Evening's tripping into morning and he stumbles on the stairs. He isn't even drunk - there honestly hasn't been time, between interviews and drug tests and finally getting some food, spending time with his mum (not all of it in tears). The ice-cream he’s had, all one scoop of it, was amazing. He feels like he's spent the whole night on Twitter - there's so many people and everyone wants to talk to him and, at some point in the night, he kisses someone's cheek and makes himself scarce.
He feels like he’s been doing this balancing act since Beijing. Sometimes, he doesn’t know how he’s kept everything in the air at once.
He’s very good at focusing on one thing at a time.
On the last night, the Village has a strange loudness to it - he can't imagine anybody sleeping because almost everyone’s got to be out of their rooms, celebrating. He comes from Plymouth so it’s not hard to romanticise London, think of it as a living, breathing sort of place, the kind of place where everything’s awake all the time and somebody’s always dancing.
It would be lying to say that he hasn’t been thinking about this all evening.
On the way past, he pats the moose on the head, because the whole thing strikes him as hilarious. It's easy enough to get into the building, even without flashing the medal in his pocket; somebody stops and holds the door for him, smiling across his face. Almost all of the events are over, he guesses – everything feels both kind of celebratory and weird at the same time. He notices how late it is and thinks about texting, wonders if Riley’s even going to be there at all, which is about when he loses his footing and almost falls. His head’s got this light, weird feel to it – it kind of feels like everything’s still turning, spinning down towards the light on the water. If there’s too much light then you forget where you are in space. And there’s so much light. It’s everywhere.
In the end, he waits until he's right outside the door, still in the tracksuit that he stood on the podium in, still carrying the scent of chlorine in his hair. He leans against the doorframe and pulls out his phone, doesn't ring the doorbell because roommates and sleeping and plausible deniability. He dials the number and lets it ring out a few times before he slips his phone back into his pocket again.
If the door doesn't open, he can pretend that he was never here.
Please be home, please be home, please be home.
It takes a really long time, but, eventually, Riley opens the door. Two things are immediately clear: one, Riley’s been drinking, drinking enough that he’s probably going to feel like shit in the morning and, two, Tom just woke him up. He’s dressed in just his boxers and his hair stands up in fingered furrows, curlier than Tom’s ever seen it (because he almost always sees it wet, duh) and, when Riley sways in for a kiss without even saying ‘hello’, his mouth is warm and wet. Tom has no trouble getting kissed, by boys or girls, and a lot of them taste like beer and spit but almost none of them smell this familiar.
He’s intensely aware of a couple of things – that this isn’t the first time that they’ve ended up like this, that he’s seen Riley a lot more naked than this but very, very rarely in actual underwear and that he thinks that there’s nobody in the flat but them. Riley breaks the kiss long enough to duck his head, figuring out the zip on Tom’s tracksuit top, easing it back of his shoulders. He’s not wearing a t-shirt underneath. He pauses, pulls away long enough to drape his jacket over the back of a chair and then he’s back, back with his mouth on Riley’s, urging him backwards towards the couch, glad, for a moment, that he’s built taller, heavier and thinking, in that moment, with nothing else but his dick. Riley doesn’t let him shove him around too much, his hand working between them, palming Tom’s dick through the shiny fabric of his trousers. Tom gasps, his mouth open against Riley’s. He’s spent weeks and weeks, months, years keeping himself tightly in check and now he feels like letting go, falling apart entirely for a couple of hours in the narrow space between Riley’s body and the bed.
Riley’s definitely stroking him now, squeezing and Tom rocks into it, greedy, hungry. His arms go around Riley’s body, the shape familiar because it’s so similar to his own – muscles stretched in the same way, delicate bones used to withstanding incredible force. Tom curls one hand around the back of Riley’s neck, the other sliding down, shoving inside his pants and squeezing his arse. His nails dig in and he doesn’t care. Competition’s over. Nobody’ll see the marks unless Riley wants them to. And Tom’s got a medal in his pocket – he hasn’t got a care in the bloody world, now when he can feel Riley’s dick, a hot, hard line against his hip. Riley’s not shy about it, either, grinding forward against him, moaning against Tom’s lips. Tom shifts his hand slightly, scraping his thumb against Riley’s tailbone. He can’t help but grin at the way that Riley’s hips jerk.
“God, dude,” he mumbles. “You can fuck me. I’ll let you.”
“Shit,” breathes Tom, his head spinning at the way his dick throbs when Riley says that. Right then, it feels like a bloody good thing that he’s used to losing his centre of gravity.
“Shhhh,” he whispers, leaning forward, fingers pushing through Riley’s hair. “Slow down.”
What he’s noticing lately is that he’s sick of things that are over almost before he realises they’ve begun.
The couch isn’t really big enough for what Tom’s got in mind, but it’ll do, for now. Tom pushes Riley down onto it and then he sinks down onto his knees, hooking his fingers over the waistband of Riley’s underwear and tugging it down, stripping Riley naked inch by inch. Tom’s not so experienced, doesn’t screw around so much, that it’s not kind of a thrill to see him like that. He spends his life surrounded by bare skin and, still, Riley lying there with his knees slightly apart and his dick thick and flushed and really, really hard is enough to make him blush. He bites his lip.
