9. Chris
Chris
February, Cardiff
The private show with Quick after Christmas, where he’d finally got just the smallest titbit of information about the other man’s life, had broken through the admittedly limited amount of restraint Chris had been hanging on to when it came to the streamer.
Now, he was well and truly hooked. He booked private shows twice a week, revelling in the conversation and lack of judgement almost as much as the other bits.
He told his parents they were online therapy appointments so he could be sure of privacy, which, admittedly, may have been something he needed…
but talking to Quick was helping him. Sure, he wasn’t miraculously rid of the cloud hanging over his head.
And no, he still didn’t really see much purpose to his life without running, without an Olympic goal, but in a small way, he felt more himself.
More hopeful. He still wore the mask for their dates, which, yes, was what he’d been calling them in his head.
Sometimes, Quick logged off immediately after they both came. Sometimes they managed to squeeze out two orgasms in the session, and sometimes Chris managed to cajole him into staying and chatting after. Those were his favourite times.
In those sessions, they continued their game of telling each other three inconsequential things about themselves.
Chris started to build up a picture of Quick.
One that felt solid and real and whole. It made him wonder, in his deeper moments, if the things they considered small about themselves weren’t actually the most significant.
He knew Quick was naturally a night owl, but that he was up by six every morning because his schedule demanded it.
He knew that he loved Yorkshire puddings and hated parsnips, that he wasn’t sure he knew what colour puce actually was, and that he worried about not being taken seriously.
He knew that his favourite book was The Picture of Dorian Grey and that he couldn’t stand James Joyce but had once talked about Ulysses for nearly two hours straight on a first date to impress someone.
That fact had prickled at Chris’s jealousy just a bit, despite Quick’s assurance that their mutual boredom had seen to it that there was no second date.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Quick grinned as Chris joined the private room.
The beautiful thing about the blurring of the lines between them was that Chris actually believed him.
He could see the difference between the persona he put on for his public shows and how he was one-on-one.
And Chris loved it. Loved being privy to this side of Quick that no one else got to see.
Quick stripped off his shirt to reveal that soft looking skin stretched over his lean, muscled torso and the tattoo Chris desperately wanted to touch.
“Get your kit off, Flash. Come on.” He groaned.
Quick stripped completely, revealing his hard cock already beaded with precum. Any thoughts of making fun of him for his eagerness flew from Chris’s brain as his own dick jumped to attention.
“Christ, how are you even real?” he mumbled, mostly to himself, but the wicked grin he got in return told him Quick had heard him.
“Want you to tell me what to do today, baby. Can we do that? Please?” Quick asked, fondling his balls as he watched Chris peel his clothes off.
“That sounds really good. Anything you don’t want to do?” Chris asked.
He watched, enraptured, as Quick considered the question. “Just don’t drag it out. I’m already aching; I can’t take it today.”
“Okay, cariad. I won’t make you wait too long.”
Quick sprawled out on his bed, giving Chris a perfect view of his whole body. “How do you want me?”
“Just like that. Spread your legs wider,” Chris murmured. “Very nice. Look at you all stretched out for me. I wish I was there with you.”
“What would you do if you were?”
Chris smirked. “I’d start right down at your feet, giving you a nice massage as I kissed your calves and thighs. Then I’d mark you up, nice and high where it would be hidden but you’d know it was there.”
“Everyone would see when I do a show.”
“And they’d all know they’ll never get to have all of you.”
“But you will.”
It came out half question and half statement, making Chris pause before answering more honestly that might have been wise. “In my dreams.”
The moment felt charged in a way that went far beyond sexual. Quick finally broke the silence by choking out, “And then what?”
“Then I’d kiss your pretty cock, get my tongue on your slit and finally get to taste you.”
Quick grabbed his dick, jerking it quickly as Chris spoke.
“None of that. Hands off.”
A pained groan escaped Quick’s perfect pink lips as Chris started to languidly stroke his own hard cock.
“I need to come, Flash. Please.”
“Just a little more, cariad, I promise. Get your lube.”
Quick nodded, grabbing the bottle from his dresser.
“Okay, I want you to finger yourself real slow. Imagine it’s me prepping you.
I’d use my tongue, get you nice and sloppy.
” The sight of Quick sliding his finger inside himself, completely exposed to Chris was almost too much.
He was so close now; he didn’t want to draw it out any longer.
“That’s it, fuck yourself on your fingers.
You can touch yourself now. Give in, Quick. Come on, together.”
He watched Quick, forcing his eyes to stay on him as he stroked himself to completion. Spent and sated, Chris flopped back on his bed.
“You alive there, Flash?” Quick’s teasing voice came through the speakers.
Chris pushed himself up on his elbows, reaching for tissues from his nightstand. “Barely,” he huffed. “That was…intense. I needed it.”
“Happy to be of service,” Quick replied. There was something in his voice that Chris couldn’t quite place, but he knew it was important that they didn’t hang up yet.
Chris cleaned up quickly and settled on top of his covers to chat. A sort of post-coital pillow talk moment that made this feel far more like a relationship than a booking.
“Have you got much on this week?” Chris asked.
Quick smiled, his usual energy returning almost instantly. “Ah yeah, I’m running a 10k race on Saturday.”
Chris froze. A hundred emotions seemed to collide within him all at once.
Running. Racing. Quick… Fuck, even his screen name, which had once seemed like a standard camming handle, now felt like a reference to the sport.
Hatfield was on Saturday. It was a big deal, a proper PB-chasing course. Chris swallowed.
“Oh yeah?” he replied. He could tell his voice was at least an octave higher than usual.
“Do you… Is that something you do a lot? Running?” A horrible thought flittered into Chris’s mind.
