"Hey." Carey sounds, as usual, like he was in the middle of a moderately boring TV show when PK called. Which probably isn't true - more likely he was massaging his saddles or hoisting his horses or - whatever, PK is not an expert in the weird crap Carey chooses to do in the offseason. The point is, though, that Carey clearly is not stoned, which is kind of a pity. It would have made this easier.
"What're you doing?" PK's trying to figure out how to work into this gradually. Like, he's had phone sex before, a bunch, but it's always been a kind of, hey, take your pants off, let's go, all on the same page deal. And there was never any kind of - ulterior motive.
It's a good thing PK likes a challenge; Carey is just not giving him anything to work with. "You got time to talk? Anyone over or anything?" Come on, Carey, pick up what I'm putting down.
"Yeah, sure. No one's here." Carey's still not asking.
Fuck it. PK's a lot of things, but subtle is not and will never be one of them. He was going to work up to this, he had a whole plan of getting Carey to admit shit, but - "I picked up some rope today," he says.
There's a pause on the other end as Carey thinks about that one. "What kind of rope?" he asks. Carey's such a fucking weirdo.
"Nylon," PK answers. He did some googling and figured nylon was best.
"I have no idea." He'd just picked something that looked like it would fit pretty comfortably. It isn't like he's planning to use this for something technical.
"Well, that makes a difference, PK" Carey says, and at least PK knows Carey's interested, now; he's got that drawling tone he sometimes gets when he's making fun of PK.
PK really likes that tone of voice. It brings out the best in him. "I don't think it's going to matter much. It looks good around my wrists, and that's pretty much all I wanted."
There's a silence. PK's gotten pretty good at judging Carey's silences over the past year, and he knows this one is alert, intent, interested - this is Carey not talking because he doesn't want to give anything away and he doesn't trust his own voice. PK likes this silence almost as much as he likes it when Carey finally can't stop himself from talking. But that's getting ahead of things here.
"I even tried it out in the store," PK says casually. He's actually got the rope, and he puts it across his wrist, like he knew better than to do in the store. "I picked white because it showed up best. It shows up really well." He hopes this is doing it for Carey, because it's starting to do it for him.
More silence. Carey's not talking yet. That's fine. PK can talk until Carey breaks.
"I wouldn't really know how to use it, though, is the thing." PK actually did check out some tutorials. Mostly he learned that he got off really fast when he thought about being tied up. Or thought about Carey tying him up.
"Well." Carey's trying for his usual neutral tone, but he's not quite getting there, and that makes PK's pulse pick up, sends blood straight to his dick. "How were you planning to, uh?" Carey clears his throat. "How did you want to be?"
"I figured, you know. Spread out on a bed. On my back." That sounds really good to PK right now, is the deal. He can picture it, being helpless, all of Carey's focus on him, barely able to move, Carey calling the shots. It. It works.
Carey laughs, just a little. His voice sounds dry when he says, "Yeah, that's good for a start."
"Just a start?" PK figured that'd be pretty much the gold standard of getting tied up and fucked.
"Might want to tie your knees to your chest," Carey says, and PK feels a flash of heat all over his body, because he can picture it, helpless and exposed, Carey fucking him, how different it'd feel when PK couldn't do anything but take it. His dick is throbbing in his pants, and he reaches down and takes it out, just holds it.
"But you'd start out spread eagle?" PK mostly wants to keep Carey talking; he's not paying all that much attention to what he's saying.
"Yeah, I would," Carey says. He hesitates for a second, and then - "Would you want that?"
"Fuck yes," PK says. "I didn't go to a fucking hardware store to buy rope because I thought it'd look nice on you."
"I'd cuff tie you, probably," Carey says. "Keep you from being the pushy fuck you always are." He's into it now, PK can tell; his voice is deeper, rougher. PK fucking loves his voice like this. "Spread you out on the bed and make you beg."
PK's dick jerks in his hands. "Oh, you think you could make me beg?" he says, and he makes sure Carey can hear the challenge.
Carey doesn't even hesitate before he answers; he's into this now, really into it. "Of course I could," he says. "I know you."
PK gives his dick a couple strokes, because Carey's voice, and the things he's saying - PK can't not. "You can't know my weak points," PK says, just to keep challenging Carey. "Because I don't have any."
