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1.
“Do the happy dance.” It was almost a threat, Remer’s finger pointed right in Coop’s face.
Coop didn’t feel much like doing the happy dance, not when they’d just come home to find their house burgled. Getting their own place was supposed to be good. Great, even. A 24/7 party. They’d only been here three weeks, now this.
Their stuff worth anything was gone, and they hadn’t had much to begin with. But they hadn’t taken Reggie’s ball. That was the only thing stopping Coop from crying right now. That and Remer’s insistence on that damn dance.
Swinging his arms from side to side to appease him, Coop mumbled the accompanying, super uninventive lyrics.
“That’s better,” Remer said, still with that strict tone. “We’re gonna get through this, ‘kay?”
Coop dropped his forehead against Remer’s collarbone. He felt violated. Someone rifling through your stuff and taking whatever they wanted felt not at all cool. Remer’s collection of vintage Playboys was gone. Coop’s shelf of N64 cartridges was empty, Goldeneye the only one left. The burglars had even gone through the medicine cabinet.
As Remer wrapped his arms around Coop’s shoulders, Coop recalled the hug he’d given him the day he taught him the happy dance.
Coop had sped up the ladder to Remer’s treehouse and only once inside its walls had he allowed himself to cry. It was dumb, really, because the house had no door, no glass in its windows, and big drafty gaps between its planks, so anyone in their back yards would’ve heard his crying. Remer had leapt up and hugged him, asking him over and over what was wrong. Eventually, Coop told him, forcing out one word at a time between sobs to say that his parents were getting divorced. How could he ever be happy again when his mom and dad hated each other?
Remer had told him of a special dance that meant he could always be happy, no matter what sad stuff happened around him. It was kind of lame, kind of pitchy, but watching Remer demonstrating it made Coop smile through his tears.
“Now you try it,” Remer had said, pushing his square, horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. “It makes you happy, I promise. It’s magic!”
In their ransacked living room, Coop muttered into Remer’s chest, “Who taught you the happy dance?” wondering why he’d never thought to ask before.
“Someone wise,” Remer said, still hugging him.
“Who?”
“I cannot reveal its magical origins.”
Coop gave him a look that said: dude, seriously? It didn’t work. “It’ll make me happy if you tell me.”
Giving in, Remer’s shoulders slumped. “I made it up ‘cause I hated seeing you cry.” With a defeated sigh, he added, “It won’t work anymore now.”
A warmth spread through Coop’s chest. Sometimes, Remer’s friendship was magic.
“It still works.” Coop stepped back and did a sweep of the mess that was their living room. “Okay,” he said, determined. “Let’s clean this shit up.”
2.
Coop was really, really ill. So ill he couldn’t even play Nintendo.
Used tissues piled up beside his bed, overflowing the trash can like a white volcano. Now that he was too tired to toss them over the side they were spreading across his pillows, too.
Having a cold sucked ass.
Squeak had brought him a multipack of granola bars, and they’d become Coop’s only form of sustenance besides the tap water he grabbed whenever he could haul himself across the hall to piss. It made sense—since he moved in, Squeak was the only one who remembered to feed Jenkins.
The thing that would’ve cheered Coop up the most in his time of need would’ve been a visit from Remer. He didn’t think he was avoiding him because he was contagious. Remer probably didn’t see any point in visiting someone who could only cough and blow their nose. That kind of thing wouldn’t usually bother Coop, but being confined to a sickbed gave him more time to think and more time to pout.
How selfish of Remer to not check in on him. How lame of him to keep practicing their new driveway game without him, bouncing that basketball against their garage door that might as well be the inside of his skull. How inconsiderate of him, watching Jerry Springer on the other side of the wall, waking him up when he was trying to sleep away this awful, awful illness. It could be said that Doug Remer was a dick. Doug Remer was a bad friend. Doug Remer was . . .
“Hey, man.”
Coop peered over his shoulder. Remer stood in the doorway in his pyjamas.
“I’m bored,” Remer said, sighing. “When’re you gonna be better?”
Coop turned back to the wall. “People get better when they have supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“You know: medicine, food, something to stop them dying of boredom.”
“Dude, it’s been like, two days. Squeak said you had granola bars or something?”
“It would’ve been nice if you’d asked,” Coop sulked. “You haven’t even—” Remer had gone when he turned again. He’d left the door ajar, so Coop threw a pillow at it.
