They live five minutes apart. It’s good for a lot of things; they’re both Frenchmen in a strange land, after all (even if a bit of French-speaking Switzerland near the border isn’t exactly all that strange), and sometimes you just need to see a familiar face. And it’s great for early-morning runs together, and impromptu basketball or football matches, and videogame tournaments that end with the loser doing one-armed pushups on the floor.
It’s also good for things like this.
“We’ll get caught,” Gaël warns, under his breath. “We’re gonna get caught.”
Jo takes his torch away from him and flicks it off. Without it, the light on court's very dim – only the moonlight lets Gaël see his smile and the glint of his teeth. “Hmm,” he says, setting his hands on Gaël’s waist. “We’ll just have to be careful.”
Their town is tiny, and no one’s awake. Even if they were, Gaël doubts anyone would come investigate two black guys in hoodies hanging out in the dark on the local tennis court at 3am in the morning. And if someone did call the gendarmerie, they’d surely see the lights in time to compose themselves and pretend they were running some sort of strange tennis drill. They’re local celebrities – nobody’s going to question it.
That doesn’t mean he thinks it’s a good idea.
Jo drops to the court, all easy grace. He sits cross-legged and grins up at Gaël, and that’s not fair. It’s not fair to undercut Gaël’s entirely justified grumpiness – 2am wakeup calls are not okay, much less 2am wakeup calls that demand Gaël get out of bed, put on clothes, and come to the tennis court. He spends enough time on tennis courts during the day, he doesn’t need to be haunting them during the night too, like the world’s most boring vampire.
And now Jo’s grinning up at him, with that grin, and it’s just not fair.
“You,” Gaël says, dropping to his knees next to him but keeping a distinctly unimpressed look on his face, “are a very bad influence on me.”
“Am I?” Jo asks, innocently – or at least, he must have been trying for innocent, but it comes out far too huskily for that.
“Yes,” Gaël says, and puts a hand on his chest to push him down onto the clay.
“Is it the exhibitionism?” Gaël asks.
Jo doesn’t answer for a minute, but given that Gaël currently has his hand on Jo’s cock, Gaël thinks that’s probably justified. Gaël’s very good at this. Speechlessness is to be expected.
“What?” Jo asks finally, sounding dazed.
Gaël runs the fingers of his free hand over one of Jo’s nipples, feeling Jo’s body shudder against his. “Is it the exhibitionism?” he repeats. “Or is it that it’s a tennis court?”
“I think it’s only exhibitionism if there are people around to see,” Jo says, unevenly.
Gaël thinks about that. If there were people around to watch the way Jo slowly comes apart under Gaël’s hands, to hear Jo’s little bitten sounds, to see how sinful and perfect Jo’s mouth looks around Gaël’s cock… it’s a nice thought, in a way. They’d be quite a show, he thinks. He quite likes watching Jo, after all – other people probably would too.
“Should we invite Stan next time?” he asks, hearing the rasp in his voice. “Let him look at you losing it, let him hear you beg.”
“Fuck,” Jo says, eloquently.
“Or,” Gaël says, never stopping his hand, “maybe I want you all to myself. Maybe you’re all mine.”
Jo says something that might be his name, and his hand on Gaël’s bicep tightens.
“I don’t think it’s exhibitionism,” Gaël says. “I think it’s the tennis.” He leans in and nips at Jo’s ear, before continuing, low and dirty, “Maybe I’ll take you right here on this tennis court, and every time we play a practice set, you’ll know that I had you, right here in the service box.”
They’re going to have clay everywhere, and Gaël’s going to regret this later, but at least one of them had the foresight to bring a Roland Garros towel. (Spoiler: it wasn’t Jo.)
He gets Jo on his hands and knees on the towel and arranges him just the way he wants him. For a moment, he wants to dive in with his mouth and fingers, wants to make Jo fall apart underneath him… But Jo is seldom able to keep the noise down, and there’s a limit to what even their sleepy town will be able to sleep through. Plus, that sort of thing is best done in a comfortable bed, when you can collapse into soft pillows after a quick cleanup, not when you still have to collect your things and drive home after.
Instead, he settles for sinking his teeth gently into the meat of Jo’s ass, just deep enough that Jo whines and pushes back against him. “C’mon,” Jo says, impatient as always.
They shouldn’t really fuck that often. They should be responsible and stick to blowjobs and handjobs, and never on the night before matches. They should put tennis first, and get plenty of sleep at night, and never ever sneak out to fuck on a tennis court at 3am in the morning. Proper mature tennis players would deplore their irresponsibility.
But proper mature tennis players don’t have a Jo in their arms and in their bed, and Gaël doesn’t care what “best practice” might say. You have to live a little, or you’re not making the most out of it – you have to risk things and go for your shots, or you give up part of who you are. Gaël doesn’t believe in doing things by halves, and neither does Jo.
(What this means for their sex life, is that there’s a lot of fucking.)
Gaël likes being fucked slow and patient, himself, likes being brought to the edge over and over again and then finally allowed to topple over. But Jo likes it fast and furious, likes being taken hard and swept away in a flood, and Gaël knows just how to give it to him. He puts his hips into it, finds the perfect angle and pounds into Jo with all the sleepy goodwill that’s in him, even being woken up at 3am.
He imagines that the net’s up, that he can see the service line traced on the clay just beyond Jo’s clenched fist. He imagines that there are seats all around them, a crowd riveted on the two figures under the moonlight. He imagines smirking at Jo tomorrow, just before Jo reaches up to serve.
Gaël’s going to have to scrub the clay out of his palms, and his knees, and the entirety of his lower legs, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Jo’s warm underneath him despite the chill of the night air, not when Jo’s making those noises that Gaël could listen to for a hundred years and never tire of, not when Jo’s the kind of lover who calls you up at 2am for sexcapades. It’s never boring when you’re with Jo.
“Harder,” Jo demands, pushing himself backwards to meet Gaël’s thrusts.
Gaël may never lift the Coupe des Mousquetaires. He may never roll in the Roland Garros clay, or win a nation’s heart. But this, this he can do; and this heart, he’s already won.
He smiles and obeys.