"I'd lick your nipples until you needed me to go lower," Carey says, and it's not just what he's saying, it's that he's so sure, so confident, and PK's jerking off for real now, slow but serious. "And when I did, I'd just lick your dick, get you wet, but no pressure, nothing that would get you off, just tasting you for as long as I wanted." He swallows hard, and repeats it with a different emphasis. "For as long as I wanted."
"Yeah," PK says, and it's really all he can say, because he's getting close.
"Hey," Carey says. "Are you jerking off?"
"Of course I am, this is fucking hot," PK says honestly. "Aren't you?"
Carey ignores the question, which means he is. God. Yes. "You still have the rope?" Carey says.
"Yeah," PK grits out.
"Wrap it around your dick," Carey says.
PK almost comes just from Carey saying that, but he doesn't. He grabs the rope and does what Carey told him to, and it looks - "God," he says. "I wish you could see this, this looks -" It looks amazing, and PK's dick is throbbing.
"Jerk yourself off with it," Carey says. "Just a little."
PK does - it's soft, it's smooth, it feels unfamiliar and good, and Carey's breathing hard in his ear now, and the combination pushes PK over the edge, moaning. Maybe that does it for Carey, because he takes a sharp breath and holds it the way he does when he comes.
PK's brain is fizzing. "Fuck," he says. "I'm a genius."
"Hey, PK?" Carey says, and his voice is low and drawn out and relaxed. PK loves this voice, too.
"You should come visit," Carey tells him. "I have a lot of rope."
"Yeah, but your rope's been around cows and shit." PK's arguing pretty much by reflex, because he just lives to push at Carey. Until Carey pushes back. "Mine is new and clean - well, mostly clean." He hastily wipes the jizz off the rope. "You should come here."
"I have a lot of rope you've never seen before," Carey tells him. "Some I think you'd really like."
He just leaves it there, hanging, but it was never like PK wasn't going to give in. "This weekend?" PK says, trying to imagine what else Carey has. What he might show him.
"Gives me time to get ready," Carey agrees.
PK can't wait to find out what that means.
Jordan's already half hard by the time Hallsy calls him. He turned the ringer off so his mom wouldn't hear it and know he's still awake, and he had it on his stomach so he wouldn't maybe miss the call, and the vibration feels great.
Maybe he's more than half hard. Whatever. He answers the phone. "Hey."
"Hey." Hallsy sounds breathless, which is - well, it's Hallsy, so maybe he was just running or whatever, but Jordan lets himself picture it anyway, in his room in his parents' house with the door locked, already naked. After a few seconds, Hallsy breaks in. "Um, are we doing this? Because if not, we can just Skype."
"Impatient," Jordan comments.
"Well, the last time I tried phone sex, she hung up on me," Hallsy complains.
"I'll only hang up on you if you get boring," Jordan promises.
"Oh, fuck you," Hallsy snaps back.
Jordan can't stop himself from saying, "Yeah, okay, I want to." They've never actually done that, they've never gone past handjobs and that one time Jordan tried to put his mouth on Hallsy's dick and Hallsy came on his face. But. Jordan would, okay? Hallsy has a fucking awesome ass.
There's a silence, and Jordan wonders if maybe he's gone too far, and then he hears Hallsy swallow, with an audible clicking sound because his mouth has gone dry. "Yeah, um," Hallsy says. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," Jordan says, settling back, getting comfortable. He just lets his hand rest on his dick, enough to shut it up but not enough to risk going anywhere before he's ready. "I'd totally do you." And then he can't stop himself from saying it: "In the butt."
Hallsy cracks up, and Jordan does, too, even though he's kind of pissed at himself for ruining the moment. After a second, though, Hallsy's laughter dies off, and he's back to whining. "Okay, but, like. Am I supposed to ask what you're wearing? Because this isn't getting me off."
"I'm not wearing anything," Jordan tells him honestly. "What, did you dress up for phone sex?"
"I thought we were supposed to, like, you know." Hallsy's voice trails off the way it does when he's realized too late that maybe he doesn't want to say what he's already saying.
"Like - you'd tell me to take it off, or whatever." Hallsy sounds a little sulky about it.
