Winter Ball (16 page)

Richie knotted his fingers in Skip’s hair (which was getting long) and pulled his head back. “I’m gonna come,” he whispered, massaging his fingers against Skip’s scalp. “No swallowing. You’ll be coughing jizz for a week.”

Skip opened his mouth and balanced Richie’s cock on his tongue, his lips pulled back in a smile. He just held there, bouncing his tongue up and down, up and down, until Richie arched and thrust, calling out, “God, Skipper, you
suck
!”

And then Skipper
did
suck, and he sucked hard, and Richie spilled hot and bitter into his mouth, the first thing he’d actually tasted in a week.

Of course he swallowed.

Richie continued to pump weakly, like he couldn’t help it, and when he gave a final shudder and sat still, Skip slurped him off one final time to make sure he was all sparkly clean.

Richie glared at him with a certain grim humor, even as Skip fussed with his sweats and pulled them back up and straightened his shirt so it looked like he’d just been sprawled in front of the couch watching television, and hadn’t been getting a blow job at all.

“This changes nothing,” Richie said, trying hard to maintain the soberness that had claimed him
before
the blow job.

Skip grinned, all teeth, and Richie broke character and laughed, ruffling his hair.

“Okay, fine. I’m not as uptight as I was twenty minutes ago. But I still want you to call me if anything goes wrong. Don’t try to blow sunshine up my ass; don’t tell me it’s all fine when you’re too sick to move. Don’t… don’t pretend you’re not alone for my sake, Skipper. I get to be the one person in the world—and that includes Carpenter—who makes you not alone anymore.”

Skip’s grin softened, and he rested his temple against Richie’s thigh. He held up his hand then, looking at Richie hopefully, and Richie tangled fingers with him.

“Yeah,” Richie said, squeezing a little. “We’re like that.”

Skip’s smile deepened and he returned the squeeze. Yes, yes they were.

THE NEXT
day he could actually talk—hurray!—and Richie was less inclined to lecture and more inclined to make love.

Which they did.

A
lot
.

The second time, Skip took Richie while he was plastered up against the headboard, hands clutching the rail, the bed rocking so loud they probably couldn’t have heard a bomb go off. Richie was screaming, “Fuck me! Fuck me, Skip! Fuck me!” and Skip’s cock, finally free of the constraints of cough syrup and painkillers, was fucking like a released prisoner would fly.

Richie’s head lolled back on Skip’s shoulders, his hair a glorious autumn-colored spill against Skip’s pale skin, and Skip could look down at his ginger-furred freckled body, and he wanted it, craved it, couldn’t fuck it enough. Richie’s stout cock kept knocking against the rails as Skip pounded, and every time it did, he let out a keen of ultimate arousal, a sort of plea for even more, and Skip obliged.

But Skip needed to come—and
soon
—or his newly healing body was going to give up on him, so he rasped, “Fuck your fist, Richie. C’mon, squeeze it hard. Want to see you—”

Oh, that was all it took. Pump, pump, and white jizz spewed from the end of his cock and all over the pillows, the rails, the walls. Richie sagged in his arms, and Skipper shivered, turned on by everything from the clench of Richie around his cock to the sight of Richie’s come running off the brass rail of the bed.

“Nungh…. Augh!”

It had been a while. This orgasm didn’t roll, it ripped, split him open from groin to chin, shot him through with white light, spilled his insides clean into Richie, gave them to Richie to keep, deep inside his body.

He and Richie puddled to the bed like melted butter, both of them sweating in the chill.

“Skip?” Richie panted after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah?”

“I think we’re getting better at this.”

“I know something’s getting better,” Skip said, his voice sandy but there.

“I don’t want to wait until—”

The pounding at Skip’s door took them both by surprise.

In the mad scramble that followed, Skip found himself wearing his one clean pair of sweats, commando, and Richie’s hooded sweatshirt without a shirt on underneath. It was tight across his chest and left his stomach bare.

“Go!” Richie commanded, turning on the television loud. He ran to the vaporizer in the corner of the room, and Skip didn’t hang around to see what he was doing next, because the pounding on the door hadn’t stopped.

He got to the door and swung it open, and almost choked on his tongue when he saw Richie’s dad.