Folding his arms across his chest, Coop flipped onto his back, glaring at the ceiling. Doug Remer was a dick. Doug Remer was a bad friend.
If Remer got ill, Coop would take care of him. He had taken care of him. Back when he broke his wrist in fifth grade, Coop had become Remer’s hands. He’d written up his homework for him, cleaned his glasses, carried his books despite Remer’s perfectly good backpack. He’d even cut his food up for him in the cafeteria so he didn’t have to struggle with a knife and fork in front of the girl he had a crush on at the time. Coop tried not to smile when he remembered how much trouble he got Remer in by drawing a dick on his cast in permanent marker; he was supposed to be angry with him, not revisiting treasured memories.
Remer was noisily potting about in the kitchen, opening cupboards, digging through the cutlery drawer, until everything went quiet. He’d probably made himself breakfast, then fucked off to sit in the morning sunshine while Coop rotted away in his sweaty bedroom. Closing his eyes, he tried not to get too upset about it.
He must’ve dozed off, because Remer was sat on the edge of the bed lightly shaking his shoulder when he opened his eyes. The balled-up tissues were gone and there was a jug of orange juice on the nightstand. He’d opened the window, too.
“I got you some food,” Remer said, a dopey smile on his face. “I thought Squeak had that covered. Sorry, man.”
Doug Remer was an angel. Doug Remer was the best friend ever. Doug Remer was . . . handing him a bowl of marshmallows.
“I picked out the charms,” Remer said, looking down at the colourful pile of shapes. “I know you like those more than the cereal. Took ages. I went through two boxes.”
Coop smiled weakly. “Thanks.”
Doug Remer was an idiot, but Coop wouldn’t want him any other way.
3.
The crowd took their time leaving the garden. The game had gone on late, the celebrations even later after the Shirts snatched their semi-final victory. A few drunken stragglers were still singing loudly, no doubt annoying the neighbours who hadn’t yet embraced the driveway sensation that frequently lured hundreds to their once quiet street. One loyal fan had erected a tent on the garbage-strewn lawn ready for the final against the Skins tomorrow. Coop went to point it out to Remer, but he’d gone to bed.
A trail of clothes led to Remer’s room. Coop picked them up so the dog wouldn’t have to choose between shredding them or Squeak before morning. Too late, apparently. Coop’s hand went straight through a slice across the back of Remer’s sweater, though it looked too neat to be Jenkins’ work.
“Awrgh man.”
Aware that Remer’s IQ took about an hour to tick up to its usual number when he’d just woken up, Coop didn’t bother waking him to ask about the rip. He’d bitch at him about it tomorrow, maybe, after he’d fixed it. The place downtown where they got their kit printed wasn’t cheap—and hadn’t corrected Remer’s original mistake of writing ‘Shirts’ in the Team Name box and ‘Dudes’ in Apparel Type—and they weren’t exactly rolling in money right now.
After pulling open almost every drawer, he found his sewing kit: a rusted cookie tin full of junk he’d kept hold of over the years for one reason or another. Sifting through Lego blocks, ticket stubs, and the funniest notes Remer passed him at grade school, he dug out a spool of navy-blue thread, a needle, and that tomato pincushion he always slipped on his wrist while sewing, even if he didn’t need it.
It was an easy rip to mend, requiring nothing more than a simple running stitch—much easier than the seams of his La-Z-Boy ball—but Coop was dog tired, so it’d probably look like crap in the morning. Better than nothing, though. Better than letting it get worse and looking sloppy for tomorrow’s final.
The first time he’d sewn a button onto one of his shirts in front of Remer, he’d expected him to scoff and call him a girl for knowing how to sew. Instead, he’d asked who taught him, and after listening to him ramble about his grandma, said it was a pretty cool skill to have. Remer thought lots of things were ‘pretty cool’, but Coop appreciated his interest in his childhood stories: performing secret ‘surgeries’ on his stuffed toys; the needlework sampler he’d made his mom for Christmas the year they had no money for presents; being called a fag by his asshole uncle when he proudly showed him the patchwork quilt he made when he was seven. Remer was a good listener, sometimes.
