.

“Jack,” he said, voice hushed.

Jack inhaled sharply and pressed himself closer. He rolled his hips up, his dick dragging over Sean’s stomach. Sean tugged him in, inviting him to do it again. The feel of that thick cock rubbing up and down on his shirt, Jack’s panting breaths wetting his clavicle, it was one of the most erotic things he’d ever felt in his life. His dick was rock hard; desperate for a hand on it. He let go of Jack’s hip and reached for himself.

Jack pulled away and Sean’s stomach dropped.

But Jack stayed where he was and met his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment before Sean added pressure to Jack’s head and pushed him down.

And Jack went like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The way he slid Sean’s tracksuit pants down, caught his cock in his palm, leaned forward, wrapped his lips around the tip and sucked on the crown felt practiced.

Sean brought his other hand onto Jack’s head, both hands gripping him shakily before urging him forward. He groaned as Jack began to suck his dick expertly—sliding down to the base, dragging all the way back to the tip with perfect suction, rolling Sean’s balls in his hand, sliding one finger back to press against his taint until Sean was gasping and rocking into his mouth urgently. Sean never got fucked, with the exception of that one time he never let himself think about, he liked to do the fucking, and until that moment he wasn’t aware he enjoyed anything even near the back door. The way Jack did it felt like he knew Sean liked it. In fact, Sean thought wildly as his orgasm rushed up, as he bit out a warning and gasped when Jack sank down to take it, began to swallow around his length, making these sounds like he loved it, Sean thought—he knows exactly what I like, he knows things I like and didn’t even think to like.

As Sean caught his breath, he felt Jack let him slip out of his mouth and looked down to see him kneeling there, his head resting against Sean’s thigh as he jerked off.

Sean wanted to drop to the ground, to push his hand away, to grab that big dick like he owned it. But he couldn’t get to the floor with his leg in the cast, was only just managing to stay upright.

“Jack.”

Jack made a high-pitched sound and pressed his face against Sean’s thigh.

“Jack, let me.”

Jack looked up, stopping his hand; his eyes were watery, his lips wet.

“I can’t,” Sean waved his hand and felt useless.

Jack unfurled and stood in front of him, pressed in close. Sean wanted to sway forward and kiss him, but that was ludicrous—he’d never kiss Jack again. The fight they’d had in the locker room—the last thing he remembered was thinking he’d fake Jack out, pretend he was going to kiss him and Jack would fall for it; he thought there’d been a moment where Jack had dropped his guard for a second, eyes widening in surprise, a pleased look flashing across his face as he swayed forward and for a moment Sean had forgotten he was messing with him, was about to catch his lips for real. But even though he couldn’t remember it, he knew he’d never fall for that shit again, knew he was imagining Jack looking at him like that.

He dropped his eyes now and reached for Jack’s dick. He stroked down on the side of too tight and Jack gasped, bucking into it. He pulled him off, quick and rough, and Jack moaned softly, muffling the sounds against Sean’s shoulder.

When Jack came, Sean angled it so it painted the front of his shirt. A part of him thought that was absolutely filthy, while another part didn’t understand why he hadn’t taken his shirt off to get it on his skin.

He slumped against the side of the bench, trying to catch his breath, Jack’s dick softening in his hand. He thought he should be freaking out more. A part of him was freaking out—he’d never fuck around with a teammate, which seemed like the least of his concerns in this scenario. He’d never fuck around with Jack.

Jack was catching his breath too, face mashed against Sean’s throat, his breaths damp on the material of Sean’s shirt. Sean wanted to bring the hand not currently holding Jack’s dick around his back and haul him in. His body tensed and his other arm hung at his side, itching to reach up but unwilling to do so.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked and immediately regretted it when Jack went still against him.

He let him go at the same time as Jack pulled away quickly, tucked himself back inside his pants and avoided eye contact.

“Reckon we should get to bed,” Jack said firmly, but he was drunk, so it came out a little slow.

“Yeah, alright, but what—”

“I’m beat,” Jack cut him off and turned away, clearing the beer bottles off the bench and putting them in the recycle bin, the clink loud in the two-in-the-morning darkness of the kitchen. “You alright to get back to bed?” he asked over his shoulder.

Sean was so off kilter, all he could do was snap, “Yeah,” get his crutches under his armpits and hop away. He called Lola and shut the door after she skittered back into his room.

He wrestled his shirt off and threw it at the wall. He wanted Jack with him and it was a confusing, irritating and incongruous thought.

But as he lay back, all he could think about was pressing their naked chests together next time, how he was itching for that contact, so desperate for it, it felt like a particular brand of touch starvation.