Striking out sucks, but the worst part isn’t even watching a girl smirk pityingly at him and walk away. No, the worst part is a few seconds later, when Cam comes up to him, also smirking pityingly.
“One, two, three strikes you’re out…” he sing-songs, and Brandon punches him in the shoulder. Not, like, hard—they do have a game tomorrow—but hard enough that Cam flinches, which is all he wanted.
“You can’t be having too much luck yourself if you’re still here to hassle me,” Brandon points out.
“Eh, well, you know how the old ball game goes sometimes,” Cam says, waggling his eyebrows.
Brandon kind of wants to punch him again for that. “Did you just come over here because you thought of that pun and wanted to tell someone?”
“You can’t prove that,” Cam says, taking a drink of his whiskey.
“No wonder nobody wants to sleep with you if that’s your idea of game,” Brandon says, shaking his head.
Cam laughs. “You really think I don’t have game?” he says, taking a step closer, eyes locked on Brandon’s.
Brandon stands his ground. “Yep,” he says, careful to sound bored.
Cam steps closer still, way up in Brandon’s personal space, so close their crotches are almost brushing each other, and—this is gay chicken, is what this is, and Brandon is the fucking king of gay chicken. Cam sets a hand on his shoulder, and Brandon doesn’t flinch.
“You can’t imagine someone wanting to sleep with me?” Cam says, voice low and dark. He hardly sounds like Cam at all; Brandon may be more drunk than he realized. “Lot of people do. I mean, I know what I look like. And stop me if I’ve got this wrong, but…”
Cam’s hand trails down Brandon’s arm. His gaze is so intense—Brandon feels so hot, all of a sudden. “A lot of people like to have me hold them down, ‘cause I’m strong, but I’m a smaller guy, you know? Makes them feel...safe.” Cam’s hand locks around Brandon’s wrist, all of a sudden. “That something you ever thought about, B?”
Brandon was hot a second ago, but now he shivers. His throat’s gone dry all of a sudden; instead of speaking, he grabs Cam’s hip. God, this had better not just be gay chicken or Brandon’s going to have the worst case of blue balls imaginable.
But Cam’s smirk turns a little sweeter, and he shifts a little closer, and—yeah, Brandon isn’t the only one affected by this.
Brandon swallows. “So you got game,” he concedes. “But can you back it up? Because everybody’s always told me my actions speak louder than words.”
“Is that what they say,” Cam says, and he rocks his hips against Brandon’s.
Brandon bites back a moan. Instead, he says, “Louder than your words, anyway, ‘cause you won’t have any left by the time I’m done with you.”
Cam grins, just like Brandon was hoping he would. “Wanna bet?”
Part of Brandon keeps expecting Cam to say ‘gotcha’ all through the Uber ride, but—he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at Brandon. Their knees are touching in the backseat, and even through both of their jeans, Brandon’s hyperaware of that tiny point of contact.
They take the stairs to Cam’s apartment by silent agreement because waiting for the elevator seems unbearable right now. Brandon rocks back and forth on his feet while Cam unlocks the door, full of frenetic energy. The second the door is shut behind them, he shoves Cam up against it and kisses him.
Cam surges into the kiss at once, which removes any lingering doubts Brandon might have had. Brandon kind of hates himself for the analogy, but Cam’s just as much of a handful here as he is on the ice: his hand is in Brandon’s hair, his teeth are set in his lip, he’s rocking his hips against Brandon’s, and Brandon’s head is spinning already.
Brandon breaks the kiss to breathe for a second, but Cam puts a stop to that when he just moves down to mark up Brandon’s neck instead of stopping. Brandon clutches at his hips; Cam bites down.
There’s a part of Brandon that wants to do this right here in the hallway, because moving seems unbearable right now. He grinds against Cam, murmurs into his hair, “What if we just—”
“No,” Cam cuts him off, pulling away. The bottom drops out of Brandon’s stomach, but then Cam takes one of his hands. “We’re not gonna do this here, we are not that young,” Cam says, and he drags Brandon off down the hall.
An exchange of spectacular blowjobs later, Cam drops onto Brandon’s chest, smiling up at him like the cat who got the cream—which, literally, he kind of is. Brandon runs his hand through Cam’s hair; he feels like he’s still drunk with how much his head is spinning.
“So that was great,” Cam says as he turns his head to kiss Brandon’s wrist.
Brandon’s heart flutters a little at the gesture, which is stupid. To cover up anything his face might be doing, he replies, “Yes, I was, thanks for noticing,” along with a smug little smirk.
Just as he knew it would, Cam’s expression shifts sharply from mellow and pleased into judgmental and skeptical. “Excuse me, you were? One of us cried and it wasn’t me.”
If Brandon was still capable of feeling shame, he might at that, but he’s been a professional athlete for years, so that sense died a long time ago. Instead he scoffs, combs through Cam’s curls again, and says, “And one of us begged and it wasn’t me, so we’re even.”
Cam tweaks his nipple—Brandon jumps—but then he admits, “Touché. We’re gonna need an objective third party to settle this.”
“What, get somebody to sleep with both of us?” Brandon asks. The idea isn’t unappealing, especially if it’s as part of a threesome. He gets a little caught up in imagining it—kissing the taste of Cam out of some faceless girl’s mouth, or both of them inside her at the same time…
Meanwhile, Cam’s shrugging. “Yeah, or one for each of us who'll score us out of ten.”
That idea is less appealing, for some reason. But there’s no need to argue it tonight. Brandon rolls over, dumping Cam onto the mattress, and wraps his arms around him.
“You’re staying?” Cam says, even as he tries to jab an elbow into Brandon’s body in retribution for moving him.