Coop almost fell asleep twice while he finished the job, hunched over the table, accidentally stabbing his fingers every few stitches in the dim lamplight. This close to it, Remer’s sweater smelled like him, and not entirely in a bad way. It was kind of like he was with him, saying, “Thanks, dude” and, “You’re so good to me, man.” Even, “What a nice housewife you are,” which made Coop want to punch his absent friend in the arm.
Remer’s burp woke Coop in the morning. Or was it the afternoon? He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, the pincushion still strapped to his wrist and Remer’s mended sweater laying across the table. The sun hurt his eyes.
Snatching his sweater from the table, Remer slipped it over his head. “We’re out of milk,” he said, heading for the door, oblivious to the repair job. He probably hadn’t noticed the hole in the first place.
Coop watched through the window as the camping fan sprung from his tent and waved an autograph book under Remer’s chin. Remer signed it, saying something to the guy that made him run off down the street.
“Guy out front’s getting our milk,” Remer said, slumping onto the sofa beside Coop and rubbing his eyes.
As Coop tidied away his sewing kit, he felt like something was coming: a turning point in their lives. People didn’t camp out, ask for autographs or go on milk runs for plain old nobodies.
4.
The blanket the nurse had draped over Coop’s lower half made him itch. He daren’t move his legs though. It hurt real bad, and he’d been told to keep as still as possible until they knew what was wrong. They predicted a torn hamstring, a potentially career-ruining injury. Coop had chewed his fingers about it since he got here, rushed away from Beers Garden on a stretcher, sped in an ambulance to the ER, then . . . nothing.
Waiting was the worst part. Waiting for an available doctor. Waiting for an X-ray. Waiting for someone to spot him through the gap in the blue privacy curtain, rush to the side of his bed and say, oh my god, it’s Airman! so he could roll his eyes and pretend to be embarrassed by the attention. The worst part by far was waiting to know the outcome of the game. He couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing Denslow because of his own stupidity.
The visiting team were so beefy and tall they called themselves the Gainesville Giants. Coop had tried shooting a single over their heads, using the slope of one of the base wedges as a springboard. It was showy, all for the crowd, but the angle and sudden energy of the move made something snap in the back of his right thigh, his legs giving way beneath him before he’d gotten any air. Instead of landing on his feet, he’d crashed face-first into the chest of one of the biggest of the Giants’ defenders: Brian “Big Boy” Boston.
He didn’t remember falling or hitting the floor. All he remembered was the flash of anger from Remer, who’d mistakenly thought Boston had tackled him illegally. Coop had grabbed Remer’s ankle to stop him getting into a fight he couldn’t win. The next thing, the medics were lifting Coop onto a stretcher while the crowd yelled and threw whatever they could find. The referee’s whistle sounded continuously over the commotion, and through the pain, Coop saw Squeak trying to drag Remer off the field.
What a mess.
“Is he in this one?” Remer’s voice on the other side of the curtain had Coop jolting upright, wincing at the resulting jab of agony.
When Remer stepped through the curtain, Coop’s heart sank. Remer had a black eye. A bad one. His purpled eyelid was so swollen it pushed his eye closed. Under that, his bottom lip was split, dried blood gumming the wound together.
“Are you okay?” Remer asked, voice hoarse with what sounded like worry.
“Are you okay, dude?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “You should see the other guy.” Shimmying along the side of Coop’s bed, he glanced at the sheet covering his lower half. “Are your legs still on?”
Coop huffed a laugh. “Yeah.” God, he’d missed him. They’d only been apart for an hour and a half, two hours tops, but being reunited felt as good as that cheesy Peaches & Herb song said.
Perching on the arm of the visitor’s chair, Remer reached out and cupped Coop’s cheek in his hand. It was an unexpectedly tender touch, but Coop didn’t stop him.
“I was so worried,” Remer said, thumbing Coop’s cheekbone.
“Did we win?” Coop swallowed, looking up into his friend’s eyes, awaiting the inevitable. Remer’s palm was warm, the brushing of his thumb kind of soothing, almost enough to make him forget the pain.
“Yeah, but Denslow’s real mad at us.” At Coop’s look of surprise, he added, “Mad at me.”
“Why?”
“Apparently it’s ‘unsportsmanlike’ to punch another player in the face.” He smiled as much as he could with his wounded mouth. “I thought Boston shoved you.”
Remer leant in, and Coop thought he was going in for a hug until their foreheads touched. He sighed, still holding his face.
