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Subject: Premiership Lads part 123: The Boys In Blue? Part 123: The Boys In Blue? Breakfast. The alarm had been chirping on at fifteen-minute cycles for a while, repeatedly snoozed with a lazy thumbing over the touchscreen. But both of them needed to be up, they had mornings of training at opposite ends of London, intense preparations for their first games in forever. Since the lad beside him wasn’t moving an inch, Mason Mount crept from the bed and decided to get started on the day; not without pausing to look back at the ungainly sprawl of his lover, who managed to take up most of the bed whatever position he stretched his long muscular limbs in. Dressed only in a pair of pale grey boxers that hung low at the hips, Mason tapped his way quietly through the apartment, wrenching open some curtains in the big lounge space to let in light, then popping on the kettle and inspecting his fridge and cupboards. He’d only recently returned to the flat after his extended stay out in Surrey, and was yet to properly stock up on supplies. He grinned to himself: he’d need to do quite a big shop if both of them were going to stay here for the next few weeks as the season resumed and concluded. The 21-year-old midfielder hummed contentedly to himself as he brewed up their cups of tea and slid slices of slightly stale bread into the toaster. There was just about enough butter and jam to go between the two of them, maybe a scrape of peanut butter at the back of the cupboard. Declan’s favourite, he thought. He’d watched that other lad scoff slices of toast lathered in peanut butter and `jelly’ at the breakfast table since they were just kids. Mason yawned, still a bit begrudging of daylight for interrupting their cosy sleep together, free in this apartment and not having to sneak rooms for the benefit of the Rice family. With that in mind, he’d hoped last night would be quite a big deal — he’d played a blinder at Chelsea’s friendly matches with lower-league locals Brentford, a great day with the Blues, and it was his first night back in the flat, with Declan Rice as guest. Unfortunately, the West Ham defender had been exhausted by the time he made it back over from East London, and the extended noisy shag Mason had hoped for was not forthcoming. Nah, just a quiet evening together, watching old action films on ITV2 and scoffing a Chinese takeaway whilst sharing highlights of their `matchday’ experience. Not that Mount particularly minded. No, not really. His physical, lusty expectations had been quietly dulled by the comfort of having his best mate here with him, the privacy to curl up against him a little as they enjoyed movie night — the sweet little moment that Declan had kissed sweet chili sauce of his chin and then fed him spring rolls with clumsy coarse fingers. It had been a strange evening, really, but one he could already feel himself cherishing as a special memory. Mason knew he was a sentimental fool, but he couldn’t help it, he’d never been able to. When Declan had begun apologising again, before bed, explaining how worn out he was by the West Ham local match and by the thought of the following day’s training, Mason had shushed him and wiped away his own frustrations. He’d been incredibly horny, springing semi-hard moments in his jogger bottoms every five minutes, even while they ate. But he’d hated the idea of putting pressure on Declan, who had been so tender and giving since their first fuck in his creaky old bed. Now, the young Chelsea player made his way back through into the bedroom, walking slowly to carry the two hot teas, a mug in each hand. Declan had rolled over in the bed a little, one strong arm lifted up to rub at his eyes and face, making a vague yawning groan. Mount smiled at this and placed Dec’s tea carefully at that side of the bed, then sat himself down in the groove of the other footballer’s body, pressing his arse back against the firm, duvet-covered mound of his tummy, cradling hot sweet tea in both hands and remaining quiet, leaving Rice to slowly adjust to consciousness. `Tea?’ grunted Declan heavily. `Mmm… mornin’, mate…’ A hand lifted up out of the musty swirl of bedding and stroked Mason’s bare back, tingling over his spine and pressing gently at the toned muscle there. He grinned to himself at this warm touch, hunched over his own six-pack and chest a little, testing the heat of the mug against both palms before taking a slow sip. He mumbled his own `good morning’ and relaxed in this sitting position; if he crawled back into bed to drink his tea, he’d literally never get up. Through in the open plan kitchen, he heard the muffled ping and rustle of the toaster finishing its cycle, and prepared himself to get up from the bed to attend to this simple breakfast — but just as he braced his legs, Declan’s phone buzzed and