Date: Sun, 6 Dec 2020 13:28:06 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 212: Twenty Seven

Part 212: Twenty-Seven


The twinge of hangover foreshadowed worse pain and nausea to come, and he
turned his body over very carefully against the sleepy heat of the bed;
he stretched out one lonely arm, brushing his fingers over the surprising
emptiness beside him and the residual warmth between duvet and sheets
that said he had not slept alone. Wherever this was, he thought blearily,
only opening his aching eyes a slit and peering into the early morning
gloom of the nest, which stunk of sex and musk.

What day was it? Saturday, he supposed. More specifically, Saturday 5th
December; his birthday.

Ugh, birthday. 27. So far it felt like shit, but maybe that was mainly
the hangover.

Ross Barkley twisted his sweaty body against the sheets, feeling with a
fleshy flop the sensation of nakedness as his private parts splayed along
one furry inner thigh and tickled at the folds of bedsheets below, the
head of his cock grazing the cotton with a sensitive little pang that
told him it had been put to good use last night. He groaned dimly into
the emptiness around him, stroking an exploratory hand over the body heat
in the space beside him and trying to remember where he actually was,
unfamiliar with the smells and colours of his half-conscious world.

His drink-muddled brain trying to piece together last night or this
morning, he rolled back the other way, finding a cooler patch of pillow
for his dry blazing face, and stretched one arm out into the vague space
beyond the bed, relieved when his fingers did indeed close about the cool
rectangle firmness of a smartphone. Even as he held limply onto it and
groaned at a passing wave of nausea, he felt it thrum with quiet little
vibrations as the birthday texts and notifications began to roll in.

As he pulled it towards himself, he became vaguely aware of noises beyond
the dark pit of the bed, footsteps and a kind of upbeat humming, the
approach of someone else to join him in here. He stared mistily at his
phone screen and the time, not so shatteringly early and pre-dawn as it
felt in the winter morning, then unlocked it to stare dimly at the string
of emoji-filled messages, looking for one in particular.



A little under twenty-four hours earlier, Eric Dier was lugging his bag
out of the back of a large taxi vehicle and thanking the driver
profusely, slipping him a generous tip for dropping off the small cluster
of Tottenham Hotspur players home from the airport after their Europa
League trip to Austria.

The 26-year-old defensive midfielder backed away from the car, giving a
polite wave and smile to the elderly driver who had been so thrilled to
transport a handful of Spurs players on a chilly Friday morning, and was
still beaming to himself as he manoeuvred his black cab off the driveway
and onto the suburban road. Eric hoisted his bag over one broad shoulder
and watched the car blink away, breathing out curling condensation into
the December air.

It had been an exhausting trip, for a frustrating result, and the 3-3
LASK draw had made for a tense atmosphere in the team hotel last night
and on the return flight earlier today; between that and some slowly
blossoming suspicions about a former significant other on the squad, Eric
was very glad to be home and with the prospect of a day off to get some
rest and alone time, away from the professional intensity of work.
Tomorrow it would be straight back to full pressure, with a crucial
London derby looming on Sunday. For the rest of Friday, he needed to put
his feet up and chill out, let his body recuperate and his athlete's
mind relax.

He walked back across the large driveway and up towards the front of his
detached house, fumbling in the pockets of his club-branded hoody for his
house keys, feeling the weary twinges in his meaty legs, moving in a
sluggish way as if through treacle. The `Surprise!' when it came was
throaty and hesitant, muttered not shouted, in the voice of someone who
wasn't entirely sure whether the surprise was one worth offering.

Dier looked up with sleepy blinking eyes and stared in genuine shock at
the loitering figure beside him, emerging from the dense low bushes of
the front garden and hovering next to him on the doorstep, a smaller
backpack tucked neatly over equally broad shoulders and a hesitant grin
on his ruggedly handsome features, dressed in a discreet dark tracksuit
and low-pulled hat.

`Oh,' he exclaimed quickly, taken back, `Ross...!'

`Heya,' the Scouse fella said shyly, thumbing at his bag straps and
glancing down at his feet, `I thought I'd just surprise ya, erm...'

`Well, you did that,' he said to him more warmly, recovering and
finding a happy laugh, then patting him on the arm and feeling the
coolness of the material. `How long have you been waiting out here
freezing your bollocks off, mate...? Come on, let's get you inside...!'
He grinned at the other guy in a faint daze, thrown and a touch
uncomfortable -- he'd never been one for surprises and he was aware his
uncertainty could come off quite rudely as he lingered there, finding the
right door key and staring in marvel at the footballing stud he'd found
waiting on his doorstep like a rogue Amazon parcel.

`You said you'd be getting back about now, lad,' Ross mumbled, almost
to himself.

`Yeah, yeah. Sure...'

`And no training for us today, so I drove down early, erm --` He
gestured vaguely at his car, which Eric had failed to spot, on the kerb
just beside where the taxi had obliviously deposited him. Ross looked
nervous as he tried to explain it, and Eric feared his own weary
expression or body language was ruining what was clearly a very sweet
gesture, so he reached reassuringly for his arm and shoulder, resisting
the kiss he wanted to gift out here on the chilly doorstep, and unlocking
the door for them.

`It's great to see you,' he told him too, but he was aware of how
forced and insincere it sounded, broken at the end by another little yawn
after a fairly sleepless night in the Austrian hotel room, cold and
uncomfortable and wishing the team could have secured their group stage
win against LASK. He grinned broadly and tried to pep himself up, letting
them into the house and swinging his heavy weekend bag ahead of himself
as he led the way indoors and out of the cold.



Barkley was surprised but not particularly worried when the, erm, action
was not instant; to his own queasy sentimental embarrassment, he was
quite charmed when Dier insisted that they get out for some fresh air and
lunch, a jaunt into the capital properly. It wasn't quite the long day
under the covers he'd dared to sporadically fantasise about as he made
the early drive down from Birmingham this morning, but there was time for
that yet.

He looked self-consciously about them in the little open-air eatery
they'd found in a corner of the hipster food market Eric had brought
them to, concerned about being recognised, as if a law-abiding outdoor
meal with a Premiership pal was instantly taboo and anyone looking their
way would recognise that he had once curiously put his lips around this
big sturdy lad's boner.

Across the table from him, tucking into his burger, the Spurs player was
a little quiet and withdrawn, visibly tired out, and the normally terse
Liverpudlian found himself having to try quite hard to fill the gaps with
conversation. He'd already updated Dier on his physio situation and his
hopes to be back in action next weekend rather than the longer absence
his bosses had initially feared, and told the other guy a few amusing
stories from his bored homebound week, missing out on team training for
longer than he liked. Now he was gibbering stupidly about what food he
did and didn't like, narrating his on-off relationship with halloumi as
if it was the most profound and interesting thing in the world.

