Subject: Premiership Lads Part 171: The Mykonos Trilogy III Part 171: The Mykonos Trilogy III It was not yet mid-morning and already the sand under his rough toes felt almost uncomfortably hot, trudging down across the beach towards the edge of the water, squinting hazily at the scattered crowds that lined it as he drew closer to the main resort. To his left, jagged cliffs held up the old architecture of the Old Town, and to his right the Mediterranean Sea sparkled so alluringly that he thought about just crawling into it and swimming for as long as his tired body could handle, then just sinking into it and seeing where he washed up. Stupid hungover thoughts, he dismissed, knowing he’d drown after a few minutes in his current state. His own clothes were in a tote bag swinging from one hand, dirty and booze-smelling from last night, maybe a bit bloodied if he actually stopped to inspect them. In their place he was wearing a vest and shorts borrowed from a guy who almost certainly hated his guts, passed his way by a kind friend before the pair of them had to rush into their taxi for the airport. Ross had set off from their Old Town apartment with the vague intention of heading back to his own rented house on the other side of the island, but he wasn’t in a rush to do so. He knew he would just be going back to other hungover men, to moans and groans and boisterous storytelling of last night’s pulls and punch-ups; he couldn’t face it yet, felt too sick with himself. He’d woken up this morning on the sofa of the penthouse apartment, wondering if the little blood spots he left on the couch would cost money to Mount and Rice — he must check that later and pay up if it did, he’d caused them enough aggro! Lying there, he’d pretended not to hear the early morning arguments and slammed doors, politely distanced himself from the obvious tension as he shared their meagre breakfast and hovered about the flat’s rooftop garden until some spare clothes had been donated to him for his journey over the island. Even in the depths of his drunken self-pity, Barkley had known it was a bad idea seeking out Mason for help, well-aware of where he was staying since the adorable lad had boasted about it to him over messenger for days. But he hadn’t expected his arrival to be quite such a bombshell for love’s young dream, and he wasn’t entirely sure he understood it. After all, had he ever done anything but help and protect the two kids in their fragile loved-up bubble…? He’d kept Jack Wilshere away from them, and Lampard really, and… himself. Tramping over the beach in yellow shorts that barley fit him, hugging his behind and making his bulge prominent, and a vest that itched his hot sweaty torso, he found his way to a quiet spot close to the water, and collapsed wearily against the sand, needing to let the sun burn away his hangover (a poor plan to say the least) and the dizzy world to stop spinning. Upsetting the perfect harmony of young Mason and Declan was just one more thing to feel guilty and shitty about, he decided. Add it do taking advantage of that gormless sweetheart Calum Chambers last night, add it to trying to exploit his own manager for career advantage, add it to jizzing in the mouths of confused Liverpool players then throwing a strop when his own girlfriend turned out to be cheating too… ugh. Life was a mess. He lay back against the sand, closed his eyes, and groaned unhappily. The crackly electronic voice announced the ambiguous delay of the flight in several languages, English last of all so that Mason was straining to listen for several minutes before it became clear that he was stuck in this poorly ventilated airport for at least another hour, probably longer. Leaning gently on his own suitcase, he closed his eyes and sighed frustratedly, just wanting to be on a plane and back in England now, sick of the tainted Mykonos experience. His eyes stung from lack of sleep and a couple of bursts of pre-dawn tears as he thought about how tattered and ruined his holiday with Dec felt now, following last night’s outbursts and arguments. It had become more heated in the morning, rather than better, and he knew he’d retaliated by saying some shitty things, bringing up Wilshere and other guys at West Ham and trying to push the conflict onto Rice’s behaviour more than his own. He regretted saying any of it, but he felt lost and attacked, really struggling to understand what he’d actually done wrong. Beside him, Tammy Abraham was loudly complaining about the delay into his mobile phone, Fikayo Tomori was plugging in his earphones and settling down for the duration, and Christian Pulisic was fidgeting unhappily with his hand luggage while straining to listen to the re-run of the gloomy voiceover about their delayed journey. Mason watched him idly, sensing a shared agitation and frustration from the American teammate who had become so integral to Chelsea life towards the end of this season. Then he looked further on down the waiting room of the gate, reminded that Ben Chilwell was resting nearby, looking half-asleep on another row of chairs, dozing behind his sunglasses and perhaps deaf to the news that they would be waiting even longer. Past him, right down at the far corner, the glowering presence of Declan Rice, looking anywhere but this way. `I might go get a blast of fresh air,’ he heard Pulisic sigh, stretching out his arms and yawning. `Can’t spend all this time in this glass box waiting for more news, huh.’ Mason stared a moment longer towards Declan, wondering if he knew he was looking and just ignoring him. He felt a surge of anger rather than the desperate neediness that had driven him in their arguments last night and this morning, a sense of injustice that the most passing of comments could have disrupted the loving peace of their shared vacation. Christian was piling his case and rucksack in against the wall where Tammy sat, gesturing at him and Fikayo that he needed to go and get air. As he pulled away, Mason hopped into life after him. `Think I’ll join you if you don’t mind?’ he called to him, hurrying along after him and down the long sloping space of Gate 7, back through into the main complex of the island’s small airport. Soothed a little by the dull background noise of the airport, Declan Rice stared at the greasy fast food brunch on its plastic tray and wondered why he’d even ordered a burger and fries. He wasn’t hungry. It was just filling time, filling a space. The young footballer leaned his elbows into the tacky plastic of the table and groaned wearily, rubbing his craggy face and ruffling his scruffy hair, un-showered after a fraught morning departure from the holiday property. He thought about some of the things he’d said to his beloved Mason, but even more he thought about the hulking shadow Ross Barkley seemed to throw over their every interaction; the ridiculous irony of finding him on their doorstep, wasted and bloodied and incoherent, the ghost at the proverbial feast. Except not a ghost. It was all too much, Declan told himself bitterly, he couldn’t deal with this any longer. `Hey,’ a quiet English voice cut into his thoughts, `can I sit here or are we officially rivals now?’ He slowly opened his dry aching eyes and jolted a bit in surprise as the Leicester player sank down onto the opposite pew at the fast food joint table, fresh-faced and happy looking in his resort shirt and the sunglasses pulled back into his short wiry hair. His face all tanned end-of-summer bliss and a confident smile playing on his lips. He looked like Declan felt twenty-four hours ago. `Rivals?’ he murmured slowly, adjusting to this interruption. `For a big old salary at Stamford Bridge,’ Ben Chilwell reminded him. `I shouldn’t really be talking about this, should I? My agent says to keep my lips sealed until everything is in place, it’s all a bit undecided, huh. But I hear you got a meeting there tomorrow too, huh?’ The 23-year-old grinned pleasantly and reached over to steal a French fry. `God, you look rough. Big last night on the island, was it?’ Rice rubbed his chin and pushed the tray over Ben’s way, unable to face any of it. `Didn’t realise you were still here,’ he grunted vaguely. `Thought you were out on your hols a couple of weeks ago.’ Ben shrugged at him. `Extended my stay, didn’t I?’ he said. `No biggie. Say, you and Lil Mountie had a falling out or something? Or was it just a real wild one, you both look half-dead in here this morning, hah…’ The infuriatingly cheerful fellow defender picked a couple more chips off the tray and chewed idly on them at the other side of the table, Declan watching him testily and wondering how polite it would be to just get straight up and stomp away. `I dunno about him, I’m just tired,’ the 21-year-old sighed at his fellow young England hopeful, leaning back away from the table and pulling at the collar of his shirt. He was not in the mood for a bit of cross-team banter and Premiership gossip, and Chilwell seemed offensively alert and pleased with himself. He just wanted to sit here on his own and sulk, he was in no mood for talking at all, and he especially didn’t want to discuss the back-and-forth of his prospective transfer to Chelsea, the last fucking topic he wanted to dwell on now he seemed to have fractured from his main reason to move there…! But then, this was Ben… He looked at him, not quite listening to his vague commentary on how annoying and pushy football agents could be. He knew a thing or two about Chilly, the handsome Leicester left-back, only indirectly from Mase of course, but… As he placed the memories, he felt an irksome realisation that the same Dubai trip that had spawned Mason’s bold claims about Chilwell, Maddison and Grealish must have been when he was taken on the beach by HIM… Rice scowled visibly and drummed his fingers roughly at the table, a fresh burst of jealousy swelling in his chest. Opposite him, the 23-year-old other sportsman paused and raised his eyebrows. `Something I said?’ Ben muttered, sounding a little offended. `What? No. Just…’ He trailed off and grunted vaguely. He’d struggled to believe Mason at the time, curled up together in his bedroom at the Rice family home, hearing about his wild adventures in Dubai earlier this year, but why would Mount lie? He stared thoughtfully at the other player, who stared uncertainly back, and in his fit of envy, Rice decided that there was one very sure way of shutting Chilly up and not having to talk shop. He couldn’t take shit if his mouth was full, could he? He leaned forward a bit on the table and pushed one leg across so that his bare shin and mersin escort calf rubbed for a moment with Ben’s beneath the plastic table, which rocked gently with the movement of his muscular body. Keeping his voice low and gravelly, he muttered his idea. `A little birdie tells me you’ve got quite an open mind, mate,’ he said slowly. `This flight delay could be really fucking boring, y’know, unless we… make it interesting?’ He stared meaningfully at the other defensive player, drunk on his own tiredness and sure this was anything but a terrible idea. Ben, unfazed, wiggled his eyebrows and placed one final fry in his mouth, licking salty grease from his bottom lip. `An open mind?’ he mused. `Well, that’s one way of putting it. This little birdie, then… is he called… Bason Bount?’ Chilwell sniggered weakly and grinned widely. `What were you thinking, Dec…? I’ve got time to kill, sure…’ Rice gritted his teeth and squared up his shoulders, trying to impose his size and strength on the other athletic young man across the table, forgetting the greasy takeaway food between them and the grimy surroundings of Mykonos airport food court. `Then let’s get the fuck out of here,’ he muttered, `and see how open your mind is.’ They were in the surprisingly attractive grounds of the island airport, sat on a firm bench overlooking a strip of greenery and flower beds and then, less romantically, the taxi rank. Christian looked at the dude next to him with heavy indecision, writhing his fingers and knuckles together in his lap. He would list Mason as one of his closer pals on the Chelsea team and most definitely one of the more sensitive and open-minded British guys he’d met there. The desire to unburden himself and share his confused thoughts was strong, but then they would need to go inside to the waiting rooms and re-join the other guys, including Ben and Declan who barely knew at all. The American pulled his hands apart and squeezed them at the hard cool surface of the bench either side of his darkly haired legs, his grey shorts pulling tight as he leaned back and forward in a sitting position, shooting inquisitive looks at the other 21-year-old football sensation, a lad who was both is closest ally and rival in footballing terms at Stamford Bridge, the squad’s two quick young attacking midfielders. He was about to say something much more bland and indifferent than the hot confused confession that hovered in his chest, when Mount got there first. `So you’ve had our Ross staying at yours a bit,’ the English player said in a thoughtful and vaguely questioning way, glancing to the side and giving him the faintest of grins. `Er, sure,’ Christian replied, caught off guard by the non-question, but then instantly reading into the sorta knowing look in the other footballer’s brown eyes, the little twisted grin of his thin lips. He blinked and hovered over what to say next. `You and he are good pals, right?’ `Something like that,’ Mason said vaguely, quietly. `He’s… okay at the moment, you think?’ Pulisic paused, more thrown by the development of questioning. `I guess,’ he said. `Isn’t he?’ Mount shrugged a little. `I dunno. He really got himself fucked up last night. He…’ But the other 21-year-old Chelsea lad fell quiet, didn’t finish or even really start that thought. He was looking back at Christian and the glance was so knowing, so perceptive, Pulisic felt hot under the collar of his polo shirt and he squeezed his clammy palms at his hairy knees. `What?’ he demanded quickly. `Nothing,’ Mason returned lightly, `but… I think I understand the position you might be in. That’s all.’ His voice was gentle and, as Christian had mused, very sensitive. He kept looking this way in a manner that was at once infuriating and deeply comforting. Pulisic found his resolve and his reserve running away under the hot mid-morning sun. `I don’t know how it happened,’ he admitted in a whisper. `I’d never thought I might…’ He left the ideas hanging in the air, measuring Mason’s slow nod of acceptance, the kindness in his brown eyes and his little smile. It was already like a crushing weight out of some early 20th century cartoon had been hefted from its position on his chest. `You really get it?’ he asked nervously. `You… you’ve been there too, and…’ Mason made a quiet sigh and then patted him on his bare forearm, where his sleeve of tattoos crept down the lean muscle. He left his hand there, his touch soft and reassuring. `Kinda,’ Mason said. `Something like that. Bit of a… crush, I guess you’d say.’ He seemed to weigh up his next words. `He means well, you know. He’s got a bit heart, our Ross, don’t ever think he’s just…’ Mason didn’t finish that sentence either but Christian felt like he instinctually knew what he meant, could see what he was getting at. Not just… using you? Not just… a big throbbing hard-on? Not just… the hottest person Christian had ever shared a bed with? `He never touches me,’ Pulisic murmured faintly, stepping much further into the dangerous openness of the conversation. `I don’t think he, y’know… Mmm. I’m wondering if I might be, though, y’know… erm. Shit. Dude.’ He felt Mason’s hand squeeze his arm then lift up to pat his shoulder; the other player was beaming at him, a real kind and accepting grin, much brighter than the weary frown he’d wore as they left the others indoors. The American grinned weakly back, so glad of this reception and largely implicit understanding between them. `I’m not sure I believe in labels any more,’ Mount said to him with a speculative shrug, then the sadness seemed to come back to his face; it was hard to judge what he was thinking about. Or who? Christian liked the feel of his hand there on his shoulder though, liked the unthreatening attractiveness of this cute guy his own age and build. He found he was staring at him, the strong thin jut of his neck and the sharp profile of his face, the slight bulge of his developing biceps in his other arm. `No, that makes sense,’ Pulisic thought aloud. Labels could fuck off, for sure. `But it’s good to be sure what you want,’ Mason said, looking back his way. `So you’ve… I mean, you’ve er, helped out our mutual friend Mr Barkley, I guess, but he’s never… returned that favour…’ He had to shake his head, ashamed by the veiled openness of what he’d been up to, but clinging to Mason’s comfortable little grin and knowing eyes. `So maybe you need to know how that feels in return to be… sure?’ He blinked a few times and let their eyes connect, reading the sentence in his mind over and over and over and finally getting the message. Mason squeezed his shoulder a little more firmly and nodded back towards the revolving doors and the airport buildings, then slid seductively off the bench and to his feet. Ben pushed shut the door to the disabled toilet and instantly felt Declan’s hand on the crotch of his shorts, fumbling at the weighty and growing bulge there. His long rugged face still looked a bit worn and sour in expression but there was lust in his bloodshot eyes. Ben reached back and shoved down the lock, grabbing at Dec’s shoulders to pull them more fully into the small sanitised square of a room. He leaned in experimentally for a kiss but Rice wriggled out of this a bit, either not into kissing or not into kissing him. But what he clearly was into was the size of the package in Ben’s shorts, grabbing and squeezing at it in a very pushy and powerful way, assertive despite his youth. Chilwell could only grin and snigger and make a soft purr of appreciation, glad to have his nob played with for the second time today, backing into more space and undoing the buttons of his floral resort shirt, letting out his impressive physique for the West Ham player to briefly appreciate; but only briefly, because Rice was already going down. The tall, broad-shouldered defender was dropping to his knees and kissing Ben just above the naval, brushing dry chapped lips over the toned flesh of his six-pack and wrestling with his shorts. Ben grinned and for a moment thought of Jack, by now sitting comfortable in 1st Class of his flight to Birmingham Airport. Hah, well, Ben deserved his extra fun too, didn’t he? And actually, how fucking fun would it be when he detailed this mini adventure to Jack over the phone or in bed next time they were together? What a story for him, he thought guiltlessly, how randy would Grealish get at hearing about dirty Declan getting on his knees for Bulging Ben…? `Oh mate,’ he gasped, his voice a little dry and hoarse after all of last night’s drinking and kissing and gasping. His cock though was surprisingly responsive, stiffening in the clean white of his CK trunks as Declan mouthed and nuzzled it through the fabric, his chino shorts down to his knees already. Ben stared down at the surprisingly greedy and hungry face of the very masculine London defender, one of the last lads in the Premier League he might have expected to play with. But then his introductions had come via Harry fucking Maguire and Jamie bloody Vardy, so what was really surprising any more…? Rice slipped his cock from his undies and seemed to stare at it in disbelief of its growing proportions, then open his lips around its fat tip, and go to work. Chilwell gasped, rolled his head back, reached out to grip the handrail by the toilet to support himself, and enjoyed the soothing feel of another mouth on his cock, remembering the long sun lounger blowjob by the pool that had woken him up on his favourite of the seven days he’d spent with Jack. Mason tried the disabled loos first, thinking there would be more space for enjoyment, but they were occupied and locked, so he hurried with awkward discretion into the men’s toilets further down the passage and grinned encouragingly over his shoulder at the nervous American bloke he was hoping to help out. Cute anxious Christian! He had so much time for the sweet, ambitious lad, felt so excited to have guessed correctly about him (did he have what they called a `gaydar’ after all?) and to have struck a potential ally in this curious fellow plaything of big Barkley? He stumbled into the first cubicle, holding a silencing finger to his lips to instruct Pulisic whilst barely able to contain his own giggles. He reached past Christian’s slim tight-muscled body to lock the door behind them, trapping them in the narrow toilet space and then folding his arms about the American boy in a brief and almost platonic cuddle. Then in a decidedly un-platonic manner, he pushed his hand down the front of Christian’s fairly baggy grey sweat shorts and squeezed his privates escort mersin through his undies, feeling how stiff and warm he was