crackled on the bedside table, bumping gently against the side of the hot mug as it did. `Ugh,’ groaned Declan dismissively, as if it was another alarm. `You got a call, buddy,’ Mason said quietly, reaching one arm over to slip Dec’s phone up off the table and into his palm, casually checking the incoming caller before beginning to pass it towards his sprawled out hunk of a lover. `Call incoming… huh, Jack Wilshere? Must be a thing about training, or…’ Still not quite awake, Declan waved his hand away and groaned a little bit, shifting position and hugging two pillows to one arm. Mason stared at the phone screen disinterestedly as the buzzing call died out. He took a sip of tea, flinching a bit at its gentle burn of his lips, and then felt the fresh vibration of a message or alert on the phone. `Jack… Wilshere, you say…?’ grumbled Rice, opening one eye and shifting a little bit in bed, lifting slowly up onto one arm so that she sheets slid away across some of his swelling chest, his slowly building pectorals, revealing one dark pink nipple. `Erm…’ `Voicemail,’ Mason said lightly, double-tapping the screen to accept it, surprised that it went straight to the service without needing sign-in. God, he’d have to teach this lad about phone security, if they were gonna keep texting each other the things they did in their lunch breaks…! He didn’t quite notice the way Declan shifted more rapidly on the bed now, or the sudden dazed wakefulness on his rugged features. `You have 1 new message,’ intoned the robotic female voice of the device, then a click and: `Hey lad!’ cooed the faintly familiar twang of Wilshere’s chirpy voice, and Mason stared vaguely at the phone in his palm. He only half registered Declan’s hand reach and pause about his wrist. `How’s it hangin’, big lad? Sorry to call ya early but… haha, just checking in… you know, wanted to see if it’d be a repeat performance after training this morning, you know…’ Still, Mason listened with mild disinterest, thinking that he should get up and go get their toast ready; he lifted his eyes a little and saw, but didn’t quite see, the flash of alarm in Declan’s widening eyes. `I just need to know, cos… you know, do I fuck my missus before heading out, or don’t I…? Haha — want to know whether to save this big juicy load for your ugly mug, you lanky cunt… hah…’ Mason froze where he sat, looking from Declan’s pained face to the phone. `Just messin’… but seriously… what you say? Am I getting it in the shower later, or…? Seriously! Let me know… haha… fuck it, if you’re staying with this dweeby new girlfriend you mentioned, then maybe I’ll have to do without, so…’ Declan’s hand was pushing over, snatching the smartphone from Mason’s palm, and he felt himself pull rigidly back, unable to look at Rice. He felt a sickening lurch in his tummy. `Mase…’ `Don’t,’ he replied in a choked voice, dragging his left arm away from Declan’s grabbing hand. `Please,’ he murmured, feeling the emotional tremor threatening even that one word, `please don’t… just…’ He got up from the bed, briefly considering rushing into the adjoining bathroom to chuck up his guts, but staggering out of the bedroom and across the lounge. He could half-hear Declan’s pleading voice behind him, but he couldn’t make out the words. All he could hear, playing on a loop in his ears, was Jack Wilshere’s smug drawl about a `repeat performance’. Lunch. Mason chopped angrily at the hunk of dried-up cheddar from the back of his fridge, attacking it with the short kitchen knife and wallowing over what had been a distinctly shitty morning. He was stood in the open-plan kitchen of his flat, thin blue tracksuit pulled over his training kit; mersin escort he’d skipped the opportunity for more afternoon gym work, or any shower at the training centre, and just hurried home through the streets alone, back to the miserable privacy of this place. He’d struggled, this morning, to confront Declan properly; he’d been too shocked, too sickened. The sense of deception had floored him. But his anger and misery at the interruption to their morning had just worsened all the way through Chelsea training; it had moved from a twisting sickness in his tummy to a throbbing pain in his head, a tension he didn’t know how to release. Mason fought back the tears that had been threatening all day, and jabbed ineffectually at the hard cheese to slice it for his sandwich, and- owch, fuck! He saw the quick flash of red, the drawn blood of the cut. He brought his left hand up to his mouth to suck the little cut on his finger, smarting at the incision, and dropped the knife to the worktop with a clatter. Fuck’s sake! He abandoned the construction of his cheese and tomato sandwich in a foul mood, backing out of the kitchen and staring hatefully around the apartment. It had suddenly transformed from a cosy and helpful hideaway to a chilly and