Oh holy fucksticks on crackers. How loud had they been? How did he look? Had he smeared jizz through his hair as they’d been running around?

“Mr. Scoggins,” he said, his voice rasping and catching. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Here to see if Richie’s ready to come home yet,” Ike said, glaring at him.

Skip smiled back, hoping he didn’t look like the guy who’d been fucking Ike’s baby boy into the mattress five minutes earlier.

“I’m not sure—he was planning to go shopping a little later,” Skip said. Shopping for Thanksgiving decorations—so domestic, like real boyfriends, but he wasn’t going to tell that to Richie’s dad.

“He’s buying your
food
?” Ike’s mouth pulled up into a sneer, and Skip decided not to let him in.

“He eats here too,” he said, his voice extra raspy. At that moment, whatever Richie had been doing with the vaporizer rolled through the living room, and Skip’s head felt clear for the first time that day, and Richie’s dad started to cough up a lung.

“What—” Cough, cough, cough. “—in the
fuck
is that?”

“Mentholyptus,” Skip said, taking some more deep breaths. “Wow. That shit works
awesome
.”

At that moment Richie came out of the bedroom wearing Skip’s work sweatshirt and his jeans, but barefoot.

“Dad?” he asked, sounding for all the world like his father wouldn’t notice they were wearing each other’s clothes. “I told you I’d be at work Monday morning.”

“Richie, what in the hell are you doing here—”

“Yeah, sorry about the Vicks VapoRub stuff. I put way too much in the humidifier—that was
not
what I meant to happen.”

“Are you kidding? That was
great
!” Skip was really very grateful. It was like he had full use of his senses for the first time in
forever
.

“Yeah?” Richie grinned at him, and for a moment they could pretend like they hadn’t almost gotten busted having ass sex in the bedroom of Skip’s tiny house. “I’ll remember that.”

“You need to come home right now,” Ike snarled, and Richie’s happy little bounce deflated.

“No,” he said quietly. “Sorry, Dad. I mean, I don’t have any family stuff, and my time is my own, right?”

“Not to spend it doing….” Ike glared at them both, as though daring them to find the right words.

“Doing what?” Skip asked, voice husky but firm. “What is it you think we’re doing, sir? Richie and I have been friends for years—what are you seeing here that’s bad?”

“Don’t bullshit with me, young man,” he snarled. “You two—this ain’t right. You can’t get away with what you’re doing—someone’ll stop you!”

He turned away then and stalked toward his car, leaving Richie and Skip shaking as they closed the door behind him.

“Oh Jesus,” Skip said, leaning against the door. “Did Hazel get out?”

“No. She’s hiding under the bed. Skip, did you hear him?” Richie was leaning against the door too, their arms touching.

“Yeah—I just don’t know who he thinks is going to stop us,” Skip muttered, looking at Richie with wide eyes. “I mean… he’s not going to
do
anything, is he?”

“You mean like sabotage your car or burn down your house?” Richie asked seriously.

“The fact that’s where your mind goes is really frightening.
Will
he?”

Richie shook his head. “No. No, I don’t think so. But… but Rob and Paul might not be so smart. Jesus, Skip. I should go—”

“No,” Skip said, his eyes suddenly burning. “No. What’s going to happen? You go home and say, ‘Sorry, Dad, you’re right, I
won’t
go play at Skip’s again?’ What happens to soccer? What happens to
us
? Are you ready to walk away from that yet?”

Richie grabbed his hand and clung. “No,” he said softly. “No. You’re right. We’ll go shopping like we planned. Buy some of those eucalyptus arrangements for your table so we don’t have to dump menthol all over the bedroom. God, I can’t believe that doesn’t bother you.”

“Best my head’s felt in a week,” Skip confirmed. “But we should probably get out of here anyway.” Skipper straightened up and felt his junk flopping around in his sweats and the cold air hitting his stomach. “But first….”

“Yeah. We totally need to change.”

RICHIE LEFT
Monday morning again, and this time they kissed at the door for as long as they possibly could before both of them would be late.

When they broke it off, Richie was mashed up against the door and Skip was holding his thighs as he wrapped his legs around Skip’s waist. They paused for a moment, leaning foreheads together, and gulped air.

“What do I tell my dad?” Richie asked.

“Tell him you’re in love.”