"I just figured it made sense to be naked," Jordan says, "but dude. I will totally give you orders if you want." Hallsy doesn't say anything to that, which means - holy shit. "Seriously?" Jordan says, and then he's hurrying on, "What are you doing?"
"Talking to you," Hallsy says. "Not getting off."
"Yeah, you won't for a while," Jordan tells him. "Get your hand off your dick." He pauses for a second or two, long enough for him to be sure Hallsy's done it, and then he says, "Tell me what you're wearing." Jordan's totally winging this, but probably Hallsy isn't, like, a sex talk connoisseur or anything.
"Um," and Hallsy has to clear his throat before he can talk more, which is so fucking hot Jordan kind of can't deal with it. "Sweatpants. T-shirt."
"Get your t-shirt off," Jordan says. "And your sweatpants." Jordan actually hates Hallsy's stupid attachment to tighty whities - like, seriously? he's such a dipshit - but that doesn't stop him from appreciating the view when Hallsy's hard in them. And he won't be seeing anything this time, but he still wants to imagine it.
"Okay," Hallsy says. He hesitates for a second, and adds, "Um, what now?"
Jordan's floored for a second. Like. He doesn't want Hallsy's hands anywhere near his dick, because then this will be over too fast, but - what else do you do during phone sex? And then he kind of shrugs and starts making shit up. "Get your fingers wet. Suck on them," he says. He's not sure if the wet noises do anything for Hallsy, but they kind of work for him. "Run them over your nipples."
"I'm not a fucking girl," Hallsy grouses.
Okay, no. "If I hang up this phone," Jordan tells him, "you won't be getting off."
"What?" Hallsy's trying for indignant and hitting honest confusion instead.
"You get off with me or you don't," Jordan says.
After a few seconds, Hallsy says, "For, like, the entire time I'm home?"
Jordan had been thinking in terms of maybe a day, but that's just too fucking hot. "Yeah. So do what I fucking tell you to or go take a cold shower."
"Okay, okay," Hallsy says. "I'm - I'm - uh."
Jordan's feeling kind of drunk with power now. "Tell me."
"Touching my nipples," Hallsy says irritably.
Normally, Jordan would bite them, which translates to - "Okay, pinch them."
"Ow, you fucker," Hallsy says, but he sounds pretty breathless. And he's doing it, which is such a ridiculous turn-on that Jordan's dick is throbbing, even though he's not really jerking off at all.
"Run your fingernails along your stomach," Jordan says. "And your thighs, but don't you fucking dare touch your dick, not until you're leaking."
"Oh, fuck," Hallsy says, breathlessly, and then - "So, uh, if I already am, then...?"
Holy fuck, if he's already leaking then this is really doing it for Hallsy, and that's so hot Jordan has to stroke his cock a few times. "Yeah," he manages to say while he's doing that.
"Like - through the underwear, or -"
Fuck, Jordan forgot about the underwear. It's such a good mental image, Hallsy so hard his dick is pushing at the waistband, leaving a wet spot, but - yeah, okay, he should probably get those off. "Push them down," he says. "Get your dick out."
Hallsy makes a gasping noise when he does it, and Jordan's cock jolts in sympathy, even though it's been free this whole time. Jordan says, "Touch yourself, but just the head, just where it's wet. Tips of your fingers."
"I hate you," Hallsy says, and then he moans. A few seconds later, he stutters out, "I, uh, I - can I - like, with my hand?"
"I told you, just the fingertips," Jordan says, but he's feeling generous, so - "run them up and down the shaft." He gives himself another stroke, just one, because he fucking needs it.
Hallsy's not saying anything, but he's breathing pretty hard.
"Lick your fingers," Jordan says, "and then touch your balls." Hallsy likes being touched there, but it won't get him off.
There's more heavy breathing, and Jordan takes the opportunity to give himself a few more perfect strokes, and it feels so fucking good, like he could come with just a few more, and that - gives him an idea, actually.
"Okay, jerk yourself off. Slow," Jordan tells Hallsy.
"Thank fuck," Hallsy says fervently.
"Tell me what you're doing, though."
"I'm, uh, I'm - seriously, what do you want me to say? I'm jerking off. Trying to keep it slow. It, um. It feels good."
