Fic: Hear the Boat Sing, Nick/Tyson, R

[xrysomou]

Title: Hear the Boat Sing
Author: xrysomou
Pairing: Nick/Tyson
Rating: Hard R
Warnings: Sex, alcohol and boys with foul mouths
Word Count: 8764

Disclaimer: The bandom boys are not rowing for the Oxbridge squads. These are filthy, filthy lies and I am in no way affiliated to any of these people.

Summary: "Oxford, go piss off someone else. I'm tired." Tyson and Nick are rowers in the annual Oxford-Cambridge boat-race. There are blowjobs involved. There's literally nothing more to it than that.

Author's Note: I started this almost two years ago to the day. A combination of university, writer's block and my own ineptitude means it's only just finished. Thanks to xaritomene for cheerleading and a fantastic last-minute beta. Title from 'Leif Ericson' by Max Eastman.

Crossposted to aar_capslock, bandslashmania and my own journal.

In his dream, he sat in the boat, floating in the middle of a river so endlessly wide it seemed more like an ocean. He was alone; the seats behind and in front of him were empty. He knew he had to row, but an invisible crowd screamed and jeered from… somewhere, breaking his concentration. That didn’t matter. He had to row or other boat would break ahead and he would lose. He made to grab his oar, but looking down, he saw it had vanished. Gulping down panic, he looked around as the river grew wider and the screams grew louder. He was in a boat with no oar, no cox to steer and he was - sinking?

Tyson sat up in bed, breathing hard, listening to the alarm clock beeping obnoxiously next to his ear. Not in a boat, he told himself. Not in a boat, in bed. Not sinking, not going to drown. Not the race, just a dream. Just a dream.

Sadly, five am was not a dream. He had to get up.

“Shit,” he muttered miserably, and pulled the pillow over his head. Just once, it would have been nice to sleep through morning training, but he wouldn’t get away with it the day before the race. Gaylor would skewer him. Or throw him off the bow and drag him along behind the boat. Something vicious and inventive and possibly fatal, anyway.

Groaning, he flung the pillow across the room and stood up. After a year of training for the Cambridge VIII, Tyson could - and usually did - go through his morning routine in his sleep. Stretches came first because stretching was important. Stretching was the difference between glorious victory and public humiliation. Stretch too little and you’d cramp up twenty metres in. Stretch too much and your muscles would be tired before you’d even started. After stretches, breakfast, weight training and then down to the river. Only today, Tyson wouldn’t be training in the Cam as usual.

He’d be in the Thames.

The Butcher was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, muffled up in a giant sweater against the cold.

“Take your time, Ritter,” he stood up, wincing as his knees cracked. “C’mon. We’re the last and I’m starving.”

“You couldn’t go and eat without me? Aw, I’m flattered. I know how much my presence lights up your life, Andy -”

“Fuck you. I only waited because I knew you’d get lost without a map and a trained guide -”

“Hey,” Chris appeared round a corner. “You guys go and eat - we’ve got fifteen minutes before we have to be at the bus and if you’re late, I’ll personally string you up by the balls.”

“Pain. Humiliation. Possible loss of testicles. No lateness, I get it,” Tyson said, breaking into a yawn.

“Shut up, Tyson.”

“So,” Butcher grabbed two trays, handing one to Tyson as they stepped into the queue, “First year in the boat. How’re you feeling?”

“At the moment, all right, I guess. Can I have some bacon, please?” Tyson smiled beguilingly at the tired and cross-looking woman behind the counter. “Just don’t ask me tomorrow morning, ok?”

“Get through today first,” Butcher advised, “Coach is going to be a hysterical mess and he’ll take it out on us.”

“Brilliant. Day before the Boat Race, all we need is to be belittled and worked until we drop.”

“Nothing says you care like telling your VIII they suck,” agreed Butcher. “C’mon. Breakfast, then we put our backs into it.”

**

“PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT,” roared Throckmorton from the bank. “Mrotek, lengthen those strokes! Your blades are popping in and out of the water like fish!”

“Come on, guys, keep it together,” Chris said from his perch on the stern. “This is the last push, keep going -”

“Gaylor, are you the cox or not? How the hell do you expect your team to beat Oxford if they can’t keep time with each other?”

Chris scowled mutinously in the direction of their coach and his megaphone.

“And you - Conrad! What are you doing back there, training for the ballet? Come on, man, let’s see some effort! Unless you’re scared it’ll ruin that pretty pink tutu you love so very much!”

“After this,” Tom panted from the bow. “I’m going to dunk him in the Thames and hold him under until he stops bubbling.”

“Amen,” said Mike grimly.

**

“All right, then,” growled the coach to his exhausted team. “I’m going to be generous. Take the rest of the day off.”

