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“Fitz,” Macklin said, but it was more choked out than anything, “Fitz, Fitz, my mouth—”
Fitz repositioned himself by Macklin’s face, nudging at his mouth with the back of his hand. There were too many guys around him, with Fitz at the helm, not having done much of anything yet; Harv underneath him, and Hutty situated between his legs like he was fucking a chick. Murts was just jerking himself off as always, the pussy. All these guys and not a single one could deign himself to at least touch Macklin’s dick, currently hidden under his own hoodie that was hastily thrown over it.
If it wasn't seen, it didn't exist, which was whatever. It was typical.
With a final touch to Macklin’s jaw, Fitz rested his dick against Macklin's mouth, already wet with smeared precum. Or maybe it was drool. It was too difficult to tell under the haze of inebriation. He felt very overfull, too stretched and overstimulated by the two dicks already inside him, off-kilter in their rhythm so there was no break. Maybe it would be unthinkable if he was sober. But sober him wouldn’t curl his tongue around Fitz and let him glide there, so sober Macklin would just have to stay put while drunk Macklin had both of their fun. He was jolted into Harv’s chest by Hutty lifting his hips as high as he could, which wasn’t very high at all. Macklin was too bottom-heavy for that. The whistle he’d worn for his MarMon outfit slid up his sweaty chest.
Murts picked up the whistle from Macklin's collarbone, bringing it close enough to his face that it tugged on Macklin's neck with an unpleasant pull. It felt like a leash. He closed his eyes as Murts just yanked on it harder. Every time he breathed he could feel the two cocks sliding against each other and him and ugh BU boys always knew how to party, didn’t they, always liked to use Macklin in the exact ways he was so bad at asking for. Especially Fitz. A year apart and he could just hug Macklin, let his hand stray a little bit too close to the curve of his ass and let it be unspoken but so obvious. That Fitz liked him, or his body, or what-the-fuck-ever combination of the two; not that it mattered, not that Macklin was keeping track that this was his fifth time of having several of his teamies use his body whichever way they pleased or anything.
“Is this a rape whistle?” Murts asked, his voice like a sharp knife to the silky pleasure.
Macklin's eyes flew open. “Wha’?” The vibration of his confusion went into Fitz's dick and made it twitch.
Murts pushed the whistle into Macklin's face and waited for an answer. It was a shiny metallic red, still a bit shiny with his sweat, and shaped like an oblong rectangle. He'd worn it under his hoodie so it wouldn't get caught on anything.
“It’s just a whistle,” Macklin said, except the words were mushy in his mouth since neither Hutty nor Harv seemed to give a damn about the whistle and kept fucking him.
“Definitely a rape whistle,” Fitz chimed in with.
Macklin shook his head. “No, it’s just a whistle I had lying around. It fits my, like, outfit, like I'm a coach or something, right?”
The whistle had been a gift from Sid during Worlds last year. Or, well, a gift in that it’d been slipped into Macklin's hand as they separated for dinner one night, but that didn’t mean…
“If it was part of your outfit, why didn’t you wear it outside your shirt?”
“I dunno.” Macklin didn’t like this conversation. He didn't want to think about why Sid would have given it to him in the first place, besides maybe that it was just a joke even if Sid never brought it up to him since. But maybe he was in it for the long con, a patient prank to laugh about down the road?
“Aw, lay off him,” Fitz said. “How often do we get to see Mack? You’re not gonna use it on us, though, right?”
Instead of answering, Macklin flexed his tongue against Fitz's leaky cock—the weird thing, that Fitz only seemed to have gotten harder since the whistle was brought up—a last-ditch attempt to keep the reunion from getting weird. It worked. Murts let it fall onto Macklin's chest as Fitz nearly bent over him, riding his dick along Macklin's slick lips.
The rocking of Hutty and Harv settled Macklin’s guard back to a state of complacency. Murts started to mess with Macklin’s hair, pushing through the bangs plastered to his temple and scattering them across his forehead.
And still nobody wanted to get Macklin off. It wasn't like that with his Sharks, all of them practically falling over each other to get their hands on him.
Fitz was the only one who stayed behind after, sat crisscross on the edge of the bed as Macklin pulled his clothes back on. All he did was watch in silence. It kinda weirded Macklin out, so he paused to unlock his phone. Right about now was when he and Will were supposed to meet up.
Me: Can u come get me
He was interrupted by Fitz, who wrapped his arms around Macklin’s hips, rubbing his face into his lower back. “What're you doing?”
“I'm s’posed to see Smit today,” he said, eyes glued to the screen.
Smitty: Location accurate?
Me: Yeag
Smitty: Okay few mins
Me: Ok
With that, Macklin locked his phone and put it away, all while Fitz did nothing besides breathe into his back. This wasn't all that unusual. Fitz tended to get clingy, especially after flings that didn't matter. He did it with the girls he had one-night stands with.
“Do you spread yourself like that for your new teammates?” Fitz eventually asked, but he didn't sound like he actually cared. It was more like he just wanted to know something, to hear it confirmed.
Macklin shrugged. “What's it matter? Season's over.” He turned around, and as he grabbed his hat off the bed, Fitz snatched the whistle around his neck and blew it.