Hallsy trails off, so Jordan says, "Keep talking."
"I - uh, I'm, I'm doing what you said, I'm getting myself off, I'm - oh god, I'm -"
Jordan's heard that gasp enough to know that Hallsy's close. "Okay, stop."
"Ebs," Hallsy whines. "Seriously? I'm so fucking close."
And Jordan's cock just isn't going to put up with waiting any longer, but that's no reason for Hallsy to get off. "Put your hand under your head so you're not tempted," he says.
"Not tempted to do what I called you up to do?" Hallsy says. "Okay, fine. Now what?"
"Just listen," Jordan says. He squirts some lube onto his hand and really goes for it, making sure Hallsy can hear him, being louder than he'd normally be when he was just jerking off. But then, he's not just jerking off, not exactly. He knows Hallsy is there, on the other hand of the phone, hard and leaking, listening to everything, desperate to get his hand back on his dick, but waiting to come because Jordan told him to. "Oh, fuck, Taylor," he says, and then he comes.
It takes a few seconds for his brain to come back online, and by the time it does, Hallsy's talking. "You better still be there, you fucker, because you seriously can't just leave - after you said - and you, what you just did, I - are you still there?"
"Yeah," Jordan says, and stretches out on his bed comfortably. "How bad do you want to get off?"
"So fucking bad," Hallsy says instantly. "Please, Ebby. Please."
Jordan was going to make him wait, but he can't resist Hallsy's genuinely pleading tone. "Do it," he says, and Hallsy moans in relief. He doesn't talk through it, but the gasps and noises are easy for Jordan to follow - Hallsy's already really turned on, pretty close, and he finishes fast, not more than a dozen strokes before he's coming.
"Oh, fuck," Hallsy says a minute later. "Wow."
"Yeah, that worked," Jordan says, and maybe he sounds a little smug, but he can't fucking help it.
"Uh, were you - were you serious about me not jerking off unless I'm on the phone with you?" Hallsy asks, and he sounds hesitant but really into it.
"Yeah. That okay with you?" Jordan asks.
"That's going to suck so much," Hallsy says. "You better be on the phone with me every night."
"Sure," Jordan says, and grins. This summer is going to be awesome.
Can I call you?
yeah now good ))))) all ready
Are you alone? Do you have time?
yyyyyy Sid I alone, READY
They don't say anything when Geno picks up the phone, not even hello. If either of them talks, Sidney gets awkward and can't - go through with it. And anyway, it's enough to hear the noises, the way Geno moans from the very beginning, like he can't get enough of it, the way his breath stutters as he gets close, his cut-off "Ah!" as he comes.
Sidney, for his part, makes sure Geno can hear him. Normally he at least tries not to make too much noise, even if he's not always that successful. But when they do this over the phone, Sidney lets Geno hear him. Wants Geno to hear him, even. Wants Geno to know how he feels.
And, really, no words are necessary at all. Which is how Sidney likes it.
When Johnny answers the phone, Kaner's already in mid-rant, his speech a little slurred. "And I just - I don't fucking know," Kaner's saying. "Like, what was I supposed to do?"
"Act like a grownup," Johnny says instantly, because that's pretty much always the answer to everything with Kaner. "Fake it."
"Fuck you, I do," Kaner says. "I just gotta be me, okay?"
Yeah, Johnny knows. He doesn't have to like it, but he knows. And since Kaner's pretty much only going to be hearing himself right now - he's talking about some bartender who didn't understand him - Johnny lets himself do something else he doesn't have to like. He reaches down and undoes his fly, as slowly as he can stand.
He's not hard yet, but he knows himself. He'll get there fast.
When he's got his pants open, Johnny pulls his dick out. Then he checks in. Kaner's still talking about the bartender - or, no, now he's talking about the bar. "Fucking awesome drinks," he says. "She made me this one with, like, four kinds of blue stuff. It was great."
Johnny takes a careful breath, to make sure it comes out perfectly even and disapproving. "Thought you were going to stick to just beer."
"I was celebrating," Kaner says reproachfully. "I know you don't understand the concept, but it's when you do something you don't usually do. For fun."
Fuck, but his petulant voice does it for Johnny. He has the worst fucking taste. "Yeah, I wouldn't understand your kind of celebration," he says. He makes himself wait until the sentence is all the way out to give himself the first stroke, and waiting just makes it better.