already at their tentative flirting on the bench and on the way indoors. He squeezed and felt it and watched happily as it brought a blushing smile to Pulisic’s face. Of course, it was hardly all about him. He could tell himself this was an altruistic encounter, almost a mercy mission — look how conflicted and confused Christian was about whatever he’d got up to when Ross stayed over at his apartment, look how much he needed a more `experienced’ hand to guide and welcome him to the game! But Mason was an angry man, as angry as his mild manners and happy demeanour could let him get. He still felt the sting of injustice at Dec’s vague accusations, his unexpected temper, his unfair attitude to what Mason had considered a very happy week and a relationship just entering a comfortable new phase. He was pissed off, and even more so because the situation seemed to be constructed with him as the flaky and unreliable villain of the piece, allegedly so lovesick for Barkley that he was never quite `there’ for Rice… ridiculous! He was easily as driven by this resentment as he was by kindness or even his own idle lust (last night was the first night without a shag of the whole holiday, obviously) as he kneeled to the clean floor tiles and pulled Christian’s meat out to kiss on the tip. Yeah, he liked the way the American shuddered and sighed and he liked the fresh taste of his circumcised prick, so subtly different from the other cocks he’d sucked over the past nine months or so. But he also thought bitterly of Declan and how rudely and unfairly he’d shouted at him last night and this morning, how EMBARRASSING and STUPID his attitude was…! And he sucked on Christian’s firm rod with a passionate wrap of his lips, making him whine recklessly into the cool citrus-scented air of the cubicle. Two main thoughts occupied Declan’s mind as he sucked on Ben. Firstly and more physically pressing was the size of Chilwell’s piece. It was so long and thick, so surprisingly meaty from a relatively average build left-back, it really stretched out from his trimmed pubes and tight round balls, filling up Dec’s mouth and tasting great. He ran his tongue underneath it and pressed his hands to the firm thigh muscles for balance, not quite able to get his mouth right around it and take more than half of the Leicester stud’s shaft into his mouth. Still, Chilly grunted and groaned quite happily and stroked sensuously at his scruffy hair and jutting little ears, the wonderfully ripped build of his torso pulsating through an open shirt. Secondly, though, a crisis of guilt. It was like his week’s holiday flashed before his eyes as he rested there attending to the throbbing hard-on, breathing in the woody soapy scent of Ben’s fresh body. He saw himself and Mason lying on their rooftop garden in their undies, tanning and kissing and inevitably slipping into sex, breaking a sun lounger with too much athletic action at one point. He saw them in that little cove during the boat trip, bodies still half-submerged in the sparkling water as he pulled the other lad against the rocks and kissed him hard on the mouth. He saw the hurt look on Mason’s face when he stormed past him this morning with his cases and out to the taxi without a word, ignoring him for the entire journey and tolerating the rapid broken chatter of their driver, an inexplicable Arsenal fan. Coughing a little for breath, Rice pulled back, still squeezing at Ben’s thighs. He blinked and breathed deeply and lifted one arm to wipe saliva and pre-cum from his lips. Ben groaned again then stroked his hair a bit more roughly. `You okay, mate?’ he enquired warmly. `How’s it taste? Something wrong, Declan…?’ The charming politeness of the well-hung Leicester lad made him cringe and feel more guilty and he slowly got to his feet in front of him, embarrassed now by his hard-on pressing at his baggier shorts, by the high red blush in his cheeks. Ben stroked his arms and let his huge cock rub offensively at the front of Dec’s shorts. `Hey, it’s okay,’ he murmured, `we don’t have to do that, you just… here, let me suck you mate, I know what I’m doing, it’ll be a laugh, and-` `No,’ Rice interrupted sadly, shaking his hands off a bit. `No, I can’t, I… there’s someone else. I shouldn’t be doing this. I…’ He rubbed at his hot face and cringed, standing apart from Chilwell and willing his own hard-on away. `I’m being a fuckin prick,’ he moaned honestly. Ben went quiet for a minute then was near him again. With one hand he was stuffing his nob away, not an easy task with his dimensions, and with the other he was patting Dec on the bicep. `Okay, no prizes for guessing who someone else is, I suppose. What’s wrong, mate? You wanna talk about it?’ `I’ve ruined everything,’ Rice said, realising it as he spoke the words. He stared at Ben’s handsomely friendly expression and groaned more loudly with dismay. `I’ve been… I kept accusing him of… ugh. I just wanted him to be MINE, y’know? Like… I couldn’t cope with the idea of someone else, and…’ Ben’s smile wavered thoughtfully, still trying to comfortably position his erect piece inside the front of his jeans and undies, and begin buttoning up his shirt so that it hung discreetly over the tenting shape and covered it up a bit. `Look,’ he said in a friendly but matter-of-fact voice, `we don’t own people, Dec, we can’t make them our own. We need to accept that. So you two are pretty serious, huh? I’m not surprise, cutest bromance in the fucking Prem, everyone sees that.’ Declan just nodded miserably, something a little risky and exposing in Ben’s perception just adding to his sense of doom that he’d pulled self-destruct on that very bromance. `But Mason is his own lad, just as you’re yours,’ Ben explained for him. `Love isn’t about like controlling or possessing someone, is it? That’s bullshit.’ `But him and Ross…’ `Ross? Well, I know there’s history there,’ Ben told him. `But if you two have something real that’s more than lust, what does that matter? Love is just accepting someone totally, mate, and not giving two fucks what they did in the past. Come on, let’s get your face washed up and get you a healthier snack than that shitty burger you almost put in your body.’ He hugged him then, surprisingly tender and supportive, still grinning very calmly. Dec sighed into his shoulder and tried to figure out what the hell he was going to say or do to make this better. Christian had leaned in against the cubicle wall and struggled to hold onto his gasps of enjoyment as his fellow young Chelsea star sucked on him; but when Mason got back up and began to just pull on his dick with a tight fist instead, and reached around to stroke and squeeze his hairy American buttocks at the same time, tickling at his furry crack where nobody had ever been, well then he really couldn’t avoid making a noise, and it was just a good job nobody else came to use the men’s toilets in those precious minutes. He jazzed heavily into Mount’s hand and shivered as the other 21-year-old leant in and planted a single soft kiss on his cheek before reaching for loo-roll to wipe his palm and wrist clear of spunk. Christian felt such shuddering relief. Weeks of identity-crushing experimentation and this was the first time he’d been pleasured by another guy. It felt… amazing. He stared gratefully at Mason while more loo paper was used to smear clean his shaky hard prick. `Now you feel better?’ chuckled Mason quietly. `Oh dude,’ Pulisic sighed. `Knew it, you handsome fucker,’ his friend giggled to him. `Not so scary after all, right?’ Pulisic closed his eyes for a moment then followed Mason out into the main bathroom space where they stood side by side washing their hands carefully and splashing water to their flushed young faces. Meeting his eye in the mirror rather than real life, Christian struggled to understand. `You’re so cool with it,’ he exclaimed. `So, like, confident and… Mason, you don’t know what it means to have a friend like you right now, seriously.’ Mason returned his friendly look but there was a note of sadness or longing to his expression. `Well, I have the right guy to figure it all out with,’ he said evasively. `Had, maybe,’ he seemed to correct, averting his eyes and backing away to the hand dryer. Christian stared at him and thought about asking more, but it didn’t feel like the right moment. Something was going on, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to pry. Instead, he quietly followed Mason out of the restrooms and into the more public world of the airport. He walked along with a fresh spring in his step, his cock still throbbing with that blow- and hand-job delight, unable to stop looking admiringly at the tight muscular body and handsome grinning face of the other midfielder as they strolled through a couple of shops and Mason bought them sodas to drink. Then they drifted back to their gate, to wait out the last chunk of time before boarding, and to let Abraham and Tomori go wander if they needed to. Christian stared vaguely at them, remembering last night’s fantasies and indulging himself without the usual shadow of shame. God, he was surrounded by some beautiful men at Chelsea, wasn’t he? After a little while, the other two footballers on the flight joined them, a rather shifty looking Declan Rice and a deeply thoughtful seeming Ben Chilwell. The Leicester player chose to sit down by him, a seat lefty empty between them for social distancing. Pulisic glanced over at him, increasingly aware that a behind-the-scenes battle was being waged to bring him into their developing squad. The young American was not naïve or vain enough to expect to be impactful on that negotiation, but he leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. `Hey,’ he said quietly, `for what it’s worth, dude, you won’t get better teammates than at Chelsea. Honestly. Friends who look out for you in ANY situation, you know? I won’t bore you, but… yeah, if you’re a Chelsea guy, you get really looked after. Promise.’ Ben looked back at him, a faintly bemused smile on his lips, and he nodded once. They boarded the plane separately, still locked in their divided sulk, but their 1st Class tickets were together in the same small berth of the luxury flight, divided from the fuller cabin of the Chelsea threesome and Chilwell by velvety curtains. Mason had wondered about this, the potential three hour awkwardness of the flight home, had considered if he would rudely ask to be moved, make a show of rejecting Declan and demand special mersin escort bayan attention from the crew. It wasn’t really him. Besides, he wasn’t actually a great flyer. He got nervous in the moody silence of take-off, as he always did, and the lad beside him knew him too well and knew his secret paranoid fears. As their small upmarket flight rattled into gear and left Mykonos, Declan’s hand moved over and rested comfortingly on his on the divide between their seats, touching and holding him even though neither young man had spoken a word to the other since they reached the airport. When they were more smoothly in the air, Declan’s hand still held over his, strong and warm on his skin. Mason turned a little in their comfortable 1st Class seats and flashed him an appreciative half-smile. Declan took his hand back with stiff politeness, then looked like he wanted to speak, leaning in a little and rubbing his chin and then inevitably interrupted as an air stewardess brought them snacks and cups of orange juice. When she was gone, Mason nudged him. `Well?’ he demanded, some of his passive aggression sneaking out. `What were you going to say…?’ `Sorry.’ It was a heavy inarticulate sigh. `Well that’s a start,’ Mason told him tartly, then couldn’t help but smile a little bit. `Thanks. I forget you know all my embarrassing little fears.’ `Mason,’ the other guy said still heavily, reaching to stroke the back of his hand again, `I’ve been so awful last night and today. Is there any way you can forgive me?’ It was, Mason had to admit, the most forgivable face in the world, that long serious expression and the cute little prominence of his ears, that rugged frame of short beard that made Declan look all the more handsome and manly to him. But as he smiled at him, he couldn’t just erase the feelings of hurt and confusion that had started today, and his own expression wavered. `I spoke to Ben about it a bit,’ Rice admitted discreetly. `I’ve been so wrong, babe, thinking that other guys mattered or whatever, I… I know you don’t wish you were with Ross, although I’d never blame you if you did, he’s twice the man I could ever be, so…’ `Hey,’ Mason interrupted crossly, `don’t you say that, Dec. What the hell?’ Rice seemed more awkward and uncomfortable than ever. `I guess I have some insecurities to work on?’ he mumbled almost inaudibly. `I think they go way back. Chelsea letting me go when we were kids, all those times I got rejected my girls for being too big and gangly as a teen, I dunno…’ Vulnerability was a new look on him but, to Mason’s eyes, it was a quite sexy one. `I don’t even know where to start,’ Dec admitted. `I think we need to talk some things through? I’m so sorry that I just let it fester… I was out of order, Mason. You were just being such a good friend. And I couldn’t even bring myself to be a good…’ Hesitation, fear, bravery: `boyfriend.’ A long pause between them. Had either of them actually said that word out loud before? `How do I make it up to you?’ the West Ham (and hopefully soon Chelsea) player asked sincerely. Mason smiled into his big worried face for a moment, thinking that right now was probably not the best time to admit he’d brought off Christian Pulisic in the airport loos, but to be fair he was gonna have to share that story with him when they landed. Honesty the best policy. But he couldn’t hold on to a scrap of his resentment, his anger, his worry. He’d always known that big smirking Declan was a bag of nervous insecurity and false bravado, the intimate knowledge of one another’s fears and ticks worked both ways. But the idea that Rice was going to be able to talk to him about it and let them grow even closer… that was all the apology he could want right now. `Well, I know one thing,’ he said in a singsong voice, finishing his orange juice. `What? What is it, babe?’ `Remember when everyone used to make all those jokes about the Mile High Club?’ It had to be a slow and careful fuck; the toilet cubicles on the flight were tiny, even if it was an expensive VIP airline and they were in the priciest seating it had to offer. He really took his time fingering Mason’s still-tight hole first, no lube to hand, and almost enjoyed their deep snogs, bodies twisted together in the narrow space, even more than the moment he pressed his swollen hard-on inside him and gently pressed him to the mirrored wall, both men’s breath frosting it as they slipped back and forth with the subtle motion of the flight. Declan composed his gangly body as best he could, avoiding nightmare scenes of pulling back too much and knocking open the flimsy door, or crashing his lover’s body about so much that the noise attracted unwanted attention. He just buried his dick deep in him, held him tightly, kissed him on the lips and the cheek and the neck, and fucked him with a slow precious tenderness that made the mirror steam up more and brought a constant low purr of enjoyment from the beautiful young man in his arms. `I love you,’ he promised in his ear over and over. `I love you so much, Mase.’ `Cum inside me,’ the adorable slut replied. `Fill me up.’ Midday and the Mykonos sun was even more blazing. He’d had to abandon his lazy pose on the beach, still dressed in Declan’s ill-fitting shorts and this vest so rough and heavy on his skin that he could only believe Mason’s boyfriend had picked it deliberately to punish him like a monk in some medieval horror story. Hangover gently receding, Ross now sat on a stool at one of the quieter Mykonos beach bars, experimenting with the notion of `hair of the dog’ and staring at the colourful little umbrella in his sugary cocktail. What kind of bar doesn’t even serve beer? The big athletic Chelsea man hunched over the shady corner of the bar, glad of the awning that blocked out the high sun and allowed him to rest in the occasional flickers of sea-breeze that crept up the patio to him, and for the middle-aged Greek barman who had not once asked why he looked such a state or tried to make conversation. His mobile phone sat on the bar top, dead without battery, preventing any pushy or concerned contact from his mates or brother back at the accommodation; they would suppose he had `got lucky’ in the night, maybe, and was just sleeping off a night of athletic Premiership shagging. With some stereotypical beach resort tart. Barkley had buried the guilt that wracked his morning; it was unsustainable. Now he was just focusing on numbing his ennui with a few drinks and then, when he could finally facing it, returning to the rented villa. With any luck, the rest of the squad would be up for another night out, and he could make excuses and stay in, have the place to himself and bathe and chill and recuperate. He’d really overdone it last night, felt it in every bone and muscle and organ. And yet here he was, putting even more booze inside him, although he suspected this little cornucopia was 90% fruit juice. Someone else had turned up at the quiet bar now. They were out on a bike ride, he’d noticed them dismounting and tilting their bike at a fence, noticed the way their rather sweaty tshirt clung to their upper body as they sauntered into the shady compound with its attractive Mediterranean view. And now they were stood more or less next to him, panting a little with both hands planted down on the surface. The other guy felt almost too close to him, but then pandemic life had shifted notions of personal space quite a lot. With idle curiosity, Ross tilted his head to take in the other tourist, just as he slipped off his aviator sunglasses and became instantly recognisable. Ross would know that rather blocky head shape and short dark blond crop anywhere, the almost boyish looks framed by a rugged scruff of Viking-wannabe beard. And then the voice, the almost private schoolboy politeness of an England teammate he’d shared many more trips and battles with than Calum, the star of last night’s regrettable adventures. `Just the water, thanks,’ the other tall athletic man at the bar said, then adding something in presumable Greek, smiley and courteous and taking the bottled refreshment gratefully. `Yamas,’ he joked at the barman, holding it up in cheers then tilting it back to guzzle. Then finally he glanced this way and visibly started at the mutual recognition. The barman drifted back to his work and it was just the two of them, two England stars of the last few tournaments, stood parallel in the slip of shade, eyeing each other in equal surprise. `Ross… how the hell are you?’ He breathed deeply, stiffening his posture on the barstool, conscious of how worn-out his eyes might look and the little bloody stains around his nose and lips. He stuck out a warm tanned hand and felt the other man grip it back, a look of concern spreading on his face. `Er, not having the best one, I suppose,’ he grunted. `Surprised the pics aren’t in the press yet. Some lame paparazzi watching me get kicked out of a beach club, you know… they do like to see us fall, huh…’ Eric Dier nodded instantly, resting one hand at the bar and guzzling more of his purchased water. `They bloody do,’ he agreed. `You look like you could do with talking about it? I’m just riding back to my hotel, last day here, you know, but… hey, can I join you for one of those? Tell me to fuck off if you wanna sulk on your own, Barks, I won’t mind, I’m a big boy.’ Barkley hesitated but somehow the offer was hard to resist. `I stink like a yeti’s armpit,’ he warned self-consciously, sweaty and pretty sure he was still oozing tequila. `But yeh, if you wanna chill here for a bit, that’s cool.’ The Tottenham and England player was already sliding onto the next stool and yanking it closer, a look of cheery confidentiality about him, gesturing to the barman and the faux-exotic mess of a drink cradled in Ross’s big hands. `I’ll just get the same of you,’ Dier mused, `what d’you call that thing?’ Barkley looked down at its silly parasol and chunky fruit decorations, then let out a laugh that hurt his bust lip a bit but eased his hungover nausea at the same time. He grinned at his regular England colleague of those past few campaigns, a man of similar age and experience to himself, who didn’t really know so well but had every reason to like and respect. He laughed as he said it, cringing at his effeminate drink order when faced with a lack of Mythos beer, and Eric immediately joined in, chuckling and repeating it to the barman who stood disinterestedly in front of them, seeing nothing funny in the cliché cocktail name. `Sex on the beach for us, please,’ Eric ordered smoothly, winking back at Ross. `Now — what the hell has been going on, Barkley…?’ ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL

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