“Yep, and we’re gonna fucking cuddle,” Brandon declares. Cam settles down, says nothing.
They go back to the same bar. In retrospect, Brandon realizes this was their first mistake: if they both struck out here before, they probably should’ve gone elsewhere.
But at the time, neither of them consider it. They text each other chirps the whole time they’re getting ready, and when Brandon arrives he sees Cam’s already started putting the moves on a cute brunette by the dance floor.
He gives Cam an awkward little half-wave, realizing midway through that he’s talking to the girl and probably won’t notice him—but Cam does, lights up in a grin and waves back. The girl frowns, turns around to see who he’s waving at, but Cam recovers by touching her chin and guiding her head back to look at him.
‘Smooth,’ Brandon thinks approvingly. But he shakes himself out of it—if he’s going to prove his point about his skills in the bedroom he needs to find a girl of his own, yesterday.
The problem is, he doesn’t really have any better luck this time around. He flirts with a couple girls, but then he’ll look over at Cam, or catch Cam looking at him out of the corner of his eye, and the girl will give him a knowing look and end the conversation later. He even tries Cam’s chin thing, but he must fuck it up somehow, because that girl looks so skeptical that Brandon actually apologizes and she leaves without a word.
His only consolation is that Cam doesn’t seem to be doing much better. Every time Brandon notices him, he’s talking to a different girl—until finally, over an hour after they got there, they meet up at the bar.
“Not our night,” Cam says, raising his beer.
“Not our night,” Brandon echoes, knocking the neck of his against Cam’s.
Cam eyes him speculatively. “You know, we could put settling the score off for a while and just go hook up again.”
Brandon was hoping he’d say that, but never expected him to actually do so. “Let’s get out of here,” he agrees, discarding his nearly full beer on the bar.
They go to Brandon’s this time, and Brandon actually carries Cam to his room, Cam laughing the whole time. Brandon lays him out on the bed and god, the sight is amazing: Cam in the middle of his bed, smiling, taking off his shirt, calling Brandon a caveman. It’s everything he never knew he always wanted.
Brandon wastes no time taking off his own shirt, and then he climbs on top of Cam, kissing him like he’s drowning. Cam wraps a leg around Brandon’s, kisses him back, and then flips them, so gracefully that Brandon barely even realizes that’s what he’s done until Cam is straddling him.
Cam’s hands fall to his hips, thumbs stroking over Brandon’s hipbones. “Hey,” Cam says, speculative. “Can I fuck you, this time?”
Entirely of their own accord, Brandon’s hips rock up against Cam. Cam grinds down and grins, completely filthy—but despite that obvious response, he’s clearly still waiting for Brandon’s answer.
“Uh, yes, absolutely do that,” Brandon says, and he reaches down to try to get Cam’s pants undone.
It’s a bit of a circus getting them both naked, the lube and a condom out, the sheets pushed down—but finally Cam’s kneeling between Brandon’s legs, slicking up his hand and saying, “I’m going to open you up so good you’ll be the one begging for it this time.”
“You say that now, but once you feel my ass you’ll be the one crying,” Brandon retorts. In response, Cam slides a finger into him—which is fair, and also a great distraction. Cam is good with his hands, and when he finds Brandon’s prostate, Brandon shouts and almost bends double. So of course, Cam strokes over it again, like the little asshole he is.
Brandon’s panting by the time Cam lets up. “Come on, get in me already,” Brandon says, clenching around his fingers just to feel them better.
“Begging again?” Cam says, stroking himself idly with his free hand.
“No, just want to get on with it ‘cause I’m not sure how long you’ll last if you get much more turned on,” Brandon retorts.
Cam laughs, but he does pull his fingers out of Brandon—Brandon does not wince at the loss, that would be dumb—and get the condom open. He’s pushing in seconds later, and god, the stretch is delicious. Cam’s dick is big, not long but a lot thicker than his fingers, and maybe they could have prepped a little longer, but honestly, Brandon likes it best when it hurts just a little.
As soon as Cam bottoms out inside him, Brandon clenches down, three times in quick succession. “Fuck, fuck,” Cam swears, hands clenching in the sheets. Brandon grins and does it again, because he’s an asshole too.
“I really am gonna come too soon if you keep that up, and then I won’t get you off,” Cam threatens. Brandon shivers, but—that’s an idea for another day. For now he nods, and Cam smiles, and starts up a quick, punishing rhythm.
It isn’t like—romantic sex, between them, but there’s no denying how good it is. Brandon comes first, shouting loud enough to wake half the street, and Cam not long after, with his teeth in Brandon’s shoulder.
He doesn’t pull out, not right away. They lay together, panting, coming down, for a long time. Finally, Cam pulls out, rolls off Brandon, and only when Cam squeezes does Brandon realize they’re still holding hands.
“Hey, so...crazy idea,” Cam says, loud in the suddenly quiet room. Brandon hums, and Cam continues, “We’re not having any luck hooking up, except when we sleep with each other and it’s great. So...what if next time we just skip the part where we waste time at the bar, and go right to sleeping with each other again?”
Brandon’s pulse picks up. He wants to shout yes, wants to kiss Cam and go for round two even though that’s not physically possible yet, but instead he smiles, slow and mischievous, and says, “So what you’re saying is, I win.”
Just like Brandon knew he would, Cam groans and swats at his shoulder with his free hand. “Oh my God. Never mind, I take it back, you’re the fucking worst.”
“I’ll even agree to date you if you agree to concede,” Brandon says sweetly.
“Concede my ass,” Cam growls. Then he tackles Brandon, because at the end of the day, they deserve each other.