"Fuck you, I do what I want," Kaner says, which is pretty much a reflexive response at this point from him.
Johnny stills his hand; his cock throbs in response. "Yeah, you do." He breathes, slow and careful and controlled, and starts stroking again.
"Do you want to hear my story or not?" Kaner asks, stuttering a little over the first word.
Johnny stops again. Fucking Kaner. He'll talk forever, except when you want him to talk, and then he starts asking questions. Kaner's always got to be difficult. "Yeah," Johnny says, and he's pretty sure Kaner won't notice if his voice is a little husky. The state he's in, Kaner probably wouldn't notice anything.
Kaner hesitates an extra second or two, but then he starts talking again, about a girl he was flirting with - striking out with, Johnny mentally substitutes - at the bar. "She was, you know, really hot, and her tits -"
Johnny pictures it, pictures Kaner smiling at her, trying to flirt with her, staring at her tits. He wonders what she thought of him, if she considered taking him home, if she had any idea what a dick he is, or what fucking amazing hands he has. And while he pictures it, he's letting himself do what he knows he shouldn't, what he shouldn't even want to, but he's so fucking hard, and Kaner - Kaner's talking, being himself all over the place, and Johnny just lets himself go, stroking hard and fast, desperate to get off.
He's getting closer, closer, so fucking close - and then he realizes Kaner's last sentence ended with a question. Damn it. Johnny makes himself stop, but it's torture, and he grinds out, "What?"
Kaner's breathing is a little unsteady now. "You okay there?"
"Fine," Johnny snaps, which is maybe not convincing, but he just needs Kaner to talk a little more. "What - what were you - uh, saying?"
"I was asking if you think maybe it'd help if I had a wingman. Like maybe Shawsy, he'd probably do it. Maybe we could score a threesome."
And that's it, that's - Johnny doesn't want to think about that at all, but the burst of anger he feels is exactly what he needs, and it takes maybe three more strokes before he's coming. He doesn't let himself make noise, he holds his breath, but at the end he can't help the gasp he makes.
There's silence on the other end of the phone.
"Johnny, did you - are you done?" Patrick asks. He sounds hesitant, like he's trying to remember what they're doing here. Even though he knows exactly what they're doing here.
"Yeah," Johnny rasps out.
"Was it good?"
"Yes." So fucking good, and right now Johnny's too high on endorphins to feel embarrassed, even.
"God, I - I have to get off right now," Patrick says, and it's obvious he's doing exactly that. Johnny imagines him fumbling with his fly, getting a hand on his dick, but then he doesn't have to, because Patrick is talking. No longer slurring, but talking. "I could fucking hear you, you aren't that subtle, and I kept forgetting what I was supposed to be talking about, you're so fucking hot when you're like this, god, I just want - I just want - your mouth, god, maybe next time I could talk while you suck me off -" Patrick says, and then he can't talk anymore, just moan his way through his own orgasm.
A minute later, Patrick says, "Okay, so that was a good idea." His voice gets a little tentative. "Maybe next time we can try my idea?"
"Yeah, Patrick, yeah," Johnny says. Right now he'd promise him anything.
Well, pretty much most of the time he'd promise him - a lot, anyway.
"'Night," Patrick says, and there's a pause before he says, all in a rush, "Love you."
"Yeah," Johnny says. He can't - he can't exactly say it back yet, but - "me, too." He hopes that's enough. Probably it will be.
Kaner's flexible like that.
Jeff is maybe a little drunk. Just a little. Okay, but the season is ending, and they didn't win this year, and pretty soon they're going to pack their shit and go their separate ways for the fourteen minutes of this year's weird-ass offseason, and so, yeah, he and Richie have worked through most of the rest of the alcohol lying around Richie's house.
Well. There's no point in leaving it for the housesitter to drink.
So that's what they're doing. They're sprawled out in Richie's darkened living room, drinking inadvisable amounts of inadvisable mixes of things. And Jeff can feel himself getting stupid. There's things he hasn't been saying for a while, and he should probably keep right on not saying them, but. He's drunk. "So what? So it won't be like last summer," Jeff says, and he knows it's too soon, knows Richie is tensing up over there, but for once he wants to talk, so he does. "The thing that matters is, it won't be like the summer before that."