Riley tilts his head, arching his back a little, reaching out to graze his thumb against Tom’s jaw.
“You’ve done this before, right?” he asks, and Tom can tell from the lift of his eyebrow and the twitch of his mouth that he’s taking the piss. “I’m not, like, corrupting an innocent or something?”
Tom’s always been really bad with people implying that he can’t do something – it’s the impulse that’s made him into the diver that he is, kept him getting good marks at school, helped him stand up to arseholes as long as he could. And tonight, he’s done something that nobody really expected. He dived out of his skin, medalled in front of a home crowd. He’s invincible. Unbreakable.
So he doesn’t say anything. He just bends his head and licks from Riley’s balls all the way to the tip of his cock. He curls his fingers around Riley’s cock and jerks, slowly, leaning in to lick a stripe across one nipple.
“What do you think?” he says.
“I think you’re a cocky little shit,” says Riley, definitely grinning now. “And you definitely ought to be sucking my dick right now.” He arches his back, lifts his hips in a way that’s totally lewd and makes Tom’s dick throb. He bends his head and sucks up a mark right on Riley’s hipbone. There’s a part of him, buried deep, that feels possessive and brittle, on the edge of something bigger. He squeezes Riley’s dick and then he pushes to his feet, completely unembarrassed by how obvious the outline of his own hard-on is through his trousers.
“If you want me to suck your dick,” he says, and there’s that light headed feeling again, “then you’d better get your arse onto an actual bed, mate.”
It’s amazing how quickly Riley’s on his feet. And, yes, Tom stands back and watches as he walks into the bedroom. The flat’s the exact same layout as the one that he’s sharing with Jack. Riley’s messier than he is – Tom’s too used to living at home to be untidy in public spaces. He sheds his trousers somewhere between the couch and Riley’s door and Riley’s already sprawled on the bed, legs spread and his fingers curled around his cock. His free arm’s thrown up over his head and he turns his face into it. He looks almost shy. Tom doesn’t by that for a second. He stands, hands on hips, looking down at Riley on the bed and he tries to work out what he wants to do here. How he wants to do it. There’s something about the idea of sprawling untidy on his knees with Riley’s dick in his mouth that’s entirely appealing, but he’s also aching now that the adrenaline’s wearing off and these beds are pretty comfortable.
“Scoot up,” he says, swatting at Riley’s thigh as he gets up onto the bed, kneeling, waiting. His dick’s so hard that it feels like it’s throbbing, mirroring his heartbeat, but he can wait, will wait, wants this more, first. Riley sprawls and Tom nudges his thighs wider, knowing that Riley’s flexible, knowing he can take it. He gets down on his belly on the bed, weight caught on his elbow as he leans down, curling his fingers around Riley’s dick, wasting no time in sliding his mouth down over it, an inch at a time.
He’s done this before but not as often as he’s gone down on girls, so it’s not as graceful as it could be. It takes him a minute to figure out the rhythm, the slide of his lips and how deep he can take Riley’s dick without it making him gag. He gets lost in it, focused on the way that Riley lifts his hips, how much deeper that pushes him past Tom’s lips. He thinks about what feels good when it’s done to him, strokes what he can’t reach with his mouth. Riley’s fingers push through his hair, twisting a little and Tom’s surprised when that makes something jump, his balls tightening and he moans. It comes out muffled, his mouth pretty full, and his face burns.
When Riley’s getting close, Tom can feel it; the rhythm of his hips changes, becomes more erratic. He pushes too deep and Tom almost gags, has to pull off a bit, breathing hard through his nose. He considers staying where he is but then he isn’t quite that brave and he straightens up, letting Riley slip out of his mouth and then sprawling across him, fingers curled around him to stroke him firm and fast and it doesn’t take long before Riley’s coming, back pressing into an arch, hips trembling and he spills hot across his belly and Tom’s fingers. Tom doesn’t hesitate, shifting to suck at come splashed on Riley’s skin.
“Oh, Jesus,” says Riley, a definite, detectable tremble in his face. “You’re fucking filthy.”
Tom grins. He’s figured that much out for himself.
There’s something boneless about Riley and Tom runs his hands along the lines of him, along his thighs and the flat on his belly, up to his chest. He grazes Riley’s nipples with the edges of his nails, enjoying the way that he arches. Tom leans down and kisses him without wiping his mouth. Riley groans.
“I meant it,” he says, arching underneath Tom, pushing up against him. “You can fuck me.”
“That what you want?” asks Tom, breathless, rocking down, pushing his dick into the warm hollow beside Riley’s hip. “You want me to fuck you? You keep talking about it…”
“I’m not going to beg you, fucker,” says Riley, breathless, grinning.
“I think you should. I mean, I’m the one everyone wants a piece of, after all.”