Coop closed his eyes. Even if it was Boston’s fault he’d been injured, Remer was crazy to think he could take him on and win. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah I know,” Remer whispered. His words brushed hot over Coop’s lips, making him shiver enough for Remer to notice. “You in pain?”
“Kinda.” The drugs helped. Remer’s hand on his face, his concern and his mere presence, helped more.
Why it felt natural to lean into Remer’s mouth, Coop wasn’t sure, but it did, so he did. He kissed Remer so softly it might’ve been mistaken for something else. An accident perhaps, their lips brushing, skin catching on skin, neither of them really minding enough to pull away. But Coop meant it as a kiss, not an accident, and he hoped Remer would kiss him back and make this nightmare go away for just a moment.
Coop waited, heart pounding, for Remer to do something. Anything. When he did, opening his mouth and pressing in, Coop’s gasp caught in his throat. Remer heard it, stroking his face with his thumb again, telling him wordlessly that everything was okay, and everything would be okay too.
Remer’s tongue curled along the inside of Coop’s top lip before he sucked it gently. Leaning into him—not caring about his leg anymore—Coop supressed a groan and grabbed a fistful of Remer’s curls. Why had they never done this before?
The world was background noise, everything focusing down to the delicate touch of Remer’s tongue, the hot press of his bloodied lips. There was no Baseketball, no Denslow, no Giants, not even the beeping machines on the other side of the curtain. There was only them, and only this.
Remer pulled back sharply moments before the curtain scraped open. It was the doctor, finally, his ID swinging from the pocket of his white coat. He glanced up from his clipboard briefly before scribbling something on it.
Throughout the doctor’s questions and examinations, Coop tried to concentrate, but all he could think about was Remer, that kiss, and whether they’d ever do anything like that again.
5.
The TV camera’s bulging, unblinking eye stared at him, and Coop sensed the same disappointment through that lens as he’d seen on the face of every egg-flinging fan in Beers Garden tonight. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. There was a microphone in his face that he was rambling into; that’s all he knew. Denslow’s death had hit him as hard as those eggs.
In his peripherals, Remer stood to the side of the cameraman, arms folded, waiting for his turn to speak. Coop started addressing him rather than Tim McCarver, who only cared about getting the best scoop on the Denslow Cup’s latest losers.
“I’m feeling pretty vulnerable right now,” Coop mumbled, trying not to look at Remer. “I don’t think I should be alone. I really need people to talk to . . .”
Before he knew it, Tim was interviewing Remer, so Coop wandered off in a daze of grief, no direction in mind.
No one in the locker room wanted to talk to him. They’d nod in basic acknowledgement, then promptly turn on their heels and find something better to do. It wasn’t entirely Coop’s fault they’d lost the game. Falling for a psyche out wasn’t the worst thing a player could do, and did it really count if the thing was actually happening?
The memory kept replaying in Coop’s head: Denslow falling from the stands and hitting the ground. If only there’d been something he could’ve done to help him. If only the last thing Denslow saw hadn’t been his team losing a championship, his championship. It hurt too much to think about.
*
Coop wasn’t sure how long he’d been slumped on the sofa staring at the TV. It wasn’t switched on. He didn’t want to watch coverage of Dallas’ celebrations or Denslow’s legacy. He didn’t want to do anything.
Remer didn’t seem terribly affected by their losses tonight. What moved him more was Coop’s reaction. He’d tried getting him to do the happy dance three times since they got home, but the happy dance just didn’t cut it in this situation.
What was Baseketball without Ted Denslow? Where would the Beers be next week without proper management? The news would be crawling over them tomorrow, probably parking their trucks on the hallowed ground that was their driveway to get a statement. There’d be a funeral, and he’d need to buy a suit.
He popped the cap off another beer.
“Dude, don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Remer asked, appearing behind him like a phantom. He put his hands on Coop’s shoulders and started massaging them not-so gently.
Coop leaned forward, pulling out of his grasp. “I’ve hardly had any.” However many he’d had, it wasn’t enough. He was still sober enough to think and regret and feel sorry for himself.
“Maybe you should get some sleep.”
Coop scoffed. “The last thing I’ll be able to do tonight is sleep.” There was too much to think about—a problem Remer rarely suffered from.
“You wanna play pool?”