Richie snorts. "Yeah. That summer sucked."
Jeff's never heard him admit it before out loud. He's cursed Holmgren, he's cursed Snider, he's looked pissed off whenever anyone asked him about the trade, he's gone tight around the eyes when he saw leftover Flyers gear or even that particular shade of orange, but he's never said it in so many words: I hated leaving the Flyers. He's also never said I hated leaving you.
Jeff never has, either, but he's pretty sure his behavior made that perfectly clear to everyone who has ever followed hockey at any level. He's not - he's not exactly ashamed of the way he acted, because he's still not sure how he could have done anything else. But he definitely didn't leave anyone wondering how he felt about it, is the thing. So he's not really sure why he decides to say, "I would have been okay in Columbus if you'd been there."
Richie doesn't say anything, and Jeff is pretty sure he'll want to kick himself later for saying that, but he chooses to ride the drunken freedom from embarrassment for as long as it lasts. And then Richie says, almost too quietly for Jeff to hear, "I passed up trips out with the guys to call you."
Jeff gets that, he really does. He went out a few times in Columbus, but in between being hurt and being - he can admit it - kind of a dick to be around, he didn't go out much. "I used to lock myself out of my phone so I wouldn't call you if I woke up at night," and, whoa, does that sound fucked up?
Maybe not to Richie. "When we played Philly, I went out to the Continental. Stole a martini glass."
Jeff's touched. They spent half their lives in that place, and Jeff stole a martini glass at the end of every season. They're sitting in his Sea Isle house now. And since they appear to be doing confession time - "When I was on the plane to LA, that first time, that was when I finally changed my phone background away from the picture of us on the ice in Philly."
Richie sits up a little straighter, and it's like - he sort of looks like he thinks Jeff is challenging him. "Oh yeah?" he says, his voice a dare, like they're playing Who Missed Who More or something. "I used to go on YouTube and watch highlights from when we played together."
Well, if Richie thinks he can one-up Jeff at this, he's wrong. Jeff missed Richie more and that's all there is to it. "I jerked off while I was talking on the phone to you once," he says. Top that, Richie, he thinks.
The silence that follows gives Jeff enough time to just start to regret saying that, and then Richie says, "Well, yeah." Like he did it all the time. Like it's just normal.
It isn't normal, even Jeff knows that. But it is. It is hot.
"I. Really?" is all he can say.
Richie nods smugly, and he looks like he knows he's won. But he doesn't look like he's lying.
"So when I called you after I hurt my foot -" Jeff says.
"Nah. But when you were telling me about house hunting. And when you talked about going out with Nash and Umberger. And pretty much every time you bitched about Arniel."
"Wow." Jeff hopes it isn't obvious how much that turns him on. Although, well, they're talking about jerking off on the phone to each other - maybe that ship has sailed. He's not sure, and suddenly he wishes he'd had a little less to drink. "I. Wow."
Richie's trying to act like it's nothing, but he's also not looking directly at Jeff. "Yeah," he says. "So don't fucking tell me about - whatever. Having a hard time adjusting."
They both hear what Richie said - a hard time adjusting - at the same time, and they crack up. After they're done laughing, though, the silence comes back. Richie's apparently done talking, and Jeff feels like maybe he should say something, but what? He can't figure it out.
They sit in silence for a few minutes; Jeff's got one eye on Richie, waiting for him to tense up or get pissed off, but Richie doesn't look upset. "I wish I'd known," Jeff eventually says. In the back of the head, he's trying to figure out if he's crossing the line. He's just not sure where the line is anymore, not in this weird conversation. He knows it's important. He's been keeping an eye on that line for years. But right now he can't see it at all.
"Why?" Richie says. "What difference would it have made?"
Jeff rolls his eyes, because Richie has to know the answer to that. "I'd've gotten off too," he says. "And, seriously, in Columbus I needed all the help I could get."
Richie laughs. "Sorry I didn't help you out with your depressed boner problem, then," he says. And Jeff thinks maybe this is where they let it go, finish off the last of the scotch, and pass out, but Richie adds, "I can get my phone out now if you want. Make it up to you. Unless you've got whiskey dick."