dispassionate hole of a place — he was longing for the surreal distance of the Rices’ country, the detached existence it had hosted. There was a buzz from the flat door, sending a little shiver through his toned young body. Still shaking his injured hand, Mason made his way to the intercom panel; he knew that the West Ham lads had more or less a full day of work planned out, but he still half-expected it to be Declan, struck with the same confused half-apology as he’d stammered through this morning, while Mount stared sadly out of windows and wandered through his morning routine. But no, not Declan. He didn’t speak into the panel but hit the buttons to let his visitor in and moved back to the kitchen to wash his cut finger under the tap. Soon, the unlocked door was opening and in came Ross Barkley with heavy and hurried footsteps. `Mase,’ breathed his fellow Chelsea player heavily, `what have you done?’ Mason realised the blood was a little more prominent than he’d thought, splashed on the worktop and chopping board, dripped in the sink, staining the blue sleeve of his tracksuit top. In seconds, Barkley was crossing the apartment and with him in the kitchen, grabbing the offending arm to inspect it and flashing worried eyes at him. The rugged square-jawed features of Ross’s face were set in a look of deep concern, his bigger body tensed with some unnamed dread. `Just clumsy,’ Mason murmured, pulling his sore hand away from Ross’s big warm clumsy hands. Like Mount, he’d obviously skipped the option of a shower, he still very much smelled of the training ground, of crotch and perspiration and damp grass. Mason was determined not to cry, had been determined so all morning and into this afternoon, but now he felt pinned down by the steely concern in Barkley’s eyes, and his big reassuring presence seeming to surround him. `Something’s up,’ Ross said. It was a sort of bullish demand, a string of questions as a statement. When Mason just stepped back and cradled one sore hand in the other, lowering his eyes, the muscled midfielder spoke again, more softly. `You’ve been away with the fairies all morning, Mase. I watched you. Something is up — you’re not right.’ One of his hands grabbed firmly at an upper arm just below the shoulder. `What is it?’ It was useless trying to deny this — he knew, apart from anything, that he had been miserable and sour and distracted through all the morning’s training exercises. He’d even had a mild scolding from Frank Lampard himself, hah, for being so off-task; he’d just glared at their sexually confused head coach at that point and refused to engage in the usual apologising. Plus, he thought, Ross knew him, really knew him. He looked up into the clumsy concern of the other lad’s face and had to really fight back the tears. `Declan,’ he mumbled. `He… Er, I thought we were, y’know — I thought it was special, but he’d been…’ He groaned at how petty or possessive or daft it sounded, especially maybe to Barkley, a man of his experience and physical majesty. `He had this voicemail from Jack fucking Wilshere this morning, can you believe that?! Wilshere… He’d been, er, servicing that fucker, and telling me…’ Here they came, the pinpricks of moisture in his narrow brown eyes. Ross squeezed the arm where his hand was and brought the other up comfortingly to the side of his face, leaning in ever so slightly. `It’s okay to be upset, buddy,’ the Scouser murmured. `But… well, what’s really been going on? I mean, you two are…’ `He’s a fucking liar,’ Mason exclaimed more angrily than he realised he was feeling, `he’s played me for a fucking mug…’ Just how furious he was with Declan’s behaviour and his deception exploded out of him, eclipsing the pain in his hand. Both hands curled into fists as if smacking Ross in his mighty chest would fix everything; he just pushed his hands aimlessly into that broad plateau and tested his strength on the immovable monolith of the other man. Ross grunted patiently at him and squeezed his shoulders gently. `I can’t fucking believe it!’ Mount cried, a single tear breaking loose onto his cheek. `You need to calm down, let’s get a plaster on that finger…’ Ross was speaking in a controlled, almost detached way, which infuriated Mason; so emotionless and solid, Barkley, so stiff and unfeeling! In his emotional whirlwind of the day, the other bloke’s solidness and British reserve were galling, insulting, and his smell was just… intoxicating. His hands flattened against that chest, feeling muscle through layers of sporty material. `My finger can wait,’ Mason muttered, and he leaned in and planted a kiss on Ross’s neck, just below the furred chisel of his jawline, running his lips against the warm, moist skin. He lowered his hands symmetrically, sliding down off the chest and over Ross’s sides; gratifyingly, he felt Barkley’s grip on his shoulders tighten