Fic: Quarter After One (Eric Shanteau/Fred Bousquet; R; 1/1)
Eric reached up and wiped away another tear with his thumb, smearing the salty water across his cheekbone. He felt like he had been crying for days with no reason, no explanation, no real justification. But then, he had a reason, had an explanation, had a justification. He felt as though all structure had been sucked from his life once again. Doctors and nurses always prepare their patients for having cancer, but they never prepare them for life after cancer. They don't tell them how to cope with being a survivor. Perhaps that was harder than having the actual cancer. The structure, the control he had, it was gone. And he felt alone. Eric looked at the digital clock next to his bed then looked at his watch. 1:15. AM. God, he was tired of staying up all night every night. He was tired of laying in this bed by himself every night. He stared at his watch then let his arm fall back to the bed. “Damn,” he breathed. He rolled onto his side and reached for his cellphone, which was laying on the bedside table , a cord running back to the wall. He unplugged it and rolled onto his back again. He scrolled through his contact book, trying to find someone who wouldn't absolutely destroy him for calling at some ungodly hour of the morning. He cracked a very weak, non-existent smile and dialed the number he had landed on. He held the phone to his ear and waited.
Freddie Bousquet was contently asleep atop his sheets in some position that should not have even been humanly possible. He made a soft moan and moved his head in his sleep. Whatever he was dreaming about, it must have been good, as evidence by his member straining at the cloth of his briefs. His breath hitched and he squeezed his eyes tighter. Then his phone began to ring. He groaned and rolled onto his stomach, pulling his arms over his head. Maybe if he ignored it, it would all go away. But the phone just continued to vibrate and ring next to him and he picked it up, answering in a mix of anger and grogginess. “Sauf si vous êtes Dieu, je ne m'inquiète pas! C'est donc mieux d'être bon!” he slurred. It could have been his own mother, but he was still pissed off that someone had woke him up!
Eric smiled weakly. “Well, it's not exactly God,” he began softly. He looked towards his sheets, rubbing the green fabric between his thumb and first finger.
Freddie raised his head in interest-and slight wonder. The man he had been dreaming about was on the other end of the line. “Eric?” he asked, his accent thick with sleepiness.
Eric laughed softly. “Salut, Fred,” he replied. “I'm sorry to wake you up but--” He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, then shut it once more. Why had he called, anyway? What did he think that the Frenchman would be able to do for him via a cellphone connection? “I honestly don't know why I called. I just... I need someone. I need to hear someone.”
Fred collapsed back onto the bed. “What time is it?” he muttered.
“Quarter after one,” Eric told him.
The French swimmer groaned softly in his throat. “Why are you still awake, Shanteau?”
“Because I haven't slept in three days, Fred. The silence is keeping me awake. The embrace of silence is cold and it's keeping me from sleeping. I need someone. I need you.”
Freddie raised his head again. “Why me?” he whispered.
Eric sat up, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his free arm around them. “I don't know. I just do.” He rubbed the skin on the side of his knee and looked down.
An exhausted sigh filled his ear. “Eric, I'm in--”
“I know where you are, Fred. I just need to hear you. Even if it's just you breathing, I need to hear you. I need to know that I'm not fucking alone,” he laughed harshly. He looked up, eyes darting around the dark bedroom.
“D'accord, d'accord,” Freddie breathed. There were several moments of silence before he spoke again. “Do you remember college?” he breathed softly. “When I would sneak into your dorm when your roommate was home?”
Eric smiled weakly at the memories and looked towards the bed. “Yeah.” He chuckled softly. “God, that always pissed him off.” During their college years, Fred and Eric had been the kings of the Auburn swimteam-and everyone knew that they were total lovers in love. What had happened, Eric still wasn't sure. They had just... grown up and grown apart. But in their time together, Eric had given Fred a key to his dorm, telling him to come over whenever he felt the need. Some mornings-two or three AM, sometimes-the front door would creak open and the Frenchmen would sneak as quietly as possible to Eric's bedroom. Any homework that Eric had thought that he would accomplish that night would end up on the floor, incomplete, as the blue-eyed freestyler would straddle his hips, kissing him with an intensity that he hadn't seen before or experienced since. “I miss those days. Things always seemed so complicated but at the same time, everything was so much simpler.” He let out a soft snort. “Hell. Everything's simpler than what my life is right now.” He raised his hand and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Do you want to go back?”