And, no. As it happens, that is not at all a problem for Jeff right now. He's been half hard for a couple minutes, but just imagining being on the phone, knowing Richie was doing himself, being able to hear - yeah, he's basically ready to go. "I don't," he says, trying to get the right I-dare-you note in his voice. This might be stupid, and he might regret it later, but right now he wants nothing more than to do this.
Richie unlocks his phone and touches it a few times, then looks up at Jeff, his eyes challenging. Jeff's phone rings.
Okay, they're - they're doing this.
"Hey," he says into the phone.
"Hey," Richie responds, and it's weird, because he can hear Richie in the room before Richie on the phone, like an echo. If he wasn't hard and hoping to get off, it'd be funny as hell. "What are you up to?"
"Not much," Jeff says. He kind of wonders how long they're supposed to make conversation before he can get his hand in his pants. It better not be too long, because there's only so long he can wait. He reaches down and gives his dick a gentle squeeze.
"Yeah, me neither," Richie says, and Jeff's not really listening to his voice on the phone anymore. He's listening to Richie talk sitting across from him on the couch, and he's watching Richie rub himself through his pants, and he's just holding the phone to his ear because - because that's what he needs to do to have this, apparently.
"What are you gonna do this summer?" Jeff says, and fuck it. His dick is pressing really uncomfortably against his fly, and it's not like there's any doubt about what they're doing. He pops the button on his pants and slides the zipper down.
"Fish. Swim." Richie's voice is getting rougher, and that - that does it for Jeff, for sure. "Maybe talk to you on the phone some."
"Yeah?" Jeff says. He can't think of anything else to say, because he's pulling his dick out of his boxers and that's got his full attention.
"What about you?" Richie says. He's pulling his zipper down, and Jeff's staring, because - he's seen Richie's dick. He's seen Richie's dick hard. But he's never seen it hard for him, and right now that's all he wants.
"I," Jeff says, stuttering a little. "I don't know." Richie pulls out his dick, and he's completely hard, and Jeff's dick throbs in his hand. He gives it one slow stroke, then another.
Richie laughs, although it sounds strained. "You suck at this," he says. "No wonder you could only do it on the phone with me once," and his voice doesn't sound exactly normal, but he's jerking himself off and still talking, so he's for sure got Jeff beat.
"What - what am I -" Jeff's struggling to focus. He's got to keep the phone to his ear and keep his hand moving on his dick, and that just doesn't leave much attention for talking right now.
Richie doesn't even need to pause when he says, "Talk to me, Carts."
"Fuck you," Jeff says. He can't stop staring at Richie's hand, and imagining - imagining it around his own dick, wondering if he likes it that light normally, wondering if Richie always gets that wet.
"Talk or I -" Richie pauses for a breath "- I'm gonna think this conversation is over."
"I, no," Jeff says. "Still talking, just." What is he even saying? "I don't - uh." He's getting close, and he doesn't want to come first, but fuck he wants to come so much. He tries to slow down a little.
"Just the sight of my dick takes away your ability to speak?" Richie says, and he's breathless, but he's still talking, and that's so fucking unfair.
"Yeah," Jeff says. "Yeah, it - it does." God, he's - he's right there. He grits his teeth, holding out, wishing he could touch Richie and make him come already.
"Fuck. Carts," Richie says, and his voice sounds strained. "I wish you could touch it, I want - your hand -" and then Richie's coming, all over his hand and his shirt, and that's it, that means it's okay for Jeff to come, and he does, moaning.
There's silence for a second, and then Richie drops his phone and collapses back on the couch. Jeff isn't sure what to do, so he turns off his phone, wipes his hand on his shirt - well, it's already a lost cause - and just kind of waits.
After a minute or two, Richie starts talking in a nearly normal voice. "So what are you going to do this summer?" Richie says. "You never really said."
Jeff blinks, trying to refocus. "Work out. Spend some time at the shore." And then - maybe the combination of alcohol and a really good orgasm has had some effect on his brain, because he just says what he's thinking. "Call you a lot."
Richie raises his head enough to smile at Jeff. "Yeah," he says. "I bet you don't get much said on those phone calls, though."
Jeff grins back. "I'll say enough."