excitedly. One of his hands reached to the front of those tight Chelsea training pants, reaching the low sagging bulge that always flopped there; the other curved around a hip to get onto the mountain range of Barkley’s buttocks, always challenging any fabric to cover them. He felt Barkley shiver and make a little surprised gasp at the touching; his hands slid out from their tight grip to stroke down Mason’s arms, always surprisingly gentle for their strength. `This ain’t right,’ mumbled the Merseysider. Mason felt a return to something neglected; it had been in this very kitchen that they’d briefly kissed, before sharing that night of passion that almost broke his bed. He wanted that again. He wanted to feel the safety of being held in Ross’s lean arms — the silent reserve he’d resented a minute ago now seemed like the exact comfort he needed, and he curled his hand possessively around that flopping mass in the front of his pants, feeling the reaction he needed there, grinding his body into Ross’s in the kitchen. `Come on,’ he almost pleaded, `we’re both all riled up, and-` `Mason,’ Ross grunted almost aggressively, pushing at his shoulders. Mason found the outline of his cock’s head and fingered it nimbly through the silky nylon and whatever skimpy briefs lay beneath, his other hand resting in the hollow of lower back, scrunching at the tracksuit top and training vest beneath, and- he yelped as, with sudden force, he was pushed back, tottering into the centre of the kitchen space. `Ross,’ he yelped, surprised and more than a little offended. He moved back towards him but Ross shifted his body — his semi visible as it swung against the dark blue of his trackies — and caught his reaching hands by the wrist, twisting away from him and fixing him with a conflicted expression. `This ain’t right,’ Barkley repeated simply. `We can’t do this.’ But Mason threw himself forward, sliding an arm about his waist, and he felt Ross respond — instantly, one of his big hands was on the back of Mason’s neck and sliding down, exploring over the rustle of his tracksuit top, finding his own peachy bottom and squeeeeezing it, then- `NO!’ And again, Mason was pushed away, almost falling over this time — he had to catch himself against the worktop, his cut hand pulsing with pain as he did so. Ross had stepped urgently away from him, bulge prominent, one hand lifted as escort mersin if in self-defence. `You’re with Declan,’ he said quietly, sounding shaken. `He’s a lying cunt,’ Mason barked, his voice breaking a little over the swear word. Tears were biting at his eyes. He stared angrily at Ross, needing this physical comfort more than anything right now. `Just… let me…’ `NO,’ Barkley said firmly. He was backing away to the door, adjusting the front of his bottoms, pulling down the front of his tracksuit top a little to cover some of the tenting. `This is a shit idea, Mase. We’re friends. You’re… you love HIM, don’t you…? I won’t let you do this to yourself.’ And with that, he was off, stomping for the unlocked door, leaving Mason to hunch over the kitchen surfaces and grip his freshly bleeding hand in the other, tears rolling down his face. He’d heard the anger and disappointment in Barkley’s voice, but also the kindness, the self-control, the affection. For fuck’s sake, what was he doing…? Dinner. The chilled remains of a Chinese takeaway stared back out of the fridge at him, and Mason found he’d been staring at them for too long; the fridge was beeping, its tinny electric light coming on and off with each noise. He slid the door shut, unable to work up the enthusiasm to reheat any of the unhealthy treats. Where had the afternoon and evening gone? It was getting dark outside, that seemed to surprise him, though he also felt he’d been turning over the same gloomy thoughts forever. This morning, waking up beside Declan’s big warm body, felt like an eternity ago. The door opened, its click and creak snapping him from the hours of maudlin trance he’d slid into. Still in the dried sweat of his training clothes, his eyes and cheeks a little sore from an our of self-pitying tears. He looked over the room at Declan’s tall frame stepping into it, dressed in the claret of his West Ham training kit. Mason went through a little ripple of emotions: relief at his presence, pleasure at his increasingly muscular figure, sickness at the realisation training probably finished hours ago, horror at how false and empty their special thing might be after all. He was too struck by these feelings, all of them, to move from the spot. Declan heaved a sigh, stepping fully into the room and lowering his kit-bag to the floor, then unzipping his top and peeling it off, just a tight polo shirt of dark blue beneath it. It hugged his developing chest and his swollen young biceps just right, a tantalising view from the other side of heartbreak. `I drove around,’ he grunted quietly, `didn’t know whether to come back here or go to mine or go to my parents.’ He said it bluntly, matter-of-factly. Mason let his arms hang loosely at his side, feeling as stale and crumpled as the sports clothes he still wore, watching Declan slowly approach him. `Right,’ he answered vaguely, `but you came back here…’ `I need to explain. Can I explain? Please, Mason.’ He added, in a slightly mysterious voice, `Nothing will be happening with Jack again, I tell you that. That dodgy prick. It never should have,’ he added hastily, `but Mase, please…’ `Go on,’ Mount told him, avoiding his touch and moving out across the living room space, towards the windows to look out on the darkening empty streets of West London. Declan was following him, reaching for his arm and side, but he didn’t have the strength to push him away as he wanted. `You lied to me, Dec,’ he said with a broken voice, turning to stare at him over his shoulder. `I feel like a total fucking mug, like the mug I brought your tea in. For fuck’s sake, Declan!’ `This is all so new to me — I’m not making excuses, I just need you to get it. I’ve never even considered this. You know that. Suddenly the world is a lot more confusing than it was. You know, before, it was chat up a hot girl, tell her you’re a footballer, still get rejected for being an awkward gangly yob… maybe score a shag once in a while playing wingman to better looking lads…’ `Dec, for fuck’s sake,’ grumbled Mason, both at his buddy’s self-esteem and at the distraction. `I’ve never had this kinda attention before,’ Rice pleaded, holding onto him, pulling close. `I know that doesn’t make it okay, but I just got carried away… and I didn’t know what to… I mean, I didn’t know if we were exclusive, or…’ `Oh right,’ Mason complained loudly, but not resisting the hug, `next you’ll be saying we were on a break…! Dec, you lied to me, you came home acting all tired, no energy for me, faking your tiredness, when really you’d been sucking off your teammate, and…’ `ARE we exclusive?’ Declan demanded, almost shaking him with the violence of his question. `What sort of question is that?!’ `A fair one! Are we? Cos I don’t know… you talk about Ross all the time, you see him and Frank pretty much every day, you come back from training all chipper and perky and that little fire in your eyes-` `I come home chipper and perky and fiery because of YOU. Are you accusing me…?’ `No, no! Nothing like that — I just mean, I didn’t know, Mase. We never talked about it properly. We never did. We had Surrey and things were amazing and then training started, and… I dunno. I dunno who you think about when you-` `Declan, it’s you, it’s always YOU,’ Mason insisted. He felt a tiny scrap of guilt. `Ross was here, checking up on me, but… nothing happened. I wanted it to, cos I was so fucking angry at you, but he stopped it.’ Declan breathed deeply. `He’s a good guy.’ `Yeah, he is,’ Mason snapped, but his anger was wilting. He knew Declan was kinda right; they’d both shied away from more thorough discussion of what `this’ was. They joked about girls they fancied and might date, they made sarcy little comments about each other’s teammates, but… `Well,’ he said emotionally, `ARE we exclusive, then…? Is that what you’re saying? Is that you want? Just… me?’ Declan looked at him as if he was unbelievably stupid. `Of course it is! Is that — is that what you want too?’ He saw the quite innocent panic on Declan’s rugged features, the genuine uncertainty, when surely he must know Mason felt about him? `I know I’m no Barkley, no Lampard, I dunno how I’m meant to compete with those fucks, but…’ `Shut up and kiss me,’ Mason told him quite wearily. `I want you, you want me. Why are we fighting?’ Ignoring the dull throb of pain still in his bandaged left hand, he grabbed Declan around the waist with both hands, pulled his head up and kissed him on the lips. Rice responded instantly, more ferociously than they’d ever shared. There was an urgency and power in his touch that was a little new to Mason, after the adorable nervousness of most of their interactions. The other pain was still there — the stab wound of lies and disappointment — but more than anything, Mason felt renewed desire for the brutishly handsome man in his arms, ripe with worry and devotion. He wrenched at his polo shirt, wanting to rip it off his lean muscle, biting at his lip in the drama of their kiss. His cock was stiff in his trackies and under-shorts, had been since Dec first laid hands on him there. `I was just exploring,’ Rice defended, between kisses, dragging Mason’s top from his body and fingering the tight ridges of his six-pack, `I mean, you get that right, you tried stuff with other guys before me, so…’ His thumbs and fingertips dug into Mason’s skin so roughly they could bruise, pushing down at the waistband of his