Eric lifted his head and stared at the wall. “What?”
“You said everything was.... beaucoup de plus simple dans l'université, oui?” Freddie didn't wait for a response before he added, “Then go back.” He took in a deep breath. “Listen to me. Do as I say. Imagine being twenty again.” Eric let out a deep breath and lowered his face, closing his eyes. “Lay down.” He slowly laid back. He had his free hand resting against his abs, while his other hand held the phone to his ear. “Relax.” Freddie's tone dropped, becoming low and husky. “I'm right beside you. Right where I always was. Do you remember that?” Eric's mind drifted-back to a college dorm room bed that was too small for him, let alone two grown men to be sharing. Back to Freddie laying on his side behind him, his back to the wall. He always was drawing something on Eric's chest and shoulder with his fingertips-designs of every size and shape. “Can you feel my fingers on your shoulder? Drawing as you lay there with your eyes closed? Can you feel the brush of my skin over yours as I design some unseen tattoo?”
Eric let a smile creep across his lips as the phantom touch skated across his right shoulder, creating swirls and spikes and spots. “You mean, your tattoo,” he pointed out.
“Yes, my tattoo. Oui,” Freddie laughed into his ear, which led to Eric letting out a soft, amused snort through his nose. Fred's laughter disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. “Do you feel it?” he rasped.
“Yes.” The touch grew soft, moving towards his neck. The drawings always led to a kiss that could only be described as sensual. He could feel the brush of Fred's lips across his own, teasing him as the tip of his tongue snuck between his lips to trace the part of his mouth. He could still taste him. He could still feel his tongue as he slowly slid it into his mouth, exploring every inch. But, God, he could still taste him. He could still smell him when he would lower his head to his neck, sucking that spot at the joint of his neck and shoulder that made Eric weak.
“Do you remember the last night? The last time we made love?” The drop of Fred's tone, even further than it had previously, went straight to Eric's core and he let out a soft moan. “Do you?”
“Of course I do. I've never cum so hard in my life.” Eric wanted to add in that he had never felt so empty either. He had been leaving the next day for Austin with no plans on returning. But he couldn't leave without saying his farewells to Fred. Though they hadn't been an official couple in some years, since Eric was at least a Junior, he couldn't leave without feeling him one last time. He couldn't leave without tasting him one last time. He couldn't leave without coming to him and cumming for him one last time. “You didn't say anything when you opened the door. Nothing. Nothing in English; nothing in French. You didn't speak.” He could hear Freddie's front door creak open as the Frenchman opened it, simply holding it open as he stared at the younger swimmer in the hall.
“What was I to say to you? I couldn't change your mind. It wouldn't have mattered anyway.” There was a beat of silence and Eric's stomach turned. “But, Christ, the way you kissed me. The way you opened your mouth and devoured me. The way your tongue moved, so desperate as though you could find all the answers written on the top of my tongue. The way that your hands were on the sides of my neck, holding onto me as though I would vanish or perhaps kick you out if you let go. Those noises you made in your throat: the inconsolable whimpers; the despairing moans. Your skin was still damp and your hair still wet; you smelled like body wash and aftershave and you tasted like a chocolate mint.”
Eric twisted on his bed, bringing his free hand to his hair. He threaded his fingers through his short hair, staring blankly at the ceiling as every sensation came rushing back. Fred's hands were on the sides of his face, cradling it as he stroked his cheekbones with his thumbs, trying to keep up with Eric's seeking tongue. “You were so hungry. You barely were in the door before you had your back to the wall. You had your hips pressed forwards and you were grinding them against me. You wanted the contact so badly that you could barely keep yourself glued together. You could barely contain your want, your need. Do you remember what I told you?”