The Aston Villa player trailed off, shovelling a couple of chips into his
mouth and leaning back in the stiff wooden seat he occupied. `Sorry,'
he said quietly, `what the hell am I goin' on about, eh?'

His date, finishing a mouthful, just gave him a fond smile with weary
eyes. `Nah,' he grumbled quietly, `it's me who should be sorry... I'm
shit company. And you wouldn't even let me pay for this.' He stifled
another yawn and wiped some burger sauce from his facial hair. `I'm
sorry, buddy, just a bit wiped out, I don't mean to be rubbish... it is
good to see you. And your love affair with Cypriot cheese is something
else, honestly.'

Barkley grinned and chuckled bashfully, a little relieved by the
comments. `Well, maybe you can be better company when we get back to the
house later,' he said with a mixture of grunting shyness and sly
seduction in his eyes. Under the table, he gently tapped one of his
chunky trainers against Eric's in a clumsy and overly layered attempt at
footsie.

`Oh, you know me, always good company indoors,' jested Dier in return,
giving up on what was left of his stacked burger and pushing a few stray
chips around the plate.

`That's if you've got the stamina,' Ross continued, quite enjoying
the saucy turn in conversation.

`Hah, just listen to the pundits, mate,' chuckled the southerner,
smirking at him a little and rubbing a thick calf across the shin of
Ross's tracksuit bottoms. `You know me, resilience is my middle name.
You'd be surprised what I can maintain game after game.'

Ross, colouring a little at his own cheeky enjoyment, pushed back with
his leg, letting their calf muscles rub through the layers and their feet
interlock slightly below the table, despite the public setting and the
surrounding chit-chat of other market shoppers. `Yeah, I've seen a bit
of that from you myself,' he muttered back, meeting Eric's eyes and
thumbing at the edge of his plate, chewing at the corner of his own lip.

`You ain't seen nothing yet,' the other footballer remarked coolly as
if he really was just talking about their sport, maintaining a casual and
friendly expression as he added, `just you wait and see what I can take,
matey...!' Ross sniggered at him, settling with taboo thrill on the
euphemistic `take' and thinking about how good it had felt in the past
when he mounted another lad, those rare times when he had gone beyond the
usual lazy recipience of oral.

`That so,' he mumbled, embarrassed by the laddish shyness that layered
his genuine excitement at the prospect. `So maybe we... erm, like... take
things a bit further tonight...?' He scratched at his stubble and darted
his eyes about them, across the little outdoor food court and the fussing
Christmas shoppers darting by in the twee central London market, busy in
spite of all restrictions. Eric took a while to respond and the moments
of quiet between them made him shudder anxiously in his seat, wondering
if his bluntness or pushiness had ruined some magic that was growing
here.

`I'd be really up for that,' the other athlete said quietly but
sincerely, and Ross glanced back into his wintry eyes with a smile.
`Reckon we can find plenty to do, couple of blokes like us...' A subtle
wink. `And you can see what I mean about my stamina, eh. I'm the
halloumi of the football world, me.'

`Can we forget about that fuckin' cheese?' Ross laughed back a bit
more loudly, re-finding some confidence now he was sure he was wanted
here after all, and sensing just how much the other lad wanted him, their
legs pressing excitedly together before discreetly unlocking and pulling
away beneath their seats.



As tired as he was, Dier was quickly warming to the disruption of his
lazy plans. Traipsing through the festive atmosphere in the city, it was
all he could do not to accidentally reach an affectionate hand down to
take hold of Barkley's in the throng of shoppers, or try and slid it
around his waist as they stood ogling through a shop window; the more he
thought about it, the more impressed he was that his Scouse hunk had
appeared out of nowhere to visit him during a mutual down day, partly in
response to his own complaints about how tired and frustrated he'd been
last night, texting him from Austria.

He kept glancing at the other lad, his tall athletic build in his sleek
tracksuit, his almost naïve hazel eyes in the gap between Nike face-mask
and low-tugged beanie hat, and wondering if he'd ever been so attracted
to a guy before. Ross had such a physical presence and warm character, he
wanted to grab and cuddle at him in the middle of Regent Street -- nobody
had recognised them anyway, beneath their heats and masks and in the
anonymous December crowds, but it still seemed a leap. Even if Eric could
brave it himself, he couldn't see Ross accepting a romantic cuddle under
the dimly glowing Christmas lights of early afternoon.

Still, a little bit of contact wouldn't hurt...

He lifted a gloved hand to rub against his elbow, felt the other guy
instinctively flinch away a little, but left his hand there for a few
moments more anyway and, as hoped, the elbow relaxed into his grip
slightly and Ross half-turned to give him a nervously pleased expression.
Then the dared moment was over, their bodies were inching apart and both
men were clearing their throats in a loud and exaggeratedly manly
fashion.

`Be strange Christmas,' Barkley said gruffly. `Thank fuck for
football, since we probably can't go see our families.'

`Yeah, good point,' Dier agreed distractedly, losing interest in the
designer gear in the window display and instead focusing on their own
faint reflection, the silhouette of Barkley's body. `Good job we'll
both probably be playing. Keeps us busy...! God, as if it's December
already,' he thought aloud, reflecting on the long, strange year and the
elasticity of time, then pausing as a few delayed thoughts tumbled into
each other on the train tracks of his brain. He stopped smiling at their
vague reflection and gave a frowning look to the bloke next to him.

`Hey,' he said slowly, `isn't your birthday in December...?'

`Mmm? Erm, well, yeh...'

Eric strained his memory and thought about the date. `Like, the 7th or
the 6th, or...'

`Erm, the 5th, yeh lad...'

`As in -- tomorrow?' Eric stared at him in puzzlement then just grinned
at his dopey shy expression and grabbed his arm again. `It's your
birthday this weekend and you weren't even gonna mention it, you twat...?
Oh mate...' He grabbed him in a more friendly and platonic embrace,
throwing his arm around his shoulders. `Right, what were you ogling in
this window then, birthday boy, cos I have NOT got you a gift...'

`Ah, don't be silly,' grunted the Scouser, wriggling softly against
his hold and asserting his own manly posture, `you don't have to do
that, I'm 27, not 7, so... stop givin' me that look, hah...'