Tom swings his leg across Riley, sitting straddling his hips and Riley’s only just come, probably couldn’t get it up at this point if he tried but, when Tom rocks his hips, sliding against his dick, Riley’s hips jerk, all the same. Tom leans down, threading his fingers through Riley’s. His ring catches the light as he pushes Riley’s hands up next to his head. He holds them there as he leans down for a kiss, dick pressed against Riley’s belly. His breath catches against his mouth.
“Tell me you want me to fuck you?”
It comes out as a question, not as certain as he’d like. Occasionally, he’s watched porn where they’ve used, like, handcuffs and stuff, and it gets him as hard as anything else, but he can’t really imagine himself doing any of that. Not yet.
Riley breathes out, breathes in again and Tom can see him blushing in the dim light. He gives Tom a crooked grin and Tom’s stomach jumps because, Jesus, Riley’s kind of beautiful and it’s not like it’s the first time Tom’s noticed but it’s nice to be reminded.
“I want you to fuck me,” says Riley. “There’s lube and condoms in the drawer.”
They’d never done this. They’ve fooled around a handful of times since Riley decided Tom was old enough – kissed, given hand jobs but this is the first time either of them have talked about fucking. Tom’s done it with girls, even done this with one girl, so he’s got an idea of the mechanics, but that doesn’t stop the fluttering in his stomach as he leans across Riley to rummage in the drawer.
“So have you ever..?” he asks, flicking open the lube with his thumb.
“Have I ever?” Riley tilts his head and looks up at him, expression open and as innocent as he can make it. Twat.
“Fingered yourself?” It’s ridiculous, given how they’re sitting it, but just saying it makes Tom blush. Riley chews on his lip for a moment, but then he’s nodding. Tom’s dick throbs. “Oh, Jesus.” Riley’s still got his hands draped next to his head. Tom reaches for one. “Gimme.”
Riley grins and lets Tom have his hand, lying there while Tom gets his fingers good and slick. He shifts his hips slightly.
“You’re going to have to get off me, asshole,” he drawls, still grinning lazily. It takes Tom a moment to react but then he’s hauling himself off Riley, shifting until he can put his back against the wall at the foot of the bed. It’s probably not the most graceful he’s ever been, but he doesn’t give a shit. He wraps his hand around his dick and waits.
Riley starts off slowly, just rubbing with one fingertip, thighs spread as wide as they’ll go. Tom finds that he can’t look away, doesn’t look anywhere else until Riley’s got three fingers pressed inside him, his hips riding forward as he fucks himself, his dick already stirring again. Tom has to take his hand away from his own dick before he comes.
Riley pushes up on his free hand so that he can look straight at Tom.
“I need this to be your dick,” he says, biting his lip as he presses his fingers deep. “Right now.”
“Oh, Jesus,” says Tom, and he’s scrambling, fumbling with a condom and, for a moment, feeling young and awkward and stupid in a way that he doesn’t really, not often, not anymore. Riley drags his fingers out of his body, leaving himself slick and open and it’s easy, really easy, to crawl up over him. Tom lines himself up, grazing the head of his dick along the crack of Riley’s arse before he’s easing inside.
He hasn’t got a coherent thought in his head after that. Which is okay – his body can figure it out on its own. His hands up, curled back around Riley’s wrists, holding them up next to his head as he fucks him, hard and deep. He could probably be better at this, force himself to go slower and make it last but, right then? He doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is crush his mouth against Riley’s, force a moan past his lips and he’s already losing his rhythm, already his breath is sobbing in and out and his fingers thread with Riley’s again and he holds on for dear life.
Like most of his life, it’s over too quickly. From the ten metre board, he hits the water 1.6 seconds after his feet leave solid ground. That’s almost what it feels like, afterwards, before he’s even pulled out, lying there with his head against Riley’s shoulder. It feels like the moment when he hits the water at thirty five miles an hour.
For a second, he forgets how to breathe.
But then Riley’s fingers are in his hair and he’s shifting, twisting, sorting out the condom and dropping it in the bin at the side of Riley’s bed. He catches a glimpse at the glowing numbers on the clock.
“Jesus,” he mumbles, grinning, dropping a kiss against Riley’s chest. “Is that the time? Fuck. I’ve got to be on the BBC in, like, three hours.”
“Fuck it,” says Riley, lifting his arse so he can get the duvet up over both of them. “You can stay for a bit.”
“Wait.” Tom hops out of bed, and pads, stark naked, out into the lounge. In doesn’t occur to him to be concerned that Riley’s roommate might have come home in the interim. His phone’s in his pocket and sets an alarm for an hour and a half later. Getting back into bed, fitting himself in alongside Riley, he stifles a yawn.
It takes them a moment to figure out how they want to be, but Tom ends up with his face to the wall and Riley’s chest pressed against him, Riley’s dick warm against his arse. He ends up held and it’s not long before he’s drifting, slipping. It feels a little bit like falling, but that doesn’t bother him. Not really. Falling’s what he does.
He’s got a routine for this, anyway. He closes his eyes, pictures the dive, sights the water, sights the board.
Go on then.