Eric closed his eyes once more. “You pinned me against the wall. You had your hands beside my head and your hips pressed so hard against mine that I thought they might bruise. You nipped at my lips and you were breathless. You muttered something in French. You told me later that it meant 'Not here. Not like this. Not like animals. Not if this will be our last time to make love.'”
A whisper so low that it was barely audible pierced his ear. “Pas ici. Pas comme ceci. Pas comme les animaux. Pas si ceci sera notre dernier temps pour faire l'amour.” Eric's hair stood on end and other parts of his body took immediate notice of the low, husky, accented voice that was reverberating through his head. His stomach filled with butterflies and his intestines knotted themselves so well that not even a Boy Scout could untangle them. He let out a soft, breathless moan as Fred continued. “I took you to the bedroom. You were behind me as we walked, your body against mine, and I could feel you trembling. Your chest heaved with erratic breath. Your stomach rippled. Your hand in mine shook, like it had when I first kissed you. My power had gone off earlier that day during a storm and hadn't returned, but I didn't need light. When we entered my room and I closed the door behind us, I took your face between my hands. I told you, 'Ce soir, il n'y a pas de regret.' 'Tonight, there are no regrets.' Despite the darkness, I could see the way your eyes went aflame. The way they smoldered. They way they hid nothing and told of your greatest desire. I kissed you again and began to slowly undress you. You were wearing a Texas shirt; I remember feeling hurt and abandoned. I thought that the sooner I could get it off you, the more amount of time I could pretend like you wouldn't be boarding a plane the next day. It was light gray, though some patches were darker than others because the fabric was wet, and it clung to your body. I took the hem and pushed it up your body, feeling every muscle, every bone. I had to touch you. I needed to see you; I had to see you.”
“Fred, stop,” Eric implored into the phone. “Please. Jesus God, please stop.”
“But I thought you said,” Freddie started, his tone soft and confused. “I thought you wanted me to...”
“God, I do, Freddie. Jesus, I do. But... I need to see you. I want you to see something.”
“What, Eric?”
“I can't tell you. I have to show you. Then I can explain why you had to stop.”
Freddie couldn't answer right away. He didn't know what to say. He didn't understand enough to try and say anything. He just finally replied with, “Ok. I will see you online? In, eh, five minutes?”
Eric nodded and he silently hung up the phone. He groaned at his straining member and looked down, running a finger over the stitched closed incision on his deeply lower abdomen.
Eric was online first. He sat leaned back in his chair, one arm on the arm resting on the arm of the chair while his other arm was bent at the elbow and his knuckles pressed to his lips. He wasn't overly sure what he was going to say. He had called Fred as soon as he had found out that he had cancer. He called him right after his surgery-which had some interesting results, since he was drugged up to no end and honestly couldn't remember what was said. Now, he was calling him again because cancer-free had turned out to mean control-free. He waited silently, staring at the screen. The left side of his screen lit up with the name ‘Fred Bousquet’ with a small green check-mark next to it. He double-clicked the name and he smiled. Fred’s exhausted face filled his screen. “Hi,” he croaked.
Fred rubbed his right eye and let out a soft groan. “Salut,” he slurred. Eric laughed very lightly. He let his hand fall and he laced his fingers together. “So what is it that you wanted me to see?”
Eric let out a soft sigh through his nose. He wouldn’t have to say anything. Freddie had beaten him to the punch. Silently, he stood up from his chair. He pulled off his orange Auburn t-shirt and tossed it to one side. He looked down as he pulled down his basketball shorts to a point where there was very little being left to the imagination, as if Freddie needed to imagine anything. He had seen it-he had seen it all. But Eric’s fingers danced across the two-inch cut that was just above and to one side of his shaft. “Je ne comprends pas,” Freddie muttered. Eric took a step back, scooting his chair behind him with the back of his knees, so he could look at the screen. “It does look better. Not as swollen. But I don’t understand.” Fred was running his eyes the length of the scar, letting them trace the eight stitches that held the red wound together. “Does it hurt you?”