`Come on, it's not every day you turn an insignificant new number in
your 20s,' Eric laughed at him, nudging him and then nodding firmly at
the windows, `was that hideous tshirt you liked the look of,
good-lookin'...? Or those ridiculous ripped jeans...? Fuck it, let's get
you both...'

`Calm down,' Ross laughed with an awkward gesture, shifting from foot
to foot, looking genuinely annoyed by the sudden fury of generosity. Eric
calmed his guilty enthusiasm, having been so slow to click that it was
his close friend's birthday tomorrow, and leaned in a bit closer before
speaking again.

`Okay, okay -- you can have your gift when we get back to my place and
have a few drinks to ease you in,' he said in a breathy mutter, giving
another lewd wink to the attacking midfielder. `How's that sound, Rossy
Wossy...?'

`Sounds good,' Barkley returned between awkward chortles, hands in
pockets and swaying a little on the spot in his big borrowed coat, the
heavy jackets they'd donned to help hide themselves from football fans
on their way around the city. `You wanna tell me what the gift is,
Eric...?' He flushed red with secretive excitement as they hovered there
outside the store, clearly enjoying the sly expression on the handsome
bearded face.

`Well I don't wanna spoil it, but here's a clue,' the Spurs player
murmured at him, and he took advantage of the swirl of Christmas shoppers
for cover of their discretion, and reached across, slipping one hand
below the hang of the oversized coat, and finding the firm chunk of the
Barkley backside in tight black trackies, just briefly but enough to make
him snigger and shift away, shaking his head playfully. `Let's just say
it's a gift that keeps on giving...!' he exclaimed, folding his arms to
kill the temptation of another grab, beaming at his friend and lover and
willing the afternoon away so they could be home and alone.

Ross was still sniggering behind his cloth mask. `Less of that, you,'
he said slowly. `But yeah... sounds like a gift I might enjoy...! Come on,
let's have a look in here, shall we...? I don't need YOU to buy me new
threads, D...'



Barkley's plans for his birthday had been... non-existent. What was 27
after all? It hadn't seemed worth trying to organise anything under the
fresh Tier rules and the extra scrutiny of footballing privileges. With
Villa's weekend game cancelled due to Covid cases at Newcastle anyway,
he had realised he wouldn't even get to spend much time around his new
teammates and friends anyway, and be pretty much isolated in his new
pad.

A discreet visit to London to see Dier had seemed the perfect solution,
since it would fill the gaping hole of his weekend and satisfy other
needs too, not least the long-term itch for Eric's company that had been
plaguing him over recent weeks. He hadn't wanted to actually tell the
other guy that his overnight stay would run into his birthday, feeling
some vague fear of the pressure or expectation it might bring to the
visit -- not to mention the implications it might bring for them both, to
admit that the only person he was choosing to see in a birthday with was
this fellow Premier League stud -- but now he was glad that the truth had
slipped out, and was relaxing comfortably into the cosy evening.

He found himself quite okay with the way they were both sprawled on one
sofa, his body gently cushioned against the spread of Eric's now, a
position he wasn't actually sure how they'd slipped into, but which was
weirdly comforting in a way he wouldn't be able to put into words
afterwards. One of Eric's arms had slid over his front, broad and
blond-haired just below the swell of his chest, and he could feel the
other man's pecs rise and fall behind his shoulder with each breath or
glug of craft beer. In this comfortable posture, several drinks and snack
deep into the evening, he was finding it hard to focus on the film they
were watching -- a certified classic, according to Eric, but a
slow-moving and complicated bore for Ross. There hadn't even been an
explosion yet.

`Another beer?' he heard Dier's voice murmur just to his left -- his
voice had returned to that sleepy quality of this morning, but not with
weary frustration or distrust, it held a husky invite to bed.

`Yeh, erm, why not,' Ross said, shifting his weight against him, but
not quite out of the slouching hold, then daring to rest his left hand on
the folded muscle of one jutting thigh. `But erm, maybe I should get my
birthday gift before we're too drunk, ey...?' He twisted his head so
that their faces were close, breath beery and warm. `What d'ya think?'
he added shyly, pressing his shoulder and arm into the side of that thick
strong torso.

`I don't wanna rush you,' the host said quietly, tilting and swirling
the dregs in his bottle. `We can have a couple more first, if it helps
relax you.'

`I'm pretty relaxed,' Barkley promised him, `I mean, like, if you
are...'

`I'm raring to go,' Dier admitted now, and he reached down -- he held
the back of Barkley's hand and pulled it across a little. Oh. Well.
Clearly Ross had not been the only one starting to really enjoy the way
they were tipsily sprawled against each other on the couch: there was a
distinct warm firmness in the crotch of the loose charcoal sweatpants he
was wearing, pressing now against his guided hand as confirmation of his
words. Ross breathed deeply and leaned their faces even closer.

`I think I might like my gift,' he said quietly, picturing many
glimpses of the hunky 26-year-old's broad firm buttocks in football
shorts over the years, piecing together the clues of the day. `I'm er,
ready to receive it,' he added with an attempt at the playful innocence
of this charming man's flirtation. `Shall we, erm, go upstairs...?'

Eric kissed him softly, pressing their beery lips together in a slow
sensual motion, also pressing his hand more firmly into the hot firmness
in his pants; their mouths twisted together then parted in a long mutual
gasp. `Upstairs is good,' Dier murmured close to his face, `and we'll
see about my stamina, eh...?'

`Yeah,' Ross rasped, `see what you can TAKE...'

`Mmm, totally... come on, sexy...'

Up they moved, hands brushing at the soft cotton of each other's
sweaters and pants, feeling the idle strength beneath. Ross grabbed
instinctively at thick furriness of the man's neck, pulling him close so
that he could kiss him again, still a little ashamed to find so much
sensitivity in another guy's mouth; he remembered the forceful way Eric
had taken kisses from him in the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium in exchange
for the fumbling of hands, the novelty and terror of it. Now, he shivered
in anticipation as he felt those strong hands run down his arm and
against his back and, just like in that risky moment on Regent Street,
curving around to pat and squeeze his famously meaty rear in the tight
pants that clung to his physique, as obviously fascinated by it as every
other man he had `enjoyed'.

`I can't wait for us to fuck,' he admitted breathily between kisses,
and Eric's eyes sparkled with glee; `It's gonna be amazing,' the
Tottenham player said in a desperate rush.



He wanted to take things slowly, but his libido had other ideas. He
wrenched off his own sweatshirt first, baring the broad and gently haired
muscles of his chest and six-pack, then leaned in to kiss passionately at
Ross's firm neck while shoving up at his tighter-fitting top, dragging
it and the white vest beneath up across the hard landscape of muscle.