under-shorts, taking them and his trackies down at once. `Shut up,’ Mason insisted at him, running the fingers of one hand through his long quiff of dark hair, the longer style he’d encouraged him into during their shared lockdown, `stop talking… and… fuck me…’ He wasn’t sure, for all his youthful hormones, that he’d ever wanted or needed it more. Declan began to back away from him towards the bedroom but he grabbed his arms and pulled him back. `Here on the floor,’ he demanded. Declan, in the doghouse of the adulterous liar, was in no rush to disagree. In seconds, they were on the rug, kicking a low wooden table over in their desperate tangle of limbs and shedding clothes. Declan paused, seeming to notice the bandaging over Mason’s hand for the first time, but he silenced the coming question with a rough kiss and pushing the taller lad’s Calvin Klein pants back over the firm muscles of his backside, slapping each of them beneath a hand. Mason wriggled his back against the thick shag of the rug, happily pinned beneath Declan’s tall awkwardness, mersin escort bayan his own cock loose and rubbing precum on abs. `Fuck me,’ he repeated firmly and insistently, empowered by the moral high ground, `just FUCK ME…’ His tone excited or panicked Declan, who moved with graceless speed — more uncomfortable bumps at the corner of an armchair and against the upturned table, but then Mason was properly on his back with his legs in the air about his lover’s body, and Declan was spitting in a hand and slicking it against his cock before pushing it against Mason’s quivering crack. They kissed deeply and roughly and their hands dragged against the taut muscles of one another’s fairly slim physiques. In those moments, Mason didn’t feel a shred of doubt for how Declan felt, the morning’s knock gone: his passion was so intense and physical, but his eyes and face still set with apologetic worry. Mason thought about how crushed he had looked listening to Jack’s sleazy message, and thought about him driving ceaselessly around London dreading coming back here to explain himself — there was more talking to be done, forgiveness was not at the front of his mind, but a possessive lust was, and a certainty of how much he needed to feel Rice’s cock inside him. `I love you,’ Declan burst out almost furiously, as he pushed at his ring. `I love you more,’ Mason teased, trying not to brace against the forceful push. `You feel amazing…’ Declan gushed, easing his meat inside. `Your dick feels incredible! But… shut up and… fuck…’ He clung on, feeling the strong breadth of Declan’s back on his arms, and instantly his boyfriend complied. Declan fucked him with energy it normally took him a while to build to, always so cautious and sensitive. The rug curled and shifted beneath them against laminate floorboards. Elbows, knees and heads bashed noisily against furniture as they writhed and tussled. No more words, just groans and yells. Mason felt his hole stretch and release with each hammering thrust from the West Ham hunk. `Harder,’ he demanded, `even harder… Mmm… that’s it, Dec… yesss…’ Declan was contorting his body into a curl, lifting his arse up beneath him so he could pound it more, pressing their combined weight down into Mason’s upper back and his shoulders. `Yes,’ he whined, `yes that’s it… mmm…’ He could see Declan losing control, animalistic in his passion now, red-faced and veins bulging between his muscles. Mason’s ankles swung wildly side to side in the air. His own cock seemed to be leaking cum already, as if he was already in the throes of orgasm without hardly touching himself. `HARDER,’ he cried, unsure if that was even possible. Declan took one hand off where they clutched his shoulders hard against the floor and pressed it uncertainly against Mason’s throat — not enough to choke, but a firm hold of his neck as he slammed his cock back and forth, a controlling gesture that seemed to drive them both wild. Mason had never felt so utterly given over to another guy, even in his most nervous submissions to powerful Lampard, he felt ENTIRELY Declan’s now… and Declan looked wide-eyed and ecstatic at his newfound dominance. Mason felt the cum inside him, the judder of Dec’s cock. `Yes,’ he panted, `oh yes…’ Dec rose up on his knees, holding Mason’s ankles, groaning into the air, his chest and abdomen looking swollen and ripped. The same intense redness covered his chest as his face. He looked almost lost as he blinked his eyes and sucked in fresh air. Mason groaned long and hard, feeling the reverse pressure of a cock withdrawn — then yelped afresh in delight as Dec immediately ducked down between his raised legs and began to suck his sensitive, on-edge erection, noshing him to completion in under a minute. Oh wow. He came burst after burst of impatient cum, denied satisfaction last night and this morning, and loading Dec’s