“I’m not in the mood.” He wasn’t in the mood for clearing all the junk off the pool table either.
“We could . . . watch a movie?”
After downing a big slug of beer, Coop said, “Nope.”
“Nintendo?”
Coop shook his head. He was quickly losing his patience.
“I know!” Remer came around the end of the sofa and sat on the arm. “We could dig the CB radio out of the garage and—”
“No, dude!” Coop slammed his beer on the table, upsetting its contents and sending brown foam flooding down the neck and all over the table. “Just let me fucking grieve in peace, okay? God!”
Remer’s mouth fell into a line. He looked at the beer-soaked table, then Coop. “Fine. I’ll leave you to drink yourself stupid on your own. Goodnight.”
Coop wanted to grab his sleeve and apologise, ask if they could just sit quietly and let the events of tonight sink in. He did neither of those things.
Slumping back into the cushions, he took to staring at the TV again.
*
It was almost 4AM when the first news truck showed up outside. Coop stumbled over to the window and closed the curtains, burping as the contents of his stomach—almost entirely beer—sloshed around. He checked the front door was locked, briefly wondering why Squeak hadn’t come home yet, and went for a piss.
He felt like shit. What was shittier was that Remer was right. He should’ve gone to bed hours ago or at least tried to find something to occupy his mind besides moping and getting drunk. While washing his hands, he saw his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His bangs were still sticky from where Denslow smashed that final egg against his forehead.
Before Coop could think about it, he was crying. Ugly, snotty crying like when he was in Remer’s treehouse, the whole world going to hell around him. Hunched over the sink, faucet still running, he sobbed against the porcelain, chest heaving so much he thought he might puke.
The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, crying into his knees. Denslow was the only one who’d ever believed in him, and now he was gone. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair!
“Dude, you okay?”
Remer stood in the hallway in his underpants, peering into the bathroom with a concerned squint that might’ve been because he didn’t have his glasses on.
Coop shrugged and considered punching the wall. “Do I look okay?”
“Uh, no.”
Padding barefoot over their gross bathmat, Remer turned off the faucet and pulled Coop from the floor. “Come on. Bedtime.”
Coop let him hook his arm around his waist and drag him towards his bedroom. Embarrassingly, he was still crying. Once he’d opened the floodgates, seemed closing them again was hard.
“Remer,” Coop sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his trembling hand. “Will you sleep in my bed tonight?”
Without a blink, Remer said, “Sure,” pulled back the cover, and after shoving a fully clothed Coop under it, climbed in beside him.
They hadn’t slept in the same bed together since they were kids. There was that one night in tenth grade when they’d stayed over Felicity Cane’s house while her parents were away—though they’d shared that guest room bed with three other people, all guys, so it didn’t really count. Another night, in that hostel in Paris, some drunk chick Remer thought he had a chance with threw up on his mattress and practically forced them to share.
Finding a comfortable position beside Remer was relatively easy. Pressing his face into his neck, Coop snaked a hand around his waist and clung to his warm, bare skin while Remer’s arm circled his shoulder. His tears started slowing, and his trembling. Remer’s familiar scent soothed him. Somehow, it had always managed to do that. The gentle rise and fall of Remer’s chest gave him something to focus on. All too quickly, Coop realised how completely secure Remer’s embrace made him feel, how safe. He stopped crying.
“Feeling better?” Remer whispered, turning to hold him tighter.
“Not really.” It wasn’t entirely true, because being in Remer’s arms helped a lot, but he was still upset about Denslow and about losing, and if he admitted he felt better, Remer might leave.
“D’you know what might cheer you up?”
“What?” If he suggested the happy dance again . . .
“If we made out.”
Oh. It wasn’t the best time for Remer to suggest such a thing, but when was? They’d made out a few times since that night at the hospital: while drunkenly celebrating a victory in the locker room after everyone had gone home; New Year’s 1999 at midnight; while watching an old episode of Baywatch. Coop didn’t regret those kisses. He only wondered why they didn’t do it more often.
Making out with Remer would be a distraction. It’d be a comfort. And it’d be really, really nice. Coop found himself lifting his chin and seeking Remer’s mouth before he could think of any cons to add to his growing list of pros.
The world outside Coop’s head disappeared again, the way it always did when they did this. His attention shifted from his own sadness, and that painful void in the middle of his chest, to the warmth and sensation of Remer’s mouth.
