Owens winced. “I know.” He sat up, drawing his knees in close in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. “I said I’m sorry, okay? I snap sometimes under pressure, and I’ve created this fucking cage for myself. I’m counting on an Olympic call-up fixing things, but…”
“But, what if it doesn’t?” Jackson asked.
“Exactly. I can’t let everyone down, not again.”
“You’re not letting anyone down, Owens.”
The glare Owens levelled at him could have started the campfire that they hadn’t had a chance to get going. “My dad expects success. His legacy is on the line. So if I’m not succeeding…well…”
“You aren’t responsible for your father’s reputation. That’s some stage-parent-level bullshit.”
Owens’s face shuttered. “Not everyone’s families can be progressive hippies like yours.”
Jackson winced. It was meant to be cruel, but it wasn’t actually all that far from the truth. There was a reason he could live the sort of happy-go-lucky life he had, even with the pressure of professional athletics, even when his finances were precarious, and he was scared to death for his dad. It had simply been drilled into him from a young age that he had inherent value just for existing, for being himself. He knew not everyone had that. Hell, his own best friend struggled constantly with the weight ofparental expectations. But Owens was an exceptional talent, and to see so much doubt in him made Jackson question everything he knew about the man.
“I’m… I need the Olympics, Jennings,” he said.
“You’ll be selected, Owens. There’s literally no question. Anders is already acting like you have been.”
Silence fell between them. Owens was staring up at the roof of the tent as though it were the only thing stopping him from drifting away.
He was quiet when he spoke again. “I think there’s something wrong. I’ve been feeling a bit off, and I think I tweaked my ankle or my Achilles or something,” he admitted. Jackson winced, he'd seen the slight limp in Elliot's gait, but if it was still bothering him, fuck. It was a bad time to pick up an injury. “I need to do well in London to impress the rest of the panel, but if Anders suspects an injury and pulls me now…”
Jackson nodded. He understood. The decision didn’t sit with Anders alone, and if Owens didn’t make a good show of London, well, there were no guarantees in this sport. He didn’t like it, but he understood. “I’ll help you tape it and cover it up in the morning, before we head back,” he said.
“Thank you,” Owens whispered.
“But if it gets worse, you go to Anders yourself,” Jackson added. He wasn’t letting him risk his whole career over this. The idea of Owens not being there at the start line of every race, someone to push against, left Jackson cold. He’d always been there. Jackson didn’t know what his career, his life would look like without Owens there playing anti-hero.
“Thank you for telling me, Elliot,” he whispered. The blue glow of Elliot’s phone illuminated the dark of the tent as he checked the time, the glow highlighting the planes of his face in a way that should be criminal. Jackson was momentarily transfixed by the way the light caught the hair hanging in front of Elliot’seyes. Elliot shook his head to dislodge the stray lock, stretching his neck and exposing the strong tendons in it. Heat pooled in Jackson’s abdomen, but he ignored it. Elliot needed a friend right now. A teammate.
“You’re a great runner, Elliot. I’d be proud to call you a teammate…or even a friend.”
Elliot sighed and dropped his phone. He angled himself towards Jackson, resting his head on a hand as his hair fell over his eyes in a cascade of silver.
“I’ve told you, Jennings, I don’t want to be your friend,” he whispered.
“What do you want, then?”
The sounds of the woods around them intensified as Jackson’s focus narrowed on Elliot’s soft exhale. He found himself frozen in place, his gaze glued to the deep storm clouds brewing in Elliot’s eyes.
Years from now, Jackson would think back on that moment and still be unable to say who had moved first, but somehow Elliot’s mouth ended up on his, and it was fucking glorious.
Elliot’s kiss was almost the polar opposite of everything he was in life. It was uncontrolled, wild, all teeth and tongue. It left Jackson gasping for air, and rock hard.
“You’re right—not friends. Not friends is a good plan,” Jackson mumbled.
Elliot smiled and pulled Jackson back down into another, slower, more cautious kiss, as though he were asking permission. Jackson moaned as he felt Elliot’s hardness brush against him. He wanted to pull him closer and feel every inch of his body against his.
“You’re a total arsehole sometimes, you know,” Jackson said as they parted for air. It came out far more tender than he was comfortable with.
“Yeah,” Elliot breathed, lips ghosting over his.
“I can’t fucking get you out of my head,” Jackson groaned, kissing him again. He was more aggressive this time, his teeth clashing angrily against Elliot’s as he rolled on top of him, making the entire tent shudder. “Haven’t been able to, ever. You’re always there, always pushing me, always that little bit ahead, driving me fucking crazy.”
“Thought you said you never think about me.”
“I lied,” Jackson said as he kissed down Elliot’s jaw.