Ross was like putty in his hands, purring happily as he dragged it up
around his armpits, which he then stooped to nuzzle and kiss, tasting the
sweet woody BO, then kissing back up over sternum to neck, finally
wrestling the layers of top up those biceps and elbows and away, both of
them shirtless and grabbing at each other in the doorway to his master
bedroom.

To his glee, loving the way this shy alpha male was yielding to him, Ross
was pushing his hand down into his sweatpants as they took staggering
steps into the room; Eric threw his thick arms about his shoulders to
squeeze and hug him, while his cock throbbed at that clumsy touch,
pulling on it through the tight fit of his silky trunks. He moaned gladly
at this touch, edging them towards the bed, even happier as Ross's rough
fingers entered the trunks and took proper hold of his cock by the base.

`No,' he groaned, gently taking him by the wrist to stop that questing
handjob, kissing him now on the lips for a moment and then throwing his
hands at his hips, `YOU'RE the birthday boy, this is all about YOU...
plus, if we're gonna take things further, I just want it to be good for
you...'

`It IS good,' Ross said in a voice of whining pleasure, stroking hands
over his abs and to his chest, tickling against the fine brown hair that
sprouted around and between his pecs. `Mmmm...'

But Dier ignored this, still unable to believe the enthusiasm and
readiness of the guy who had seemed so evasive and repressed when they
first played about; he was guilty and excited about the birthday lad and
just wanted to pleasure and prepare him totally, so he began to kiss
downwards, pushing forward at the same time so their bodies took more
stumbling steps towards the king-size. He bent his knees to descend, then
shoved at the hard muscle of Barkley's adonis belt until he was falling
into a seated position on the edge of the bed, while Dier stooped between
his opening legs -- he pushed his face in and mouthed his hard-on through
the tight trackies, loving the smell and heat of that hard shape.

`You're so fucking hot,' he growled.

`Mmm, you want my big dick...?'

`I fucking do,' he agreed hungrily.

`Mmm, yes mate...'

Dier grabbed and pulled at those muscle-fit trackies, pulling them down
then snatching at the boxers beneath, again failing to be slow and
sensual because he was so lust-crazy. Somehow, the big Scouse meat looked
better and more beautiful than he remembered, and he paused only to lick
his lips and stare at its curved length above those drooping loaded
balls; more growling dirty talk from Ross drove him mad and he lunged in
to kiss and lick the shaft, rolling his tongue around it and up to the
head. He pulled back the foreskin and sucked on it, loving the hugeness
of the mushroom tip and the rich taste of his new lad.

With his hands, he fussed at the trackies, pulling over the knees and
shoving them down the hard hairy shins, not stopping at the ankles. He
worked simultaneously to lick and tease the throbbing cock and strip
Barkley fully naked, socks peeled away and bottoms shed, so that he could
really stroke and massage at the calf muscles then the thighs, running
his hands all over those powerful footballer's legs while he nuzzled and
kissed at the erection. `Fuck yes,' Barkley whined on, `suck my big
dick, yesss, mmm...' Even this was new, his vocalness and open
excitement, none of the steely reserve and indecision that had been part
of his initial appeal -- but the uncaged animal was fifty times as sexy
and Eric had never wanted him more. Dear god yes.

`You sure you're ready to take things further?' he breathed in between
mouthfuls of cock and then, tasting so much sweat, bollocks, but Ross was
just moaning and swearing for him, bursts of `Fuck yes, your mouth, oh
fuck THAT TONGUE...'

Oh yes, oh yes. Eric hooked his hands about those thick ankles and pulled
up, beginning to lift and spread the legs, loving the weight and hardness
of their muscular girth... up and apart, hoisting them until they hooked
over his own broad bare shoulders, hearing the little laugh of surprised
interest as Barkley's body tilted backwards -- now Eric didn't just
have an eyeful of that glorious towering cock or spreading sack, but the
furry gooch beneath and the dark crack of his mighty tan-brown arse. He
grabbed the cheeks and parted them then spat between and began his
preparations.



Oh yes, Ross thought, as he felt the hot spit hit his crack and his legs
were hoisted higher and wider by Eric's hands. Fuck, he had not expected
THIS, as a pre-runner to his inevitable birthday gift, which his hard
dick was so so ready for... oh wow, the heat and pushy force of a tongue
now between his buttocks, licking and flicking then pulling away. More
spit, more hot breath tickling at his downy crack hair. Fuckkkk.

It had been one of the most difficult things for Barkley to accept about
his extra fun in the last year, and the humiliation of Lampard had been
pretty key to his thinking -- it hadn't been HIM wanting his arse
licked, not really, he'd just loved putting his oppressive manager down
and making him eat him out, getting off in the feverish obsession of that
older guy. Still, he'd encouraged Pulisic to try it too, later on,
hadn't he...? Pushed the goofy American's face down there until he got
the message and licked at more than just his balls. It was such an
amazing new feeling for Ross and now, letting this handsome stud spread
his cheeks, he knew how much he had been craving it -- possibly a rimjob
felt even better than a blowjob!

And he had never felt so totally relaxed with a man (with any lover?)
than he seemed to tonight with Eric, perhaps it was just the beer warmth
and the fun of the day together. So he gladly reached his own hands under
the heavy slabs of his thighs and, edging himself a little further back
up onto the bed, arched to spread himself more for Eric's advancing
attention. Ross stared down his own torso and past the silhouette of his
big cock at the blond fuzz of the other man's hair as his face dicked
down there, craggy forehead pressing at his balls. He could feel his
tongue exploring his crack, feel his cheeks squeezed and parted more,
trying to unclench those massive muscles for him. `Oh fuck,' he panted
uncontrollably, `oh fuck Eric that feels... oh wow...' He could hardly
form words, just gasping out his pure enjoyment of the tickling dampness
invading his arse.

Eric was pushing at his thighs, edging him further up the bed, and he
used his elbows to encourage this, letting Dier climb up onto the bed
with him, lying forward with his bare back rippling and his own
sweatpants and boxers tugging back a bit over the curve of his cheeks and
crack, the one that would soon be Barkley's own property! He could not
wait to fuck this big brute of a man, so big and strong and classy, he
just wanted to bury his cock in him and- whoa, what was that? Something a
bit harder against the little knot of his hole, not just the questing
tongue, but a firmer tip, a digit, breaking very tentatively against the
virginal tightness of... `Whoa, Eric, wha'...? -fuck!' In it poked, an
exploratory and invasive finger inside him, and his body was reacting
before he could think any of it through: his body's reaction was the
only thing it knew, kicking.