“I’m so in love with you,” Richie told him, burying his face in Skip’s shoulder. Skip held him one more second, then another, then let him go.

THE NEXT
week seemed so blessedly normal.

Work was fine—the fruit basket from Mr. Gentleman Caller was much appreciated, and Skip and Carpenter got a lot of use from it. The card read
Thanks for not suing for sexual harassment. I hope your boyfriend took good care of you.

Skip and Carpenter toasted to a new friend with big Japanese pears that tasted like heaven itself—and Skip took a page from his nearly forgotten youth and sent an actual handwritten thank-you card when he was done.

The rain let up for a week, leaving them with mist and fog, but since that was normal November weather, it didn’t hardly get Skip down. He and Richie texted almost once an hour, and Skip started playing Words With Friends with him, not because either of them was a better-than-average player but because it meant once an hour he had an excuse to let Richie know Skip was thinking about him.

Once an hour, Richie did the same thing. (And Richie was particularly adept at finding the dirty word in his stack of tiles, a gift that never ceased to amaze Skipper. The word “vulva” actually won the game for him on Wednesday, and Skipper was full of praise.)

Richie showed up for soccer about half an hour late, though, and although Skip wasn’t going to yell at him—because he wouldn’t anyway—at the end of the game, he did use the excuse to call him over to help pick up the orange cones so they could talk about why he was late.

Winter ball practice was at Rusch Park instead of the middle school, because the park had lights, and they were two of the last people there, moving slowly, their silence companionable. They met at the end of the field, and Skip gathered the cones and started moving to their cars. The parking lot was decently lit, especially from the practice lights, and if their breath hadn’t been steaming as they spoke, it might have been a nice place for a nighttime chat. As it was, Skip told Richie to get in and he’d drive him to his car at the far end of the parking lot, and Richie slid in gratefully.

“Sorry, Skip,” he said as soon as he shut the door. “My dad—I mean, it’s been lots of little stuff, you know? He’s been knocking on my door at night like he’s tucking me in. Paul and Rob suddenly found Jesus, and it’s all about what Jesus would do to a fag on a dark night—”

Skip grunted. “Okay, they are about the two dumbest assholes on the planet. I mean, four years ago people bought that shit, but hasn’t everybody figured out that Jesus was gay-friendly by now?”

Richie grinned at him. “Oh, I told ’em. Quote chapter and verse—”

“You know your Bible that well?” Because that was something they had
not
covered in their late-night conversations.

“Naw, I know my
gay
that well,” Richie corrected, nodding. “I’ve got a laptop—I’ve been looking shit up. I mean, I know you were down last week, but you said the magic word, Skipper. You said ‘gay’ and I had a thing to research, and now I know my gay Bible stuff and Rob and Paul can kiss my ass.”

Skip laughed as he pulled up next to Richie’s car and put it in park, letting it idle.

“That’s awesome,” he said, meaning it. Then he sobered. “So I guess we’re in gay league soccer together if the guys find out, right?”

Richie sighed and leaned his head against Skip’s shoulder. “Yeah. Well, there’s worse things than not playing winter ball, Skipper. Do you want to just up and tell them? I mean….” He dropped a kiss on Skip’s collarbone, and Skip nuzzled his temple. “Carpenter surprised me, you know? Your job surprised me. My dad even—he knows. I mean, there was not enough eucalyptus in the
world
to disguise the way your house smelled on Sunday, and he keeps acting surprised when he comes over to my place, like he’s expecting a big gay orgy. But he’s got to know. What happens if we just say it and… and….”

Skip turned his head and saw Richie looking at him with wide, limpid eyes, begging Skip for something.

Skip didn’t like making Richie beg. He kissed him then, openmouthed, and Richie sighed and sank into it. Urgent but contained, because they weren’t going to get laid in Skip’s car—they could wait until the weekend for that.

But still passionate. Still the taste of Richie’s mouth in his own. Still the acknowledgment, somehow, that what started out in Skip’s car and had raged uncontrollably had now turned into something other than fire. It had transformed
them
, and they needed to see who they were.

They were the same two guys who had met at tech school and who had grown progressively closer ever since. They were the same two guys who had discovered their first real sex and their first kiss and their first love in each other’s arms.