Did Quick know? Did he know who he was? Was this some sort of elaborate set-up to show how far he’d fallen?
It seemed excessive, but these days the athletics press felt more like tabloid journalism than sporting news. He wouldn’t put it past them.
Quick cocked his head. “Are you okay, Flash? You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Chris snapped. He took a breath, trying to sound normal. “So do you run, like, professionally?” It didn’t come out nearly as casual as he wanted it to.
Quick laughed. “Lord, no!”
Chris’s body sagged in relief.
“I run cross-country at uni, and a few of the lads wanted to try this race that’s meant to be dead fast.”
“Hatfield,” Chris whispered.
Quick’s head snapped up. “Exactly. You run?”
“Used to.”
Chris was grateful that Quick didn’t push the non-answer he’d given. He just continued.
“Anyway, I’m looking forward to it, but honestly, I’m not much for road races and I haven’t been very focused on training this year.”
“Do you prefer track, then?” Chris asked. His genuine interest in the sport and his desire to know everything about Quick was taking over.
“Nah, trail running. Or fell running when I can get somewhere good. I like it muddy, rough.”
“Quick and dirty.” Chris laughed.
“Exactly.”
“Just don’t injure yourself,” Chris replied. “If you really are undertrained, which I somehow doubt.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I keep this body fully intact for you.” Quick smirked. Something vulnerable crossed his face then. “But the race, you’ve done it?”
Chris nodded. “I have. It was fun; you’ll enjoy it.”
Hatfield had been fun. It had also been the race where he’d first been seen as one to watch, where he’d first caught the eye of his would-be agent Carl Owens.
The thought of him brought his last exchange with Isaiah to the forefront of his mind.
He’d made things so awkward now that he didn’t even feel he could ask how his case was progressing, whether he needed to prepare for tribunal or not.
It wasn’t just his worthless apology—Chris had been a complete arsehole to him from the second they met, and he knew it.
But everything had felt so out of his control, and it was just one more thing.
One more choice he hadn’t got to make for himself.
One more area of his life he had no say in.
“I’m a bit nervous, to be honest,” Quick replied, pulling Chris back to the present. “People…expect things of me.”
God, if that wasn’t a feeling Chris knew well.
He wanted to reassure Quick, but he didn’t know what he was facing, not really.
And how could he deliver any meaningful reassurance without it coming off as trite when Quick had no way of knowing his own experience?
The closeness he’d been starting to feel suddenly seemed trivial.
It was a stark reminder of what this was. A transaction.
“I know how that feels,” Chris whispered all the same.
“Sometimes that’s what everything in life feels like.
” Once he’d started, it was as if a well of repressed thoughts and feelings wanted to pour out of him.
“Everyone wants you to be the version of you they have in their head, for better or worse, and it’s exhausting. It’s worse than a fucking marathon.”
Quick was looking at him, his eyes still shadowed, but somehow Chris felt like his gaze was penetrating into all the defences he struggled to keep in place.
“I don’t think life’s meant to feel like an endurance sport,” Quick said softly.
Chris let the words sink in. He sighed. “You’re probably right.”
Chris sat at the breakfast table, winter sun leaking into the room as he mashed his Weetabix into pulp.
“Everything alright, Son?” his dad asked, sipping his morning coffee.
Chris nodded once before shovelling a spoonful of the mush into his mouth.
His dad sighed. “Any news from Carl yet?”
Chris shook his head. There was no news. Isaiah hadn’t even so much as emailed him again, not since he’d basically taken Chris’s apology and told him to get fucked.
His dad continued, determinedly ignoring Chris’s mood. “Chris…even if they do get you a reduction, you need to think about what you want to do for the next year and a half.”
“I’m doing it,” Chris grumbled.
“No, you aren’t, Chris.” Another sip of coffee that seemed more aimed at gathering his thoughts than actually enjoying the drink.
“You don’t need to let this define you. You’re a smart boy, and you’ve got time now, regardless of the result, so maybe it’s time to think about going back to uni?
You could graduate before you get too busy with races again. ”
There it was. Why wasn’t Chris being more productive? Go back to school. Try a new sport. Hell, just transform into Nick. He shoved another spoonful into his mouth. “I need caffeine,” he said, rising from the table.
He stood in front of the machine, pod in hand, staring at nothing for a moment before he got his brain into gear. He hated this. Hated that he was the failure now, the one everyone worried about and tried to fix.
He sighed heavily as the final drips of coffee fell into his cup, then he stirred in a heaping spoonful of sugar and gulped down some of the scalding liquid.
He turned back to his dad at the table. “I’ll think about it, okay?”
Chris trudged back downstairs, coffee in hand, abandoning his breakfast to the mush it had become.
He flopped onto his bed, grabbing his tablet.
It was a move that elicited an almost Pavlovian response in his cock these days, but he didn’t open Quick’s page.
He opened his emails, scrolling to the thread with Isaiah Owens, the last email staring back at him, waiting for a response he couldn’t figure out.
He read through the months of back-and-forth about his ban, trying to think of something to say to make up for his bullshit.
As he read, he found himself smirking at the snark in Isaiah’s tone and the pretentious signatures he’d left at the bottom of each new update, highlighting his admittedly impressive academic qualifications.
Chris didn’t have any of that. Not a single thing to his name except one failure after another. Fuck. Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should at least try to be something other than the Olympic-level letdown he’d become.
With more drive than he’d felt in months, Chris logged in to his student portal and checked his status.
Deferred. His parents had done that for him; made sure he had the opportunity to come back, that he wasn’t throwing away all of his work so far.
He owed them this. He swallowed hard and sent an email to the administration office.