`Oi!' he barked, shoving a foot into Eric's shoulder and jabbing his
elbows back into the bed to pull his body inches away, kicking his other
leg at him too and catching him briefly in the face then chest, writhing
away as that unwanted finger slid rapidly away from his quivering
arsehole.



`What the fuck?' Dier panted, reeling sideways and feeling for the
throbbing pain in his jaw, dizzied by the jabbing kicks to him, blinking
dizzily and crawling backwards up onto his knees. For a moment, he
genuinely had no idea what was going on, thought maybe someone was at the
door of the room catching them at it, or he'd done something hideously
wrong, but the mixed signals were bellowed aggressively at him from
beside the bed.

`What the fuck do you think yer doing, la'?' Barkley demanded, waving
a fist at him. `Putting a finger in like that... fuck!' He seemed
hopping mad, red-faced and a little sheened with the sweat of what he'd
been, until moments ago, lost in enjoyment of. His voice was shrill with
panicked rage. `Jesus, trying to trick me like that, fuckin' perv, get
me drunk and-`

`Ross,' he panted in bewilderment, scrabbling off the bed after him,
his cock uncomfortably hard in the front of his sweatpants, almost
falling clumsily as he leapt off it and onto his socked feet, reaching
for Ross's arm but being pushed roughly away. `Mate,' he said in a
less pleading and more annoyed voice, beginning to see the
misunderstanding that had developed, `I thought you said you were...'

`Jesus christ!' railed Barkley while snatching up his underpants.

`What's wrong?' Dier said back, loudly, raising his volume to meet the
other man's.

`Shoulda known,' the Scouser muttered, `why the fuck would I let you
do that...?'

`I dunno, cos you've been all over me since you get here,' Eric found
himself ranting back, his cheeks flushing bright red and the ridiculous
tent in his dark-grey pants seeming to expose and shame in his eagerness
for what he'd thought his gift-giving would entail. `Honestly, Ross,
you're a bit hot and cold here, you turn up out of the blue and-`

`I knew you didn't want me here,' the northern lad was muttering,
hopping into his undies and pushing his raging boner into the front of
them, keeping a safe distance as Eric moved to grab and touch him again,
`I knew I was a fuckin' pain turnin' up, so much for a nice surprise,
jesus...'

`What? Don't be like that,' he grumbled, lunging to try and grab those
flailing arms and calm the scally stud he'd been craving all day, but
just getting pushed back hard and almost falling embarrassingly over
again, catching his fall against a bedpost. `Well I TOLD you I was
fucking shattered,' he snapped, `you knew I was travelling back from a
night game in Europe, for fuck's sake, so-`

`So you thought you'd get me pissed and start pushing things too
far!'

`You SAID you were ready-`

`Not for THAT, for fucks' sake... I thought... I thought we'd...
you'd...'

`I thought you wanted me,' Dier found himself saying with pathetic
earnestness, hating how difficult it was to hold in his feelings now,
`and I thought you would... I mean, I don't do THAT, it isn't for me,
so-`

`Get away,' Ross muttered, wriggling into a vest as he pulled closer
again, backing away as if almost frightened of him. `That was too much.
You went too far! Fuck's sake, lad. Why would I want you to do that to
me?!'

The stinging rejection of the rhetorical question poked at some
heartbroken insecurity in Eric's recent romantic history and he lashed
out too. `Well then just fuck off, mate,' he bellowed at the insolent
player, `fuck off if you think I'm such a pervert or a-` He could
almost feel tears welling up at the emotions of the moment and that made
him angrier, even though he was still rock hard. `Oh fuck you, Ross
Barkley, you messed up prick, fuck you!'

`Yeah, YOU WISH!'

`Get out -- fuck off!'

`GLADLY. Jesus -- fuck you, faggot! Fuck you!'

The argument was over as quickly as it had begun: those big buttocks that
he'd wanted to get inside of were bouncing out of the bedroom door in
the tight hug of boxer shorts, somehow managing to step inside his tight
trackies in a few strides and then onto the stairs, away from him in a
drunken rush, still mouthing off vague homophobic abuse and exclamations
of disbelief. Eric's own anger, as he hovered at the foot of his own
bed, subsided quickly, and he rushed onto the landing, eating up his own
stupid words. `Ross,' he called, `WAIT, I just-`

`If I'm such a "mess", I'll leave you to it,' shouted back
Barkley's voice and then there was a slam of door. Dier halted on the
top few steps, heaving with adrenaline and testosterone and gripping the
landing, his bare chest lifting and falling and his face and neck still
flushed red with lust then rejection then rage. Oh shit, oh shit. He'd
ruined it.



Friday night was pulling to a close, or it certainly was for any
Premiership footballer with an important league game waiting on Saturday.
It had been a quiet evening, a couple of long-distance catch-ups over
Zoom with family and friends back in the States, and some pottering
around the kitchen experimenting with a new recipe; it had been a tough
week of training schedule at Chelsea and so he knew he would be quickly
to sleep when he finally called it a night and clambered into bed.

He delayed that inevitability with a slow procrastination of chores and
rituals, fussing around the smart London apartment and taking his time,
mostly content and just a little bit bored.

Christian Pulisic was just putting a few things away in the open-plan
kitchen when he heard the indistinct knock at the door, which he
initially dismissed as some random noise from a neighbouring apartment or
from some communal part of the expensive block; a knock at the door was
quite unusual in this complex, where it should really be a chime of the
security intercom, though he had been known to share the password for the
door with a couple of closer mates in the past. Still, he didn't make
the connection between the flurry of knocks at the door and the one
person he had definitely shared that passcode with this year.

The noises became harder and more insistent and the 22-year-old
Pennsylvanian slowly made his way through the slickly furnished rooms of
his bachelor pad, tiptoeing in loose-fitting pyjama bottoms and an open
shirt. As he turned into the little entrance passage of his flat, the
knocks sounded again and loudly confirmed they were at that door.

`What the fuck?' the young Chelsea player muttered to himself,
shuffling hesitantly close to the door and wondering if he would need to
ring up the top-class security company who managed things at his
building, keeping the high-profile London residents safe from any
intrusion or danger. And when he peered through the spyhole into the
communal corridor beyond, he momentarily still thought that: some
track-suited yob was pummelling at his door with a bottle in his other
hand, his face worryingly obscured by a mask (okay, everyone wore a mask
at the minute) and a hat pulled low, so that Christian briefly thought he
was about to be the victim of some horrific home invasion scenario. Then
the guy pulled closer to the door, taking a rest from knocking, and he
got a better look at the wide anxious eyes.