“Not anymore. Not physically. Maybe it itches from time to time but it doesn’t hurt.” Eric looked from the screen back to his own skin and brushed one hand over the stitches. They were beginning to come loose; he needed to have them taken out soon. Fred watched, remembering when it was he who stroked that delicate skin, teasing until Eric was all but losing his mind with a want and a desire unmatched by any person on Earth. “It’s just the reminder. Ya know? The reminder that I’m… that I’m not complete. It just makes me feel weird. I feel… off.” He looked up to the screen and at almost the same moment, Fred caught his gaze, holding it fast. “I feel like I can’t get off. I can’t get hard.”
Fred posed the one question that Eric didn’t want to answer: “You can’t? Or you won’t?” he asked in a soft tone. “Ne peut pas? Ou ne fera pas?”
Eric let out a soft, harsh laugh. “Does it matter? I feel like that until I know for sure that this is gone that I can’t do it.” He pulled back up his shorts and collapsed helplessly back onto his chair and stared straight ahead with the saddest of looks.
Fred wanted to reach through the screen and to tangle his fingers in those dirty blonde locks and pull Eric into the most obscene kiss he could muster. He wanted to pull him into a flurry of tongues and lips and teeth with moans echoing from the walls and the wet sounds of mouth meeting mouth bouncing around in the corners. “What if someone asked you? What if someone wanted to be with you? Would you turn them down?”
“Freddie. I just… I don’t know right now.” Eric reached out and held onto his desk, resting his head in the cradle created by his wrists. “This is a position I never thought I would find myself.” He could hear the rustling of fabric through the speakers of his computer, but he just assumed that it was Fred readjusting on his seat or moving about. “Just tell me what to do, Fred. I really don’t know. I’m lost; I’m confused. Once you had all the answers. You knew exactly what to say and what to do. So just tell me what to do. Please,” he begged into his skin, his voice beginning to crack all over again.
“Eric,” Fred said simply, his voice heavy with accent. “Look up at me.”
Eric slowly raised his head and his eyes grew wide. “Oh dear sweet Jesus,” he breathed. In front of him, Fred sat completely naked. He sat at an angle, his legs were crossed with his right slightly higher to carefully hide his member. With the way he was slumped down slightly, his abs were crunched, showing off every muscle. Besides the tattoo that was on his shoulder, and the two barely visible ones-one on the underside of his arm and one on his left hip-he wore only a silver cross necklace that hung around his neck, hitting him at the very top center of his pecs. “Fred, what are you doing?” he rasped.
“I asked you, would you turn someone down if they asked to be with you? Are you going to turn me down now?” Eric opened his mouth but nothing came out-just a strangled, confused moan in the back of his throat that only half-way exited through his open mouth. He slowly uncrossed his legs and Eric’s gaze followed the movement. “Indépendamment de vous croit, vous êtes toujours voulu. No matter what you may believe, you are still wanted. You are still just as… just as sexy…” Eric smiled in disbelief at the word and at the sincerity of his tone; he was in almost shock that anyone could think that since he felt like he was anything but. “…Just as attractive. Vous me permettre de montrer.” Eric leaned back in his chair, raising his left hand to his mouth and he bit down gently on the outside of his first finger. “I do not ask anything from you. Just let me show you.” Eric didn’t say anything; he just kept his brown eyes locked on Freddie’s face.
This was by no means the first time that Freddie had put on a show for Eric. He had done it many times during college. It was usually during times when Eric was so exhausted from saying up for days on end trying to finish momentous amounts of homework that he could barely function, let alone have any form of sex. It was never so much about Fred getting off as much as it was about being exposed. It was about him showing that even though Eric was exhausted and looked like death warmed, he still wanted him just as he was.
Tonight was no different. Fred still wanted Eric, incision and all its implications and all. He wanted him. He had never stopped wanting him. Though miles upon miles separated them, he was going to have him, even if it was just in his mind. He slowly snaked his left hand down to his shaft and Eric blinked, his eyes lingering shut for a moment before looking up again. He let his left hand fall again as he simply watched Fred. He tried to convince himself that he was thinking about some tall, cool blonde, but then he remember that he was the tall, cool blonde. He didn’t know how anyone could get off on him; but Fred was nothing if not sincere. Eric knew that the pulling and tugging of his hand and the twisting of his wrist and the dancing of his fingers was caused by one person. He knew the French utterances that were beginning to fall from his ex’s lips and the twisting of his features and the craning of his neck back were being brought on by him and him alone.