A terrible screech blasted into both of their ears. Macklin covered his while Fitz cringed but still kept blowing into it until Macklin jerked away.
“Shit,” Fitz said. “It's like one of those Aztec death whistles.”
“Fuck, Fitz,” Macklin muttered. “Why'd you do that?”
“I wanted to see if it was really a rape whistle? Duh.”
“It's not.”
“Lowkey, it kinda is. See, it's a rectangle instead of that circle-y shape.”
Macklin squinted as he tried to make sense of that. There was definitely a time he should've cut himself off, and it was two hours ago. “Not all whistles are circle-y.”
“Name one that isn't.”
“A kazoo, screw off.”
“A kazoo isn't a friggin’ whistle. They're an instrument, not a—a—look, it's a rape whistle, okay? How'd you buy that without knowing? Did you lift it off Charlie?”
“It’s not.” Macklin ignored both of those questions. He didn't have a single clue why Sid would give it to him if it was a rape whistle, okay, how was he supposed to explain that to someone else? He couldn't. “It's a regular whistle, okay?”
“Whatever.” Fitz flopped down onto the bed. “Sure, Mack. It's just a regular whistle.”
A car horn honked from outside. Macklin made sure his jersey was on the right way before he left, and maybe he expected some kind of goodbye, anything, really, but there was none.
“Bye,” he said over his shoulder, to no response. Daylight hit him as he exited the place they'd holed up in. The house was on the border of the street shutdown, blocked off by metal barriers, which Will had his dad’s green Jag idling right outside of.
“Whose house is that?” Will asked once the passenger door was shut again.
“I dunno,” Macklin said. “Some student housing. The door was open, so.”
“That's trashy.”
“I guess.” Macklin leaned over the console to try and kiss him, just some kind of affection that didn't come from Fitz, but his hand slipped on the emergency break and Will turned his face away.
“God. Your breath smells awful,” Will said and bumped him away with his elbow. “Like beer and dick.”
“Sorry.” Macklin sat back and slumped between the seat and door. “Got any mints?”
“Uh.” Will rooted through the cupholders as he pulled back into traffic. “My dad just has Tic Tacs.”
“What flavor?”
“Orange?”
Macklin took five anyways, then added another three to be safe. He bounced them around on his tongue in the hopes of maybe, maybe getting his breath to a standard Will could find acceptable.
Once Will got away from the standstill traffic, he turned the FM dial to a local station, and tapped Macklin’s thigh.
“How was seeing your boys?”
“The usual,” Macklin said through a mouthful of quickly dissolving Tic Tacs. “Why, you want details?”
Will laughed; it kind of sounded like he didn't mean to and cleared his throat. “No, I'm—I’m okay. I don't really wanna know who was involved.”
“The usual,” Macklin repeated and spun his hat around so the brim was the right way round. The sun was brutal at this time of day, at least from this angle.
“Yeah, I didn't ask.” Will tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “I mean…”
“Yeah?”
“I don't really get why you're still fucking around with them. Aren't our boys enough?”
“Season’s over, man. I won't see our boys until August, right?”
“Yeah, but do you need it, like, that bad? What's the appeal?”
“You’re part of it,” Macklin said quickly, a little more heated than he meant. “You tell me.”
Will made a noise. “I dunno. It’s different from the other side.”
“I don't wanna talk about this anymore. How's my breath?” He leaned over and huffed into Will’s face, and got a scrunched nose.
“Beer, dick, and oranges.”
“That good?”
“Really stellar,” Will said with another laugh. “Hold on, let me get to the red.”
Macklin waited very patiently, even if his neck hurt from the twisty way he'd positioned himself. Really, his whole body hurt, but in that kinda nice way where he'd fall asleep in five seconds flat tonight. The car came to a smooth stop, and Will turned his face so he could finally give Macklin a very simple, slightly-off-the-mark kiss that landed on the corner of his mouth.
“You're sober,” Macklin said.
“Duh. I'm driving right now. But we're going to that guy’s restaurant, remember? And then I'm gonna leave the car, and Gabe is gonna drive it back tomorrow ‘cause he owes me.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Hey, what d’you call this?” Macklin held the whistle out between them—almost, because his arm swayed and he choked himself a little.
Will side-eyed it, then darted his mouth into a frown. “It's one of those safety whistles. Is that Charlie’s?”
“Oh my god,” Macklin said. “No. It's mine. Sid gave it to me last year.”
Will was quiet for a moment. He tapped the wheel again. “Why?”
“Hell if I know.”
“You could ask him.”
“Nah, I don't wanna make it weird.”
“He made it weird by giving it to you.”
Macklin snorted. “What, you want me to text him, like, ‘hey bud good luck in your games, also why'd you give me the whistle?’”
“Yeah?”
“I'm not doing that, man.”
“Okay, then you'll never know. Did you have fun at least?”
The traffic came to another stop at a light, and Macklin wanted to roll out of the door. What was he supposed to say, that yes, Smit, getting fucked by his selfish former teammates was the highlight of his day? But that'd be a lie, because he didn't really have fun. He just did what they always do, a neat routine to fit into his summers away from San Jose.
“Yeah. Lots of fun,” he said dryly.
“You sound so happy about it,” Will scoffed.
“Yep.” Macklin rolled the window down. “Happy happy.”