Pulisic undid the locks and tugged the door inwards just as his obnoxious
visitor made to pummel the wood again, spilling inside instead and pretty
much crashing into him. `You're drunk,' was the first thing he said to
him, catching a mouthful of whiskey breath and clocking the half-empty
bottle swinging from one of his hands. `Ross, what are you doing
here?!' he demanded shrilly, helping to steady the bigger heavier man
who had spilled in against him.

`Well, you're glad to see me, then,' his loaned-out teammate spat,
pushing him aside a little and edging further in; Christian glanced
fearfully out into the corridor in case this noisy arrival had disturbed
any of his elite neighbours, then shoved it shut and twisted the lock. He
turned and stared at Barkley, who loomed beside him, trying and failing
to unscrew the lid of his whiskey bottle. `Fuck it,' the Scouser
declared loudly, giving up and pushing the bottle into Christian's
hands, `I don't think I need any more.'

`No,' the American agreed in a measured voice, `not sure you do,
dude...'

`Huh. Hullo then. Long time, la'.'

`Yeah, totally... um...'

`Well then. What you waitin' for?' The Chelsea outcast leered at him,
tugging a bit at the waist of his tracksuit and rolling his arms in a way
that was almost threatening. Christian peered at him, bowled over by the
sudden intrusion and the appearance of this stud back in the capital --
where were Villa playing this weekend? Did they even have a game? He
couldn't remember.

`What?' he said quietly. `What am I...?'

`Come on,' Barkley grunted at him, stinking of booze and towering by
him, 6ft2 of muscle and virility, `come on, Yankee boy, get on your
knees...' And as he leered, he grabbed the bulging front of his black
trackies, and Pulisic felt his fearful confusion about the arrival
dissipate in the face of sudden and unquenchable thirst. Before he could
think about it, he was murmuring, `YES SIR.'



He moved through the quiet streets in a hurry, hands shoved into the
pockets of his coat, feeling the icy December nightfall over North
London. There would definitely be frost in the morning. He knew this
street well, had visited so many times -- not usually at night though,
except in very fortunate and well-timed circumstances, more typically in
mid-morning or late afternoon because Mrs Kane was out somewhere and the
place was unexpectedly free when both he and Harry had time off from
Tottenham training.

House after house was a picture of the kind of hetero domestic bliss that
really stung at Eric tonight, spurned and lonely; the Kane household was
no different, gleaming with its tasteful selection of external Christmas
lights and some glanced hints of decorated tree blazing within.

It was stupid and reckless to be here right now, but he felt stupid and
reckless. He just needed to speak to him, that was all. They could do
that. That didn't have to break rules, or terrify his clingy wife, or
spell some disastrous turn in their healing friendship. He just needed to
speak to SOMEONE -- although what exactly he might say was unclear.

Things had been a little more strained between the former lovers since
the last England game. True to his promise of closure, Eric Dier had
tried his best not to resent the orgy he'd walked in on, the fact that
goody-goody married man, Harry `I need to save my marriage' Kane, was
now bending over for any Premiership footballer who might want a turn,
because... well, what Kane did with his beautiful English backside was up
to him, and all that. But it had definitely made it a little tougher for
them to rebuild their old pally relationship and make sure they were in a
good place to work together day after day -- after all, everyone was
daring to believe that it could be Tottenham's year, and neither Dier
nor Kane wanted their sexual history to be the thing that disrupted that
journey.

But in Austria, last night and before... well, Eric had found himself
increasingly aware of a little distance between them, and a sense of Kane
being... distracted? Hmm, maybe that wasn't the word. It was daft, but he
just seemed so suddenly `chummy' with that has-been Gareth Bale, always
pacing about the training ground together; Eric overheard him requesting
to be roomed with him in Austria at the hotel, and also the awkward
little sulk when the assistant manager politely declined this because
Bale had insisted on other arrangements. Weird. Dier, not normally one
given to paranoia, had found himself watching the two tall powerful
forwards throughout the away trip, curious about their rekindled
friendship and the fact they evidently went way back to Bale's first
tenure at the club.

Not that it mattered -- Harry Kane was a free man. Eric wasn't here to
quiz him on that, to poke accusations or to dredge up what he'd seen in
the hotel in Surrey, Kane on his hands and knees and submitting to a
gaggle of hunky England players while Dier resisted all temptation and
clung on to some silly notion of romance with Ross fucking Barkley. He
was just here because tonight he suddenly felt cripplingly alone and he
thought maybe this was one guy he could rely on to give a shit. And
maybe, just maybe, they could fuck one more time...?

He used the ornate doorknocker and lingered on the step, basking in the
dully throbbing glow of some festive lights, then hearing the muffled
adult voices beyond, sounding almost as if the Kanes had some kinda
little party going on, rules or no rules. Maybe just family. Support
bubble. Something like that. Dier twiddled his thumbs and rocked on his
heels, shivering.

Harry was the one to open the door, fortunately, not his wife -- she
clearly had zero idea that `Jeremy Edgar' was him and not some local
bimbo, but Eric still felt wary of her whenever they had to meet, his own
guilty conscience forcing him to see her as a shrew and a dragon. He
stared imploringly into the flushed, surprised face of the England
captain in the half-open door, drowned in a baggy woollen jumper and a
faint aura of tipsiness about him. `Mate,' he breathed in
acknowledgement, in a voice clearly designed not to reach the ears of
those indoors.

`Hey,' Eric said, the silliness of the visit becoming obvious by the
moment, `have you got a minute? Um, I know I can't really come in at
the moment, but -- can we walk and talk, just a bit, I'm sorry to ask,
it's just-`

A trilling `Who is it darling?' sounded and Eric caught sight of his
one-time rival, Mrs Kane, in the background, but then other figures. As
Harry turned, holding on to the door, to address her, Eric realised that
he half-recognised the other woman slipping by, and her loud Welsh accent
as she cackled over something funny that had been said; then, slipping
into this gap of vision and guiltily revealed by a shift in Kane's body
language, he saw her husband, traipsing between rooms carrying a bucket
with an open champagne bottle in. The long sharp features and high brown
topknot were very distinctive even from this distance in a short
glimpse.

`Right,' Dier said in a quiet growl, `I see.'

`Eric, buddy...'

`Couples night, is it?'

`Mate, well -- yeah, kinda, just a little festive thing, and...'

