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Subject: Premiership Lads part 95: Caught Out II Part ninety-five: Caught Out II Barkley closed his eyes and pushed his prick hard into the eager, responsive mouth of the lad at his knees. He thrust aggressively, letting the thick tip push at the roof of Alex’s mouth and make him gag a little, allowing his own bare lower back and upper buttocks to scratch satisfyingly against the tree bark. He let out only the roughest grunts of acknowledgement, shy of more vocal enjoyment; he was still wary of Oxlade-Chamberlain, this unexpected treat in his Liverpool quarantine. He gritted his teeth and focused on the raw, sensual lust of it, pushing his cock deeper back into that hungry gob and finally gasping in more honest enjoyment. He felt riveted by a certain wild aggression tonight, a feeling that had been building up all day. He felt restless and frustrated, uneasy and isolated — but more than anything else, he felt angry. It was hard to say which of the two messages he’d received this evening had made him angrier. The first had been from Frank Lampard. To begin with, Ross Barkley had been gently surprised by so little contact from his manager and… well, there was no fitting word for their more complex relationship beyond the football, was there? He supposed things had become strained between them in the weeks leading up to the season’s sudden ending, their encounters fraught with one man’s obsession and the other’s indecision. Ever since Ross had visited Frank at home that night, setting out for violence and ending in comfort, the dynamic had been even stranger. It was as if Ross had deeply shamed Frank, though the dirty deeds were nothing new between them; he figured that the older man resented his loss of control, hated to be seen as vulnerable. And so his interest in Ross had… not waned, exactly, but retreated. It felt like another lifetime now, everything did, but there had still been frantic little one-on-one meetings right up until training ceased. Those greedy suck-offs in Lampard’s office or a quiet corner of the training ground, the deep fascination with his backside; the promises of first-team prominence week-after-week. Perhaps, Ross considered a few weeks into lockdown, that was the reason he’d heard so little from Frank: without games to play, the older bloke had little to offer in exchange for their discreet intimacies. Lampard was rendered impotent by the hiatus, in a way. It was one of many explanations the 26-year-old Scouser had briefly dwelt on in these sunny Merseyside days — often he returned to the more obvious and believable explanation that Lampard had simply lost interest. For Ross, it was strangely difficult to understand or believe in his manager’s fixation; in any guy’s fixation on him, come to that. He was just a big brutish lad, average-looking at best, wasn’t he…? That’s what he thought when he looked in the mirror. Then, a few days ago, it had begun. Strings of missed calls in the night, which Ross would stare blearily at from bed before getting up for his morning yoga with his girlfriend. No voicemails, thank fuck. But then the text messages, brief but impatient. `need to see u’, Frank would send, against all logical and the 150 miles or whatever from here to London. `send me pics’, the retired player might message, mid-morning, and then repeat the message three more times if there was no clear answer to it. The first couple of times, he’d tried ignoring it; it didn’t seem worth engaging with it, what was there to say? Then he’d sent a couple of quite blunt answers. `Stop calling me. Will ring when have time.’ `Can’t do that. Busy with fam. Peace.’ `Chill out boss — not good time.’ He wasn’t even sure what he was aiming for. Did he want to kinda keep things sweet with Frank? Was he concerned about the place he’d be returning to in the squad if he didn’t please the randy old fucker? Was he trying to use this time and distance to freeze out this lust between them, had he reached his limit of it? He just didn’t know. But he felt riled and invaded, and this evening it got worse. He’d been in the middle of an online game with a mate on FIFA when he’d looked at his phone and seen it. It was a picture attachment. He opened it: a still from a porno, a real grainy pixelated image, of one guy bent over a table and another ploughing him from behind. The text message clinging to this screenshot read `me fuckin u b4 u get to kick a ball next season u dirty cunt’. He sat there, staring at it, instantly enraged. Enraged by what? Frank’s arrogance and desperate attempts at dominance, he supposed. A bit of fear, maybe? It had set him on edge and made him worry that he really had just slowly allowed himself to be Lampard’s bitch, his sex toy, his dirty little secret. He’d deleted the message straight away and switched his phone off for the next half hour, expecting more. When he turned it back on, there’d been no further contact from Lampard’s number, thank god, but then a little ping and buzz and a delayed message landed in his inbox, the second to fill him with this rowdy, voiceless anger tonight. This one was from Mason Mount, a picture attached too. `just out for nice evening walk 2nyt m8, hope ur ok up there!’ it read, and it was one of those lovely heavily-layered Instagram photos of a sunset over some vague Surrey countryside; in the foreground, Mason grinned his goofy grin and leaned in close with his walking companion, a more bashfully smiling Declan Rice. The taller young footballer had an arm thrown casually about Mason’s shoulders as they smiled into the phone camera. Harassed by a horny football manager and casually dismissed by a young man he’d briefly thought in love with him, Ross had paced the house and ate little of his dinner. He’d gone in to the basement gym and pummelled a prop in his boxing gloves for a solid half hour, working up a sweat, thinking about these stupid guys who’d made his life feel so complicated in just a few short months. Frank Lampard, full of his fucking extra-marital fantasies and no idea what he even wanted! Mason Mount, all naïve and emotional, but doing stupid fucking things like leaking Ross’s naked photos to the internet by accident, setting it all off! He drove his fists into the punching bag and tried to shed the stresses these blokes had pushed into his world. Then he’d looked at his phone again, unable to calm himself enough to send any response to either the weirdly threatening sex message or the innocently upsetting selfie. Instead, he’d browsed social media until he saw a smug picture of Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain cosying up to his popstar girlfriend, dog in lap, and he’d snatched at a temporary solution to his foul mood. He hit up the lad’s profile and slid into his DMs: `hey ox — goin for run in min. same route. maybe c u ???’ As soon as he heard the police sirens, Barkley knew he had to move. It wasn’t that he deliberately sacked off the Ox, ungrateful for the tender blowjob he’d been receiving, it just didn’t occur to him to worry about anything but himself. It was only when he’d bolted uphill and put enough distance between himself and the noise that he remembered he’d insisted the Liverpool player strip naked before kneeling at the altar of his manhood. That was a real dick move, he told himself sourly, bit of a Lampard moment, what were you thinking? He’d been letting off his aggression, his resentment, his frustration. And admittedly, until the disturbance, Oxlade had been lapping it up. Literally. Ross had been just about to squat on his face again mersin escort when the police showed up. He had been vaguely aware it was a `cruising ground’, whatever that really meant, but he ran there plenty and he’d never seen anything dodgy going on, well, other than what he’d done himself. But his mind had worked fast at the lights and sirens and the crashing steps. He’d burst into run like a hunted animal and fled the scene, pounding up through the wooded riverside area until he was well beyond the shouts and pursuits, the flickering torchlight and the crashing bracken. When he reached the small shadowy car park where he’d left his motor, his dick was still rock hard in his shorts, stretching uncomfortably at their mesh lining, and he felt like he’d pulled his sports top back down awkwardly so it chafed his hard nipples and dug under his armpits. He slowed down on the tarmac and adjusted his kit to some level of comfort, then looked around nervously and unlocked the car. In he went, safe and reassured as soon as his sweaty arse was on the leather seat, confident that even if the Liverpool cops burst out of the woods now, he could say he’d just driven out here to sprint some laps on his own, nothing more. Who the fuck could accuse him of anything? Ain’t no CCTV in the fucking forest, he told himself in the moments of fading panic. That’s when he remembered Alex and felt that surge of guilt. But AOC was a speedy runner too, despite his muscle weight; he was another sharp midfielder, he’d outrun any nosy cunt in the police force, easy. Surely the Liverpool player had bolted as quickly and as desperately as he had when it became obvious they weren’t quite alone…? He pulled his phone from the zip pocket of his shorts and thumbed in a quick `hey u ok?’ on Instagram messenger, then put it back down, staring over the car park at the treeline and rationalising his guilt and worry. Still, in his shorts, his dick ached. Interrupted so close to orgasm! For a second, he seriously considered pulling it out and finishing himself off here, but he laughed his own horny instincts off — not exactly an A* idea with police chasing dodgy outdoor shaggers in the nearby woods, was it? He just willed his erection to flop away and started the engine, pulling out of the car park and back onto the city roads. As he drove, his main thought was to scoff at his own behaviour. Ross was disappointed in his own quick temper, his reaction to both Frank and Mason, his desire to use and humiliate a lad like Alex just to make himself feel a bit