Eric missed Fred’s touch; he missed anyone’s touches, but he missed Fred’s most of all. He missed the attentiveness of it; he missed feeling like the he was the only person in the world and the only one who could ever matter in the Frenchman’s life. But Eric wasn’t living under a rock; he knew that Fred had been linked to a slew of attractive female models and to a plethora of muscular male swimmers since their time as a couple. He knew he wasn’t the only 6-foot-plus blonde swimmer in Fred’s life anymore and he just wondered how Fred’s other half would take to him jerking off via webcam for his ex?
Fred moaned and cried out several French curses and Eric blinked, coming back from his daze. But there he was, completely stripped and completely exposed in every sense of the term. And it was have an effect on Eric that he didn’t think he would ever have again. He didn’t know when the tears had started to silently fall down his cheeks, but his vision had become clouded and he blinked, sending a cascade of tears down his cheeks. Fred abruptly stopped in concern. Eric smiled weakly and shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t stop,” he pleaded softly. He leaned back in his chair, sliding his left hand at an impossibly slow pace down his abs towards the waistband of his shorts. Fred watched his movement intently, his blue eyes locked on his hand. His hand ran over the slick material to rest between his legs and Fred had to squeeze his member hard to keep from cumming at that sight. His eyes shot back up to Eric’s face and the blonde had an impossibly weak smile on his face. “I guess I wouldn’t turn them down,” he answered finally. Fred cracked a smile. “Je t’aime,” he whispered hoarsely.
Fred let out a breath through his nose and he nodded as he broke into a smile that he could no longer hide. “Je t’aime aussi.”
Eric grabbed his ringing cell phone from beside him on the computer desk where he was working. He leaned back, answering it. “Hey, Aaron,” he said, sandwiching his phone between his ear and his shoulder.
The other Longhorn swimmer laughed softly on the other end of the line. “Hey yourself. Well, you sound like you’re feeling better,” Aaron pointed out.
Eric couldn’t help his stupid grin. “Yeah.” He paused for a moment. “Where the hell are you?”
“Just got off the plane in California. Waiting for my luggage. Why?”
Eric leaned forward and began typing quickly. “Just wondering. There was a lot of background noise,” he responded before sending his instant message and leaning back again. “How’s it all going, Mr. Gold Medalist?”
Aaron just groaned. “I wanna go home! Or the Caribbean.” Eric laughed softly and shook his head. Part of him was glad he hadn’t medaled; he would be doing these victory laps too. “What about you?”
Eric looked down slightly. “Um. Good,” he said, running his free hand through his hair. He wondered what he should tell the other swimmer and how much detail he should go into, but he decided that he had to tell his best friend something. “I, um. I reconnected with my ex from college, and that has been better than any therapy that the medical community could come up with.” There. That sounded good. Not too much detail, but just enough. The other end of the line went silent and Eric’s smile fell. “Aar?”
“I don’t suppose that ex is Fred Bousquet, is it?” Aaron finally asked.
“Look, I know about the smack-talking from Beijing and I know it pissed the relay team off, but-“ Eric began but Aaron cut him off.
“It has nothing to do with that; though, he and his teammates were in for a serious ass-whooping. But I hope to God you two aren’t talking left-hand rings and who’s wearing white yet.”
Eric frowned deeply and he leaned forward, typing a quick message before leaning back. “Aaron, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?! God, Aaron! Know what?!” Eric was getting frustrated. He hated this cryptic bullshit. He just wanted a straight answer.
“Eric, look, I’m sorry, man. But, there’s some photos of Fred online that were leaked and… I’m really sorry. Didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. Maybe you should… ya know… talk to him about them?” Aaron sighed softly. “Look, sorry to leave you on such a downer, but I gotta go. Just take care of yourself before anyone else, OK Eric? I’ll talk to you later.”
The line went dead and Eric slowly raised his head, his hand slipping into his lap. He just stared at the screen of his computer before he looked around in utter shock. “What?” he breathed.