`Right, right... the Kanes and the Bales. Lovely. You gonna swap wives
after the dinner or are you two just gonna fuck in front of them, I
dunno...? Bloody hell...' He could hear the ridiculousness of his reaction
but it had been a heavy night and he'd drunk a bit too much since things
flared up with Barkley. He backed away from the doorway. Something
guilt-stricken and uncomfortable in Kane's facial expression warned him
that his paranoia wasn't entirely paranoia; he'd seen a spark between
Harry and Gareth and now all he could wonder was how their fucking wives
managed not to.

`Eric,' Kane insisted, `wait there, let me get my coat-`

`No, fuck it, this was daft,' he said, turning his back on him. `Go
back to couples night, looks cosy. Don't worry, I was being a stupid
prick, see you later mate -- see you at training! Fuck's sake...' He
rushed away, cold and mortified, down the garden path and away from the
big glowing family home, wondering why the hell he'd tried to rely on
that flaky bugger in his hour of need!



Ross ran his hands through the short dark wire of Christian's hair,
slowly pumping his throbbing cock in and out of those tight red lips,
staring down at the face of innocent adoration that the newly bearded
American had, puppy-dog eyes and glistening saliva. God, he was good at
this, the little Yankee slut... he told him so, adding a few more slurred
swear words and trying not to topple over in his inebriated state,
face-fucking the midfielder in the centre of his lounge and occasionally
removing his cock to slap against those dark-furred cheeks, trailing spit
and pre-cum over Christina's beard and then teabagging his mouth with
his own heavy balls.

`God, Ross,' whined the American boy.

`Yeah, I am!' he cackled stupidly back. `Fuck yes! Suck my dick for my
birthday, you little slag...'

`Your birthday...? Mmm... yes, yes...'

`Eat it, you cunt, swallow it...'

`Fuck! Yes...! Oh...'

`Dirty little fag,' Ross shouted at him, old insecurities and angers
welling up, aggression the only solution to his deep shame. `Lick my
cock you little fucking pussy boy, mmm that's it, nah open wider like,
yeah lad, mmm...'

`Yes sir, yess... mmm... god it tastes good...'

`Huh, you think it tastes good, do ya?'

`Yes Ross, yes Boss, mmm...'

`Then get up,' Barkley snapped viciously, `and bend over.' He bit his
lip and stared hard at the submissive 22-year-old, drunk on his own
physical power, and also just very very drunk. `Let me show how fucking
big and tasty my dick really is, slut. Get up and get those PJs off, you
bitch. I'm gonna fuck you til you cry for mama.' He grinned inanely and
gave a gentle slap to the side of his face, one that made him flinch and
maybe wasn't that gentle after all, but Christina's response was to
lean in and lick his dick some more before scrabbling upright, snatching
at his tracksuited body to help himself, then staring at him with those
wide puppy eyes of panic.

`I've never been fucked,' he said in a secretive whisper, hiding the
fact from fuck-knows-who.

`Good,' Ross snarled. `It'll feel even tighter.'



Eric was halfway down the street when Harry caught up with him, snatching
at the sleeve of his coat and hissing at him in
let's-not-disturb-the-neighbours voices. `Wait up, talk to me,' the
striker pleaded, `tell me what's wrong, Eric. You're upset. I can
tell.'

`Perceptive,' he said icily, trying to shrug him away, too embarrassed
now to want to share anything with the guy he'd fucked almost weekly for
a year and a half. `Thanks for that. Go back, you'll catch your fucking
death out here in that daft jumper. Did your wife knit it or something...?
Go on, forget it, I shouldn't have come...'

Harry snatched at him again, but not the sleeve, his hand now, yanking
back and pulling him to him there on the streets of suburbia, surrounded
by the tasteful throb of festive lights. `I love you, you know that?'
the tall footballer demanded in the same discreet hiss. `I'll always
love you, I was just too fucking stupid to know it when it counted. So
tell me what's wrong.'

Dier wavered, struck by this admission, but still pulled his hand free.
`It's nothing,' he said, in a laddish voice thick with disguised yet
obvious emotion. `I'm being a daft twat. Ignore me. Go home, Harry. Go
home to them. I'm sorry for turning up like this.'

`No, stay,' Kane said. `It's nothing, just this thing the missus
organised, you know how she likes to welcome people and that, it's...
Eric, it's not like... I'm not trying to shut you out, or anything,
just-`

`Yeha, you are,' Eric said forcibly, his tone becoming more sad as he
spoke, `and we both know it's for the best. Friends is good but...
there's a lotta history there, right? Please, just... just go inside and
get warm and I'll go stop being a sulky brat somewhere else. I'm sorry.
It's been a weird night. I just...'

Before he knew what was happening, Kane was grabbing at him and pulling
-- but not just towards himself, off the path and into the debatable
cover of the bushes that lined the pavement here, the frontmost greenery
of a neighbour's garden, just out of the glow of streetlights. Harry was
pulling at his arms and bringing their faces close together, and Eric
could hardly resist or escape the inevitable kiss of lingering devotion.

When it broke, the surprisingly affectionate snog, he just sighed.
`Where was that before summer, eh?' he asked in a tiny broken voice. He
felt Harry's slow wine-flavoured breaths ebb against his icy-cold cheeks
and tingling beard hair. `Talk about too little too late, babe.'

`There isn't anything going on with Bale,' Kane mumbled in an equally
quiet voice. `Well, not really, um...' His eyes drooped and his face
grew pinker in the cold. Eric smiled wearily at him, stroking his arm.

`But you want there to be,' he filled in, and the `No' that came was
slow and unconvincing. `I should never have ended things,' came the
painfully repetitive monologue afterwards, the apologies that Dier did
not need to hear from him. He shut them out, ignoring the whispered and
confused pleading, pushing Harry's hands off his collar and steering
them out onto the pavement again, away from the little moment of stilted
passion.

`Enough,' he told him, his voice brittle. `Just... forget it. You know
I still feel so much for you too, man, but... it didn't work, did it? I...
I shouldn't have come here tonight. It isn't right.' He took one step
back, then another, still half-tempted to confide in Kane what he'd told
no one else: that he was in love with another guy now, and it was
torturing him inside. `I'll see you tomorrow at training, Harry.'
Another few steps away, and Kane no longer following, just standing there
with a stricken look on his face, some conflict evident in his body
language: part of him clearly wanted to race away and get warm indoors
and, Eric guessed, squash up against the Welsh beast on the sofa while
pretending to make eyes at his wife. But at least part of him wanted to
follow Eric into the night.

`You're sure you're okay?' Harry mumbled weakly.

`I'm fine,' Dier lied. What was the point in saying anything else?