Remer was a good kisser. Amazing, maybe. Coop wasn’t sure—he hadn’t kissed enough girls in his time to compare. Remer knew exactly how to tease his lips open with his tongue, where to bite to make Coop’s eyes roll back in his head. As his palm smoothed over Coop’s hip and under his shirt, he knew exactly how to hold him, how to pull him closer with fingers fanned between his shoulder blades in a way that made him feel loved and needed and . . . better.
Coop’s every muscle melted when Remer’s hand slid into his hair. He’d discovered how much he liked Remer’s fingers on his scalp the first time he’d helped him bleach his hair, but this was a whole other level of wonderful. Remer’s fingernails scraped over Coop’s crown, trailing all the way down the back of his neck. The touch sent goosebumps down his arms, sensation prickling under his skin that had him gasping, opening his mouth for Remer to tongue hungrily.
Out of their handful of make-out sessions, this was by far the most intimate. Coop had never felt this relaxed. There’d always been the possibility of someone seeing them, even if that someone was Squeak, but here, now, they were safe to get lost in each other.
The low groan in Remer’s throat went straight to Coop’s balls. His toes curled into the sheet as he grabbed his waist, unsure where to put his hands that were already roaming of their own accord. That was a sound he needed to hear again, and his mind flooded with images of how he might accomplish that. Feeling himself getting hard, he pulled away to regain his self-control.
Guilt set in, an icy feeling seeping into Coop’s bones when he remembered where his head had been before Remer’s mouth took it someplace else. Making out with his best friend wouldn’t bring Denslow back. It brought him a moment of mental quiet, colour and intrigue replacing greys and heartache, but that, and only that, felt . . . wrong.
“What’s up?” Remer whispered, dipping his head to kiss Coop’s neck with a gentleness he rarely possessed.
Coop swallowed, suddenly too hot. “I’m tired,” he said, pushing his nose into Remer’s springy curls as tears stung his eyes.
“Want me to stay?”
“Yes!” The speed and urgency of Coop’s answer revealed more than the word itself. He added a casual, “Okay,” hoping that’d help him sound less desperate for Remer’s company.
“Okay.”
+1
“You trust me, right?” Remer’s eyes were locked on his, the hotel’s orange mood lighting making them glow like amber.
Coop nodded, nervous but ready, leaning his cheek into Remer’s palm that was helping keep him steady. It did little to stop his trembling; he hadn’t stopped shaking since their victory lap of Beers Garden, the Denslow Cup held aloft between them. “Do it.”
A slow arch of his hips between Coop’s limp, spread thighs, and Remer’s cock pushed in. Coop stopped breathing, jaw hanging open as Remer kissed beneath his chin, lips dragging over his Adam’s apple as he moaned against his throat. It felt surprisingly good, only the mildest amount of pain for something Coop expected would feel like stepping on a thousand Legos.
They’d waited for this. It wasn’t waiting to admit what they were that kept them so long. Coop had to realise he was in love with his best friend first—something Remer worked out first for once, then kept quiet about until Coop caught up. They’d had their ups and downs, their fall outs and make-ups, pointless jealousies and labels and conversations they never thought they’d have, but they’d ended up here, where they needed to be, and when they needed to be.
“Fuck, you feel . . .” Remer linked his fingers with Coop’s and squeezed his hand tighter than he had when they snuck into Night of the Living Dead. Coop expected him to say something crude, something borrowed straight out of the pornos they’d watched until the tapes wore out, but all he managed was, “Oh, Coop.”
Remer’s cock sank all the way in, pushing the air from Coop’s lungs. The relief of finally doing this had his eyes watering, an incredulous, can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this laugh soaking into the soft skin of his shoulder. Those wild curls tickled his face, so he grabbed a handful.
“Does it hurt?” Remer asked, voice halting. Trying so hard not to move had his muscles quivering.
“Nah.”
There was something incredible about making out with Remer while his cock was buried in his ass. Coop urged him to move, sliding his bare feet up the backs of his thighs to pull him closer. He was used to telling Remer what to do, or at least encouraging him in that direction, and Remer never seemed to mind. Remer wasn’t incapable of surprising him, though. He surprised him now, snapping his hips up hard enough to make Coop gasp into their kiss.