tougher. He needed to get home and stop fannying about like this. But he took his time: he’d not been away as long as he’d planned to run and he didn’t want to raise any suspicion in the household. A few detours on and off the city’s main roads should do the trick, and a pointless circle up through the suburbs and back. Restless and unsatisfied, he pulled into a mini-supermarket and bought some snacks. He sat and ate them, stalled in another car park, slurping some chocolate milkshake and fingering at some salty crisps. More weird behaviour, he scolded himself, but these were weird times. Ross finally allowed himself a bit of forgiveness for this evening’s misadventures: he was an athletic and competitive man trapped in a dull daily routine, deprived of the ordinary challenges of his working life. No wonder he was losing grip a bit! At that moment, he looked up and glanced out of the window, out towards the road, and spotted the weighed down figure staggering by, silhouetted for a moment in a flurry of traffic. A fairly short hooded figure stooping under a heavy satchel and carrying another couple of bags. Fuck, Ross thought, some homeless kid or something? He snatched his thick wallet up from the dashboard and let himself out of the car, padding over the minimart forecourt in his skimpy running gear, suddenly aware of the chilly night that had settled. `Hey,’ he called at the shady figure at the pavement, `wait a sec, pal…’ He opened his wallet and pulled out a few crisp twenties. `Hey… please, will ya take this…?’ He jogged the last few strides, keen not to let this young vagrant rush off in embarrassment. As he got closer, he realised their clothes looked pretty clean and smart after all, so maybe they weren’t as unfortunate as he’d assumed, but… the figure turned his way, shot him a strange icy look beneath the hood, hoisting its heavy bags to itself. Ross held his wallet in one hand and waved the notes in the other, then paused. The hood slid back and the young lad’s face caught the glow of some car park lighting. The face was instantly familiar but it took him a few minutes to place it; the wolfish grey eyes, the wispy little goatee, the scraped-back tangle of mousy hair; more than anything, the surly look of confidence in the clenched jaw of the knowing young face. `Ross Barkley,’ the teen exclaimed. `Fuckin’ hell.’ Not from round here then; London? Further south? Barkley stared at him, unsurprised to be recognised, but trying to place where he knew this lad from. He retracted the handful of notes, spotting the grey eyes flash curiously to them; the teen seem to figure out his intentions and burst out into odd, bitter laughter. There was something about the face that suggested it might really have been crying, puffy about the eyes, but now it was full of wicked humour. `You don’t know who I am,’ said the youngster in an almost mocking tone. Ross stared at him, feeling slow. The kid laughed again, pushed forward over the grassy verge a bit. `I sure as fuck know who you are, though. Midfield legend.’ Ross blinked. It came to him. No way? The grinning youth pushed closer to him and stuck out a hand for a shake, almost toppling under the weight of his luggage as he did. Ross grabbed the hand slowly, aware of the distance they should be keeping, but too confused. `Harvey Elliott,’ he said slowly, `well I fucking never. What the hell’s going on here?’ Ross stared across the interior of the car, feeling yet more puzzled as the young footballer spoke. He knew plenty about Elliott, everyone had taken an interest in Liverpool’s various young sparks this season — and few stood out like this record-breaking youth. He was as oddly precocious as Barkley had heard on the Premiership grapevine. Barely 17 and yet he had the cynical air of a guy who’d seen and experienced plenty. `I ain’t going fuckin’ back there,’ Harvey was muttering darkly. `Fucking pricks, the lot of them. I’m done with that shit. Getting outta there. Don’t need `em. Fuck it. I-` Barkley had to cut him off. He didn’t know what to say but he lifted a hand in a clear gesture of `stop’, giving a patient but serious look at the lad in his passenger seat, conscious of the late hour and the fact he shouldn’t really be giving lifts to people he didn’t know at a time of social distancing. Weren’t worried about that while you shoved your dick in a lad’s mouth, were you? A nasty self-critical voice at the back of his head was always tough to silence. `Harvey,’ he said in a low voice, `I’m gonna drive you home, mate.’ `Ain’t you listening?’ the cocky southern teenager railed. Ross sighed, gave him what he hoped was a sympathetic look. `It’s late. These are shitty times. You’re a young lad wandering Liverpool on your fuckin’ own. I’m driving you home.’ He watched the fierce glare bristle and burn and fade on the teenager’s face. Perhaps Harvey knew he was right, or just knew when he was defeated. `And you won’t seem to tell me why the hell you ran out of there escort mersin tonight,’ Ross pointed out, gently. `You said it yourself… decent people. Another player for company and training. Nice big house. A lot of teenagers round here would kill for that start,’ he pointed out with a nostalgic lilt to his voice. `I know that patch of Liverpool. Posh fuckers round there, lad.’ Harvey started and stopped speaking a few times, twisting irritably in the passenger seat, still shrouded in the baggy black hoody. He stunk of weed, Ross had noticed, but not mentioned. He sighed again and looked out across the emptying car park; the harsh electric lights of the mini supermarket were off now, it had closed for the night. This roadside spot suddenly seemed awfully desolate, just convincing him more fully that he was not gonna watch this bratty lad fuck off into the night on whatever mission of `independence’ he’d decided. Nah, he was getting him safely home to this poor surrogate family who were doing their best by him. Maybe he’d even give Alex a buzz about it, try and get a message to Klopp or someone else important at Anfield, and… Alex, he thought suddenly, and glanced at where his phone rested on the dashboard. Still no response from the Ox, he mused, was he alright or was he being grilled about his outdoor activities in a Merseyside police station…? `Weird shit happened tonight, that’s all,’ Elliott said suddenly, breaking the uneasy quiet. Ross glanced his way. `What kinda weird shit?’ A big huff from the surly teen. `You don’t wanna know. You wouldn’t get it.’ Ross raised an eyebrow. `Try me.’ He watched the irritated, conflicted scowl on the Liverpool hopeful’s face, then shrugged, hiding his curiosity. `I’m a good listener, is all. Ain’t much of a talker, you know, but I listen.’ `You wouldn’t get it,’ Harvey repeated; but this time he sounded sad rather than sulky. `Arguing with the couple?’ Nope, shake of the head. `Arguing with their kids?’ Another shake. `Okay, arguing with your roomie? Who did you say you were staying there with, was it…?’ `Neco,’ Harvey murmured. `Neco Williams.’ `Right.’ Ross felt old thinking about the pair of them, 17 and 19 and the future of the Premier League. He was years from 30 and he could already feel like his best footballing years might have passed him by! (especially, he grimly thought, if he couldn’t keep that cunt Frank Lampard satisfied in his obsessions and desires…) He reached out across the narrow space and patted the lad’s arm. `And what did this Williams kid do to piss you off so much…?’ Harvey glowered defensively at him but took a few moments to speak. `It’s complicated.’ `I’m a simple guy,’ Ross countered, `so nothing is complicated to me. Tell me.’ Harvey leaned over a little, responsive to the gentle touch and the soft kindly tone, then pulled back, scowling more, and tutting dismissively. `Oh aye, you’ll be well understanding, big guy like you, defo… fuck’s sake bruv.’ Ross was surprised and faintly amused by the cocky, disrespectful manner of this upstart. `Yeh, yeh, you’ll be well up for listening when I tell you I sucked my teammate’s dick and got called a fag just for lending a hand to a bored mate, jesus Christ…’ It was all spat and muttered in a grimly ironic tone, as if an exaggerated shock meant to shock and distress a stereotypical hetero listener. Ross blinked and stared at him and rubbed at his short scruffy beard of dark hair. `What?’ he demanded quickly. `You did what?’ Harvey rolled his eyes as if to dismiss his own joke, but Ross butted in before he could move on. `Nobody should be calling ya a fag, whatever you done,’ he said heavily, unsure if he was reading this right. `Homophobia is for cunts, that’s for sure.’ Harvey paused. His voice was a bit quieter and softer. `Sure is,’ he agreed. `21st century, innit.’ The Scouser nodded his head slowly, studying Harvey’s face in the glow of the small overhead light between them. `Agreed,’ he said gently. `And what a lad gets up to when he’s curious, well, that’s his fucking business. Labels is nowt these days. We do what we feel, right?’ He could hear his voice aloud, muttered and hesitant in the night; who was he trying to convince here, Harvey Elliott, or himself? The Liverpool player was staring at him as he spoke. `Yeh,’ he said in a hollow, surprised voice, `that’s… yeh, that’s what I thought. I mean, who fuckin’ cares if I wanna try shit out? I’m only young.’ He bristled with a flash of more aggression. `Who is that prick to call me a fag, he’s the one who had his fingers on my arse before he spunked, stupid Welsh sheep-shagger…’ Ross let out a little whistling breath, not quite deliberately. `Well you are an experimental one, ain’t you?’ he said in a rough laugh, nodding slowly again. Harvey shrugged his whole body. `I was high, fuckin’ kill me.’ He pouted defiantly at the wide judgmental world. `I’m gonna be a fuckin’ mega-star in a couple of years, mate, I can do what I want. Neco Williams don’t know shit.’ Barkley dialed up the in-car heating, wishing he had more layers on. He needed to get the engine started and drive this punk home, that’s what he really needed. It felt like he’d lived a dozen evenings since he quit that FIFA game and stared at Lampard’s aggressive picture message. `Still,’ he said patiently to his passenger, `you got housed with this Neco lad, and you work together, right? Team comes first, mate. I’m getting you home to these guys, okay, no bullshit. Don’t matter what went on. He’s your teammate, and you gotta respect each other. Aye?’ Team comes first, Ross thought privately, what does that mean about me and Frank? He was about to reach for the ignition and start up the motor when Harvey spoke again, in a smaller voice, trembling with curiosity. `Guess a bloke like you wouldn’t ever have tried this shit when you were young,’ the 17-year-old muttered in the faint gloom of the car interior, drowned in the shadows of this now empty car park. Ross had always preferred half-truths to lies. `Not when I were young,’ he echoed in ambiguous confirmation. He shifted in his seat, very aware of how his running shorts pulled up his thick tanned thighs, the little ceiling lamp striking the right one with a golden glow. `Proper blokey bloke,’ commented Harvey distantly. `Right hard bastard on the pitch, from what I’ve seen. Everyone’s a bit scared of ya, apparently.’ Ross shrugged one shoulder and reached again for the gearstick. `That’s up to them,’ he remarked modestly, `I just do my best for my club, that’s all…’ He held his hand where it was and felt the other arm brush his. Harvey’s fingertips brushed the sun-bleached hair of his upper thigh and lingered there. The teenager stared intently at him, eyes sparking in the light. Ross lifted his hand from the gearstick and left it cautiously on top of the black sleeve. `We do what we feel, right?’ Elliott whispered. Ross cringed at his own clumsy words thrown back at him. He’s too young, he told himself, he’s a bit lost and vulnerable, and an hour ago you were swearing to yourself you weren’t gonna get any more mixed up in this gay shit. Another internal voice: you didn’t get to cum earlier. You were robbed of that magic. `No need for labels,’ muttered Harvey, a little less confidently, almost pleading in tone. His grey eyes flickered nervously. The sturdy Chelsea player eyed the empty car park about them, then reached his right hand from Harvey’s wrist to a switch down the side of his seat; it clicked a few places and eased his mersin escort bayan leather support into a reclining position. The creak and shift lowered his body and signalled everything needed to his young passenger. The shaky nervous hand moved up his thigh and then to the hem of his shorts. He nodded silently and reached out with both hands; Harvey inhaled sharply as Barkley held him out of his hoody, down to the vest below. `I dunno how good I am,’ the teen admitted in the shadows. A different Ross spoke the desires that had burned beneath the surface: `Just fuckin do it, lad.’ It was too dark and muffled in here to get a real sense of what was happening, but Ross felt the waist of his tight shorts pulled up and his stiffening cock released from the sweaty mesh lining. He heard Harvey’s little gasp — oh yeh, another guy surprised or impressed by what he packed! — and then felt his tongue flick at the chubby shaft. He reached one hand down to stroke the back of his neck and tickle at the loose knotted ponytail of hair. `Mmm, that’s it…’ `Yeh, does that feel good?’ `Mmm, you know it does, mate…’ `Bruv, your dick is so…’ `I know. Just suck it.’ Harvey wasn’t as good as Alex. His mouth was smaller and clearly less experienced, though who knew how much experience the Ox actually had with men. Harvey was clumsy and his teeth nipped unpleasantly at the skin of Barkley’s boner two or three times. But it was dark and late and he was so horny, and the frantic nervousness of the arrogant young footballer was its own thrill. He rubbed at his head and neck and moaned encouragingly, guiding as much of his prick as he thought the lad could take into his wet gob. Ross relaxed into the leather and kept one eye open, aware of the risky setting, but fairly confident in the lonely lockdown night of Liverpool. It went on for aching minutes, his dick fully hard again, pleasure resumed after the dangerous interruption in the woods. Another dangerous setting, another morally dubious fumble — fuck it. No labels. He pushed up with his crotch, edging more of his meat into Harvey’s mouth, feeling him struggle with it. The lad was pulling at the base of his dick whilst servicing the top half with his tongue and bottom lip. He wondered for a moment if Elliott would expect anything in return, prepared the blunt `Nah’ if asked, just as he had with Alex — but no, it seemed like the young lad was delirious at even this opportunity. An excited little cock-sucker out of nowhere. But Ross was growing impatient with his nervous movements, his uncomfortable mouth. He needed to cum. `You wanna eat my cum?’ he asked in a rough drawl. `Yes bruv,’ gasped the southern scally. Ross pushed his face away from his desk and pulled it down firmly, pressing the lad’s sideways head in