tongue with evidence of his delight. Midnight snack. Reheated Chinese food, scattered over a tray, still steaming. Declan’s naked cock and balls swung a little between his legs as he walked naked back through the flat and into the bedroom, where Mason was lying in a daze from the third orgasm of the night, his whole tight-muscled body glistening with fresh sweat. The cute 21-year-old lifted from the bedding, a goofy little grin on his features, accentuated by his longer hair and the wispy remains of a goatee on his jawline. Declan looked at his trusting, devoted features, and almost choked on the guilt of his recent endeavours in the West Ham changing rooms. He lay the tray on the bed between them and crawled beneath the covers, surprised at his own confidence in his body here, nestled against Mason. They ate quietly in bursts, stuffing their faces with fried rice and greasy noodles and leftover spring rolls, and alternately lounging back to let out lazy sighs and make tentative strokes at one another’s body. `You don’t need to worry, you know,’ Mason said quietly, after a while. He was sat up, a more relaxed grin on his sharp features, prodding at the dregs of some dark meaty sauce in its foil container. `I’m not… I’m not still pining for guys at Chelsea, or anything. Don’t get me wrong, Frank is a sexy fucker, yeh, and the whole manager thing… right… but he was such a pushy bugger, selfish as fuck, I dunno what his issues are… I don’t miss being fucked by him at all, when I’m with you.’ Declan, on his side, smearing grease from his lips with the back of his hand, `And… Ross?’ Mason gave him a patient smile. `We both know how hot he is,’ he said reasonably, `otherwise you wouldn’t still be asking me this. He’s been a great, great friend to me, Dec, but… that’s it. And he isn’t… he isn’t into this like you or I are, I don’t think. He’s all about his girlfriend, really. I love him, but as a friend. Not like you. Can you please stop fretting about him…?!’ Declan flushed a little at his boyish jealousy. `Do you really blame me?’ he chuckled self-consciously, but he could see the earnestness in Mason’s expression. He was a little less convinced about Barkley’s commitments than Mount seemed to be, but he let it go. He couldn’t let these doubts and insecurities knock at him any more. Plus… `This shouldn’t be you reassuring me,’ he said quietly, `so stop. You’re not the one who needs to apologise or explain. Do you hear me?’ He reached a hand over to slide over Mason’s. `I’ve been a bad guy, a total dick, I was just… a bit lost.’ `Lost,’ teased Mason, `is that what you call blowing five teammates in a shower…?’ Declan started for a moment at what felt like it might be the beginning of a fresh argument but he could see the cheeky humour in Mason’s expression, and he squeezed his hand a bit more. `You prick,’ he returned. `These things… happen. Right? Huh. But… I’m all yours. Every bit of me. Whenever you want me.’ `As hard as that, every time…? God, I’ll never walk again.’ Mason chuckled contentedly and they both lay down, away from the food, pulling closer over the pillows. `You don’t need to apologise any more. We’re good. Better than good.’ He leaned over to rest his face against Dec’s chest and just sighed. `But still…’ Declan paused as soon as he began, seeing Mason’s face angle up a bit from by his nipple, watching him curiously. He stroked his neck and back as he thought aloud. `If I can make this Chelsea move happen, though… Well. We’ll get to see even more of each other.’ `I thought you weren’t sure if Chelsea was the club for you?’ He shrugged, smiling bashfully. `But I’m sure Mason Mount is the man for me, so…’ `You soppy bugger.’ Grateful grin. `Don’t plan your career around me…’ `And why not?’ Declan let his fingers play briefly over Mason’s neck, a quiet reminder of how dominant he had become when fucking him against the floor in desperate need for forgiveness. He leaned over and kissed him upside down. `I’m going to speak to my agent tomorrow, ask what the hell is going on. Find out how interested your old perv of a gaffer actually still is… And who knows, maybe we’ll be the boys in blue by August, Mase…’ And, he thought secretively, I can be there too, before you DO get distracted by that beautiful bastard Barkley! And make sure sleazy Lamps keeps his hands to himself…! He was ashamed of these possessive, jealous thoughts, but he couldn’t stop them, had been unable to since he first allowed himself to touch and enjoy Mason’s body. But he smiled benevolently at the lad curled up by him, full of the fresh romance and commitment of tonight’s long conversations, and longer fucks. `That would be nice,’ Mason sighed dreamily. `Make it happen.’ `I will, baby. I really will.’ **TO BE CONTINUED… HERE’S HOPING CHELSEA MAKE THAT SIGNING, RIGHT?**
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