“Fuck!” Coop dug his fingers into Remer’s knuckles and huffed another laugh into his cheek, embarrassed by how loud his reaction was to that jolt of pleasure.
Remer did it again. Their bodies thudded together with his sharp thrust, the force making them shudder, dazed by how good it felt. Coop writhed helplessly against the sheet. He felt like a coiled spring, and he had to work that energy out or he’d die.
By the time Remer was fucking him properly, somehow seeming both in control of himself and about to fall apart, Coop was left wondering, again, why they’d never done this before.
The way Remer rolled his hips left Coop so weak all he could do was lie there and pant, his body Remer’s to do with as he pleased. He didn’t mind him hooking an arm under the crook of his knee and pushing his legs back further, nor did he mind his tongue messily lapping at his jaw, teeth scraping skin. He definitely didn’t mind Remer speeding up, driving into the core of him so deep Coop thought he might break in two.
In a slur of surprised vowels, Remer shuddered and tensed his every muscle. Coop kneaded the back of his head and pressed his nose into his temple, lightheaded over what he knew was about to happen and wanting it more than anything. Remer’s hips spasmed as he came, the tension in his body snapping, making him collapse. He dropped his head against Coop’s shoulder, his deep, rumbling groan stunning him into an awed silence.
“Sorry,” Remer mumbled, unable to move.
Coop panted, “It’s okay.” He was pinned to the mattress under Remer’s weight, still kneading fingertips into his nape.
Remer’s cock twitched where it was buried to the hilt, and Coop bit his lip at how intense he felt down there, how oversensitive to even the tiniest movement.
“I tried to . . .” Remer swallowed, breathing hard against Coop’s bare chest. He lifted his head, but it flopped back down again almost immediately.
“I don’t care.”
Somehow, Remer found enough energy to push himself up on his forearms. He shuffled down Coop’s front, his softening cock slipping out, and took him in his mouth. When Coop arched from the bed, the ache of where Remer had been inside him made him groan through gritted teeth. God, Remer was good at giving head. Coop knew that. He’d never sucked him like this, though: languid, almost painfully slow, like he was tasting him. Before, it had always been somewhat rushed.
He came in Remer’s mouth, pushing his face into the hotel’s starched pillow, folding it over his face and biting it to supress his wail. When they did this at home, they had to keep quiet. He kept forgetting they didn’t need to worry about that here—that’s why they’d booked the room in the first place.
Remer peeled the pillow from Coop’s face and kissed him, pulling him onto his side and holding his face with both hands. Neither of them wanted to come up for air any time soon. They wanted more of each other, for as long as they could get it.
“Dude,” Remer breathed, finally breaking away. Coop knew what poetic declarations lay entangled within that word, things Remer couldn’t say, didn’t know how to, that made perfect sense to him. They thought alike. Things didn’t need saying aloud for them to know they existed.
“Dude,” Coop said back, exhausted.
Remer smiled slyly. “Can’t believe we won the cup.”
Coop punched him in the shoulder before rolling half on top of him, resting his head on his chest. They stayed like that, the reality of what they’d just done sinking in, while Remer twisted Coop’s hair around his fingers.
“That was incredible,” Coop said quietly, always the one who said what they both thought.
Remer didn’t say anything, but Coop knew from the way he stroked the back of his neck that he felt the same. Remer opened his mouth, drawing a breath as though he were about to say something, but he sighed instead. When he finally found the words, they were, “Can you grab me a Coke?”
Coop punched him again, softer this time. “You only wanna check out my ass.”
Remer laughed. “I can do that whenever I want!”
Swiping a half-sized, double-priced can from the minibar’s door, Coop threw it overarm to where Remer reclined on the bed. He caught it in his left and tapped the top a few times so it wouldn’t go everywhere when he opened it.
Their clothes were all over the floor, scattered in the frantic, adrenaline-fueled lead up to what turned out to be a slower, more passionate fuck than Coop ever thought possible of his friend . . . boyfriend—he had to remember that. Picking up his kit’s undershirt, he slid it over his head.
“You think room service’ll deliver us a Taco Bell?” Remer asked, tossing the can he’d already emptied at the trash. He missed, which was hilariously ironic.
“Probably. Though I’d put some clothes on first.”
“Naked Taco Bell, though.” Remer waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Coop burst into laughter. “You in?”
Grabbing the phone, Coop dialled nine.