The following morning, Ross stared at his phone and wished deeply that
one of the buzzing messages arriving in his inbox was under the name
`Dier' with a little lion emoji and England flag next to it, relics of
first befriending each other on the Under 21s. But nope, seemed like
everyone else in the world was messaging him on his 27th, just not Eric
fucking Dier. Obviously. With good reason. Ugh.

In came Pulisic, whistling to himself, carrying the tray of freshly made
pancakes and assorted toppings, the silky dressing gown barely tied about
his waist as he crossed the room. Barkley glanced at him and back at his
phone, shutting down the messenger app and then opening up Instagram
instead, where a slew of other fresh notifications awaited him. But the
latest one, only seconds ago, was all that caught his attention -- tagged
in a friend's story, tagged in @ericdier's story. He opened it up, saw
the old snapshot of them in England training gear, jogging along side by
side years ago, and the sweet simple `happy birthday' text that went
with it, and his stomach lurched.

`You want any like fruit or anything with this?' chirped the younger
footballer at the other side of the bed, laying the tray down on the
ruffled sheets and adjusting the loose robe about his lean young body, a
look of bashful satisfaction on his cute bearded face. `Ross? How do you
like your pancakes, bro...?' He smiled earnestly this way, the deflowered
virgin in the morning afterglow.

Ross replayed last night in his head. The way he'd marched in here,
utterly intoxicated and dealing with his confused emotions in the only
way he could. The way he'd grabbed at and commanded this American twink,
pushing him down onto the floor and feeding him cock until he sucked on
it with fervour. In the corridor, in the lounge, on the sofa -- he'd let
him lick his prick for what felt like hours, weeping precum on his tongue
and chin. And then stripping him, throwing his clothes left, right and
centre, making him fetch the Vaseline and bend over on the couch.

Despite the misty temporary amnesia of the booze, Barkley could picture
it clearly -- the lean-muscled youth bending over for him, quivering in
fearful anticipation, and the surprising hairiness of his backside. The
way he'd cooed and whimpered and yelped at being roughly fingered and
lubed up, the obvious truth in his virginity and inexperience -- not that
it had slowed Ross down or made him particularly careful, he was far too
drunk and belligerent for that.

No, he'd taken him there on the sofa, and then on the floor, and then up
against the wall, and finally on the bed. Thrusting into him with more
power in each new position, absolutely tearing into his unused hole and
making a toy of him, bareback and brutal. Spitting on him and calling him
names during it, spanking his bottom until it was red-raw, pushing his
face down into the pillows while ploughing into him. Finally jizzing all
over his chest and face, spilling streaks of white goo over that fetching
new beard that decorated his innocent face, and then falling asleep with
zero memory of returning the favour.

And now here he was, making breakfast, grinning nervously, probably
limping on his way to and from the kitchen. Barkley stared at him and was
consumed with self-loathing at his own behaviour -- not just the
internalised homophobic shame of the particulars, but anger and disgust
at the way he kept using people and trying to assert and empower himself.
He felt sick, and it wasn't just the hangover. He pictured the birthday
message on social media from Dier and just wanted to cry.

`What is it?' Pulisic asked, standing by the bed and fiddling with the
cord at the waist of his robe, clearly naked beneath it and, from the
look of it, a little bit stiff under there already. `Don't you like
pancakes any more? I thought you... um, dude...? Ross...?'

`I gotta go,' he grunted, slipping his large naked body from the sheets
and staring around for any of his kit, but realising he'd been
bollock-naked when they got into here, other than the dirty off-white
socks on his feet. He didn't dare look at Christian again, just hearing
his `oh' of disappointment as he barged past and into the main area of
the apartment, cock slapping his thigh. `I gotta go,' he repeated more
loudly, `I can't stay here. Sorry.' He didn't listen to the polite
murmurings from the American kid, just raced about, snatching up his
things and making his second bedroom getaway in so few hours, hating
himself and wondering how the fuck he was going to handle a day of people
getting in touch to be nice to him about his 27th birthday.

He thought about the things he'd said to Eric last night, pushing
violently away at him and rejecting any of his attentions over a simple
and obvious misunderstanding. Fuck, he'd blown it, he'd ruined that; he
could never look Dier in the eye again! It would be terrible when they
had to meet, when their teams next clashed in the League, but he felt
with sickening certainty that he would never speak to him other than
that. How could he, after the way he'd spoken to him? The way he'd
kicked at him! The guy had looked totally horrified and probably had a
bruised jaw today. Fuck.

Christian was calling after him plaintively, some invite to stay and rest
or bathe, but he just stormed away and out into the entrance passage,
nostrils flaring and heart jackhammering in his chest. This was just
another mess, he thought, another ruined friendship to get away from.
He'd come here and he'd exploited Christian just like he had with Frank
Lampard all those times, desperate for success, just like he had with
Eric, filling a void with that handsome prick and his kindness. He needed
to be away from all of them, he needed to be on his own. He would need to
return to Dier's to get the car, he realised, but that could be done
quickly and easily, with no contact; he couldn't bear to see him or
speak to him, he just couldn't.

The fact was, Ross thought bitterly, marching through the deserted
Saturday morning streets on his birthday, that Eric was... just... too good
for him. He didn't deserve that kindness or affection, not really. He
was `messed up', as Dier had put it, and that was just how it was. He
told himself the sharp little tears in his eyes were just from the winter
wind, but the little racking sob as he stomped towards the Underground
station, that was harder to deny.



Dier watched the sports car vanish from the kerb from an upstairs window,
arms hugged gloomily over his chest, stood naked and towel-clad from his
morning shower. The engine noise seemed to linger moodily in the quiet
North London lane, symbolic of Barkley's rush to be away from him, and
also an expression of the manly rage they'd both let take over last
night when things went wrong.

The 26-year-old bachelor sighed sadly, his breath steaming the glass, and
he pulled the curtain back over the window before backing away, padding
over the lantern and into his own room, rubbing a damp hand over his
puffy emotional face.

Well, he thought, there's that ruined. That friendship, that... thing.
Whatever it was. Whatever it had become or could have been. Over, now.
He'd fucked it up. He'd been too pushy or too sure, he'd been too rude
or aggressive. If he'd just... slowed down, thought about it,
understood... But no. Here he was again, demanding too much from guys, and
ending up on his own -- just like with Harry Kane, who now seemed to be
smitten with someone else. Bloody hell! Wrapped in just his towel, he
collapsed sideways onto the bed, exhausted and defeated, and grimly
accepted that Ross would probably never speak to him again.



*TO BE CONTINUED....?*