“Why didn’t you?” Oliver asks, words spilling into Leo’s mouth. “Weren’t you curious?”
“Of course I was. But it’s like you said, someone might have realized that it would always mean something different to methan it did to any of them.” Leo is right; this feels so very different than anything Oliver’s ever done before. His breath catches between every kiss, pulse racing faster than after any sprint he’s ever run. “But I’ve thought about it, I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“What did you think about?”
“This,” Leo says, fishing for the elastic scrunch of Oliver’s waistband and squeezing his fist. Oliver’s thought about it too; it feels even better than he imagined.
“Oh,” he murmurs dumbly, mostly to keep from whimpering at the feeling of Leo touching his dick, doing so with intent. “How do you like it?” He means it to be teasing and sexy; it comes out needy.
“I likeyou,” Leo sighs, answering him honestly, and that’s all the questions Oliver can bear to ask before bringing their mouths back together. Through some unspoken agreement, they flip themselves around until Oliver’s lying flat, Leo sprawled atop him, still kissing. After another long moment, Leo pulls back slightly, looking down at him inquiringly and rubbing the tip of his nose along the bridge of Oliver’s. “You’re all bumpy,” he laughs. “Your nose is crooked, I never noticed before.”
“I broke it on a post going for a header. Dumb teenager, I was. Ruined my modeling career.”
“Nah, it’s cute,” Leo says, dropping a kiss right on top of the cute nose in question. “Makes you look dangerous.”
“I’m very tame,” Oliver says seriously, massaging at the traces of softness around Leo’s hips. “You’re safe with me.”
“I’m counting on it,” Leo whispers back; suddenly he slithers downward, slipping deep under the duvet until he’s level with Oliver’s hips. He looks perfect in this light, skin tan and warm against Oliver’s thighs, lips parted with wanting, then all of a sudden parted with something else, as he descends upon him.
“Fuck,” Oliver gasps stupidly. “Oh fuck.”
Leo looks up at him from under his lashes—Oliver can feel the flutter of them against his pelvis when Leo blinks and just that feeling is as intense as any blowjob he’s ever had before.
“I’m going to get you off,” Leo says, pulling away with a wet pop. “And it’s going to be really good.” He’s just as competitive here as anywhere else; it’s the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to Oliver, taking the top spot from five minutes ago when Leo touched his dick for the first time.
“I want you to. I want you so bad, Leo, please,” Oliver lets himself tell him, just once. Leo doesn’t answer or make him repeat himself, only obliges everything Oliver’s ever wanted. Leo’s lack of experience is subsumed by sheer enthusiasm; it’s all Oliver can do to stay mostly still and not embarrass himself by opening his mouth again.
Oliver desperately wants to be gentlemanly, to take what he’s being given, but Leo reaches for more and plucks it out of him as easily as unbuttoning a shirt, placing Oliver’s hands in his hair, sighing softly with his mouth full when Oliver tangles his fingers in it, and then kneading his own fingertips against the soft rounds of Oliver’s arse, tugging him against Leo’s waiting tongue again and again.
“Leo,” he says again, while his brain repeats it on a loop, in time with the movements of his hips:Leo, Leo, Leo, Leo. “Please, God, take your fucking clothes off.”
His own pants never got out from around his ankles and Leo’s still fully dressed, all cotton wrinkles and mussed curls. If Oliver doesn’t see his dick, right now, his entire life will have been for nothing. Leo retreats, albeit reluctantly, toward the edge of the bed, kneeling like he’s waiting for communion. He peels off his shirt, pulling by the collar—for all he’s seen it done by hundreds of men after hundreds of matches in his life, Oliver’s never truly appreciated before just how sexy it is when someone does that, one fell swoop to reveal the body underneath. And what Leo’srevealed is just like he’s dreamed it, just like he pretended he didn’t know it would be, after months of blink-long glances in the locker room. Oliver’s barely gotten to take it in, all the brown skin of his belly and the sparse, dark curls of hair on his chest, when Leo shimmies out of his own trackies, suddenly as naked as Oliver, and just as hard.
“Well? Are you satisfied?” Leo asks, and he sounds like he might be joking and also like he means it very, very much.
“Come here,” Oliver replies, and they’re already moving, crashing into each other.
It’s all a blur after that, a flipbook of feelings, he’s careening forward toward the inevitable end and already he’s trying to remember it all, cataloging the pleasure, to make sure it will keep for later. Maybe it will never happen again, maybe it has never happened before, but it is happening now, this moment between them. It means anything, everything, and when Oliver knows he’s about to come he closes his eyes, but Leo stops touching him, waiting a torturous, century-long second, until Oliver blinks and blinks and looks at Leo again, and when it’s over he can only think that Leo’s seen him, Leo is the only person who has ever seen him, the only person who’s ever really been allowed to look.
• • •
Oliver wakes up with an elbow in his sternum and a chin on his jugular. Leo is stuck to his torso like a barnacle on a barge, naked and warm with sleep and very clingy. The day-after-match soreness is compounding with the weight of another body on top of him, but it still feels good. Leo only snuffles a snore when Oliver shifts beneath him, more to settle in than to dislodge.
Willem, clearly suffering from a kind of crazy-eyed fourth-place frenzy, mandated morning yoga as a team instead of an off day, which means they do need to get up.Theyneed to get up.What a strange sensation. Oliver has never had anyone linger in his bed like this before, not in any sterile vacation hotel room and certainly not here. It’s somehow more vulnerable, more inescapably intimate than anything they’ve done to date, to wake up holding Leo, to see and be seen in the veil of sleep. He doesn’t want it to end; he’s instinctively afraid of what might happen when it does.
They’ve been rivals and comrades and friends. Leo was his reluctant pupil and then a target of both ire and desire, and now it seems like they’ve become something else to each other entirely.Lovers,Oliver thinks, in the privacy of his own head where there’s no need to be embarrassed about it. It was both of their first times at something last night.
“Are you up?” Leo asks a few minutes later, startling Oliver by being awake.
“No,” he whispers back, trying to prolong this in-bed feeling.
Leo snorts and pushes up on one elbow, freeing Oliver from being at the bottom of the cuddle and exposing his face, rumpled sheet lines imprinted on his cheek.
“Bit early to start lying to me, Harris,” Leo tells him somberly. “I don’t know how you expect this to work.”
Eventually, and probably the sooner the better, they’re going to have a grown-up conversation where they define what “this” and “work” mean in this context, but Oliver can’t do it now. Considering it makes him panic and he doesn’t want to, not while the cutest boy in London—as Maggie once rightly called Leo—is here with him. There’s a look on Leo’s face, an unexpected combination of heat and good humor, the same face he made last night when Oliver finally got his hands on him, when Oliver made him come.
“Let’s see if I can’t change your mind,” Oliver says to Leo, instead of any of the cautious, warning things he should. “Comehere, handsome.” There’s no training today, just stretching: Oliver suspects he won’t get a chance like this again anytime soon, and he’s aching for it, so he snakes one hand free from their entwined bodies and fumbles for the spare nightstand, digging through the drawer until he finds a crinkle of foil and the outline of a bottle. When Oliver offers him the square, golden packet, Leo bursts out laughing, which is not quite the reaction he had been hoping for. “Well, go on, then,” he sniffs. “You’re not getting any without it.”
