Away Games - Prelude #2
Marcus pulled off, lips shiny, and reached for the nightstand.
Lube and a condom. He slicked his fingers and opened him with focused patience: circling, pressing in, scissoring gently while his mouth stayed on his stomach, his thigh, the crease where leg met body.
Two fingers became three. The stretch burned, then settled into something fuller, deeper.
Marcus curled them just right and he felt it spark sharp behind his eyes, a groan tearing out of him before he could stop it.
He didn’t stop the next one.
Marcus watched his face the whole time, eyes dark but steady. “Still good?”
“Yeah.” The word came out rough.
Marcus rolled on the condom, slicked himself, and lined up.
He pushed in slow and careful, one long slide that forced the breath out of his lungs.
The stretch was intense, then eased into a heavy, full pressure.
Marcus held still once he was seated, breathing against his neck, one hand stroking slowly up his side.
Then he started to move, deep, measured rolls of his hips that built heat between them.
He wrapped his legs around Marcus’s waist, pulling him closer, and Marcus made a rough sound low in his throat, control slipping for a moment.
His hand tightened on his hip, fingers digging in.
Marcus drove in harder, then caught himself, forehead dropping to his shoulder as he steadied, breath hot and uneven against his skin.
The rhythm built. Marcus fucked him with powerful strokes, one hand braced beside his head, the other wrapped around his cock, stroking in time.
The faint scent of soap and clean sweat and something warmer that was only Marcus.
When Marcus shifted angle, grinding in deep, he groaned loud and Marcus answered with a low curse against his neck.
Marcus sat back on his heels, pulled his hips up onto his thighs, and drove in with focused hunger.
The new position let him go deeper, the angle hitting exactly where it needed to.
He wrapped a hand around himself and stroked fast, matching the thrust of Marcus’s hips.
The radiator knocked again. The bed creaked steadily under them.
Marcus’s free hand slid up his chest, thumb brushing over a nipple, then higher to grip his shoulder for leverage. His thrusts grew harder, less measured.
He reached up and pulled Marcus down into a messy kiss. Marcus went willingly, chest pressing to chest, the added weight and friction driving the heat higher. Marcus’s rhythm faltered for a second, a rough exhale against his mouth, then he recovered and fucked him through it, deeper, steadier.
“Fuck,” Marcus muttered, voice rough, forehead pressed to his. His hand tightened on the sheets beside his head, knuckles pale.
The coil of heat at the base of his spine tightened unbearably.
Marcus kept the angle, kept stroking him, kept moving.
He came hard, spilling over his own fist and across his stomach with a choked shout that echoed in the small room.
His body clenched tight around Marcus, and that was enough to pull Marcus over with him: deep, grinding thrusts, a low satisfied groan as he pressed tight against his ass and held, one hand gripping the sheets like he needed the anchor, hips stuttering through the release.
They stayed locked together through the aftershocks, breathing hard.
Marcus eased out carefully, dealt with the condom, then came back down.
He stretched out beside him and pulled him close, throwing one heavy arm across his chest. The apartment had gone quiet except for their slowing breaths and the faint sounds of the building around them.
Neither of them said anything for a long while.
The radiator knocked twice. He lay on his back looking at the ceiling, which had been painted over too many times. Marcus was beside him, warmth solid along his side, breathing steadily. Not asleep. Just still.
He should have felt something bad. That was the shape of it, historically: the good part and then the part that came after, the door shutting in the quiet house, the familiar accounting. He waited for it.
It didn’t come. What came instead was the hum of the building, the smell of the apartment, the weight of Marcus’s arm, and a looseness in his body he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt.
“You do this a lot?” he asked. His voice came out rougher than he expected.
“Bring guys home?” Marcus considered this. “Sometimes. You?”
“No.”
Marcus didn’t say anything to that. Didn’t make it a thing.
“Winnipeg’s a long way to come for a hockey game you didn’t go to,” Marcus said, after a while.
He looked at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“How often do you make the drive?”
“First time.”
He felt Marcus shift beside him, not pulling away, adjusting. The arm stayed. “How long have you been doing this?” He said it simply, no italics on this, no implication. Just the question.
He thought about lying. The lie was right there, the usual one, the one that started with I don’t know what you mean and went somewhere comfortable and false.
He was tired. The drive, the beer, the thing that had just happened in this ordinary room in this neighbourhood he didn’t know. He was too tired for the lie.
“Long time,” he said.