between his thighs, angling his quivering mouth at his balls instead. `Just lick them,’ he ordered firmly, and began jerking off with his other hand. He held Harvey’s head in place and felt his tongue push and stroke at his balls while he wanked furiously. He wanted rimmed but that was probably a step too far for this youngster. Still, the licking and kissing at his bollocks felt GREAT, and he was desperate to unload. `Oh god,’ he growled, `oh yes mate…’ It was a messy orgasm and maybe a few flecks of his cum hit the inside of the windows or the smooth black plastic on top of the dashboard. Most of it, though, formed a glistening mess on Harvey Elliott’s face, dribbling down his cheek and beading in his thin moustache; Ross stared down past his veiny prick at the way Elliott licked his lips and stretched his tongue for more. He relaxed his grip on the teen’s head and watched it lift to lick some spunk that had remained on the head of his own cock. Oh, that felt good. He gave a long satisfied sigh. `No labels,’ he breathed, then broke into a gentle chuckle. `No labels,’ agreed Harvey in between feverish gasps. `You taste so good,’ he added in a dreamy murmur, rising up to his own seat and wiping at his mouth. He looked shellshocked but happy. Ross pulled the lever and lifted his seat up to a less comfortable position, then pushed his privates away with both hands, wiping sticky palms on his running shirt. He let out a big breath and smeared his clammy cheeks and brow on the shoulders of the gym top, then flashed a reassuring grin at his passenger. `Thanks for that,’ he said quietly. `Just what I needed.’ `Er, no bother, big man.’ `How old even are you?’ He couldn’t hide an edge of worry in the question. `Old enough,’ Harvey said. `Eighteen,’ he added, bending the truth. Ross looked at him uncertainly but nodded. He couldn’t believe how relaxed and satisfied he felt after the quick oral attention; so uncomplicated in comparison to his dabbling at Chelsea! Why did he even let Mount or Lampard get him worked up? He was straight and this was just ego-affirming fun on the side, nowt more. He grinned at the blushing, recovering youth player. `Let’s get you home, shall we?’ When the car pulled up in the suburban cul de sac, Harvey was still slowly adjusting to the reality of what he’d done, what he’d let himself do, what he’d been allowed to do. He licked his lips for the tenth time and mumbled his thank yous, embarrassed by the rough grateful grins of the senior player, the intimidating Chelsea powerhouse next to him. He couldn’t look at him without looking into his lap and admiring the bulge he’d so intimately explored. He said his own thanks and got out of the car, pulled his needless packed bags from the backseat. He let himself back into the house quietly, embarrassed at the thought of being caught: Harvey Elliott, spoiled brat and failed runaway. But as it was, he was too tired and fed up to drag his satchel and backpacks up two flights of stairs and to his room. He shoved them discreetly in the cupboard under the stairs and crawled onto a sofa in the cosy lounge, bedding down with one cushion and a thin blanket. He was so drained from the long night of experimenting and discovery — sleep was quick to come, dreamless and smooth. He woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and sharp pains in his young body from the uncomfortable foetal position he’d found on the saggy old couch. Ugh, why hadn’t he made it to his room? He sat up, still clothed in vest and joggers beneath the shroud of thin blanket. His neck ached from the rubbish cushion he’d clung to for a pillow. He grimaced and rubbed his eyes and then looked over as the door creaked open and the house’s early waker poked his head curiously into the room. He hadn’t expected it to be Neco. The taller Welsh teenager looked a little wary and sleepless, bags under his eyes. He stayed at the door, holding onto its handle, watching Harvey stretch. `You came back then,’ he remarked. Was there relief in his voice, or just sneering judgment? `I did,’ Harvey replied in a voice that might sound mysterious or might sound pathetic, who knew? `Right,’ Neco said. `I was worried for like ten seconds there.’ `Good to know.’ Some silence whilst both lads analysed the verbal tennis. They avoided eye contact. `You want a cuppa, mate?’ Williams asked then. Harvey nodded. `That would be cool, bruv.’ `Right. Okay.’ `Neco?’ `Yeh?’ `…Thanks. That’s cool of you.’ A silent nod. `Yeh. We’re cool, right?’ `We are,’ Harvey confirmed with a gentle yawn. `Yeah, I really think we are.’ Neco was about to back off, let the door fall shut as he headed for the kitchen. Harvey stopped him for a moment with one last comment, a playful smile tickling his lips for a moment. `No labels,’ he said, letting his sparky grey eyes meet Neco’s, watching him twitch and nod and back off through the doorway. No labels, he thought, and flopped back down on the couch. No labels, but two dicks in one night. Hell yeah.

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