“Some ‘rest of the day’,” Tom said quietly. “It’s four pm. We’ll have just enough energy to eat, warm down and go to bed.”

“Do you have something you’d like to say, Mr. Conrad?”

“Nope. Nothing to say, Coach.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Bed early, no pissing about, you understand?”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Tyson saluted his coach (who glared) and goose-stepped back to the bus, muscles aching with every step.

“What are we going to do for the next few hours?” Mike asked. “We either go out or go to bed at eight, and only really, really obsessive rowers go to bed at eight.”

“We are really, really obsessive rowers,” Chris said sourly. “It’s because we’re really, really obsessive rowers that I haven’t had a life in four years.”

“But you wouldn’t have missed our company for the world, right?” Tyson flung an arm around Chris’ neck, kissing the top of his head. Chris grinned, jabbing a well-aimed elbow into Tyson’s side. Tyson yelped and hopped away.

“Hey!” came the yell from the river. “Any of you lazy fuckers feel like helping us get the boat up to the bus?”

**

With a couple of hours until the shops closed, the Cambridge VIII showered, dressed and wandered out into Central London. After half an hour’s exploration, they wound up in Chinatown for supper.

“Please, please, please can we not talk about rowing, tonight?” Tom asked plaintively. He was met with seven uniformly blank looks. “Guys. We’re at Cambridge. We must have something to talk about other than rowing. And we’re not talking about work, either,” he added hastily, as they all opened their mouths. They all shut them again, looking sheepish.

“Guys, come on,” pleaded Mike. “There’s still hope for us! We have to find another area of interest other than rowing, or we’ll end up being those boring guys at parties who won’t stop talking about their personal best.”

This was given due consideration.

“Well,” Butcher said with deliberate care. “I think that crispy shredded beef is better than chicken chow mein.”

They stared at him.

“That’s all you’ve got?”

“It’ll do.”

Tom put his head in his hands as a furious debate arose over the various virtues of Chinese food. Tyson, having argued as fiercely as the rest of them and kicked Spencer under the table twice, collected the money and went to pay the bill.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” the waitress asked, smiling.

“Oh yeah, thanks! It was delicious,” Tyson beamed at her.

“You all seem like good friends - who are those guys?” she pointed to their table, where Chris and Mike were engaged in some sort of dumpling warfare, the others cheering them on and flinging the occasional beansprout.

“Some of the finest minds of our generation,” he answered, as Mike’s dumpling hit Chris square on the forehead, splattering his face and shirt with soy sauce.

**
With nothing else to do, they had ended up in a park near the hotel, playing poker.

“I’m done,” announced Butcher, flinging down his cards onto the bench. “And I’m going to bed - it’s nine, and we’ve got the race tomorrow.”

Chris, Tom and Tyson, the remaining players, all pulled faces.

“Don’t. Throckmorton’ll skin us alive if we lose.”

“Fifty-fifty chance,” Tom waved a convincingly dismissive hand. “Que sera, sera -”

“Conrad, if you start singing, I’ll throttle you.”

“But that’d waste energy, precious energy that could win us the Boat Race,” Tom stood up. “I’m going, too.”

“Wait up,” called Chris as Butcher and Tom set off in the direction of the hotel. “Ty, you coming?”

Tyson smiled. “Nah. If I go to sleep now, I’ll wake up at three and then panic ‘til five. No point.”

“All right. Just don’t come in too late, ok?”

“No, mom.”

He watched as the others walked off and then turned in the opposite direction, sticking his hands deep into his pockets to try and warm them up. London in March was no warmer than Cambridge in March, and eventually, Tyson scuttled into a pub. It was deserted apart from a few locals huddled in corners and a landlord who looked genuinely surprised to see a customer.

Cradling a soda, Tyson sat down at the end of the bar and began to watch the small television squeezed in next to the gin.

“…and seven point seven million people across the World will be eagerly awaiting tomorrow as the one hundred and fifty-eighth Oxford and Cambridge Boat Race takes place on the Thames. Started in eighteen-twenty-nine, this is arguably the most historic and anticipated rowing event in the world…”

“Don’t you just love it?”

Tyson jumped and swivelled around on his chair. The speaker was standing a few feet behind him, wryly shaking his head.

“The amount of money the media tries to drag out of this race every year?”

“Good point, though I was actually thinking of the wonderful sweeping generalisations they use - ‘the most historic and anticipated rowing event in the World’? Wow, Harvard and Princeton must be so happy.” The guy spoke quietly, with a hint of a drawl that tugged at Tyson’s memory.

“The Oxford-Cambridge race is older, though,” he pointed out, folding his arms and squinting at the guy through the gloom. “Dude,” he added, turning back to the barman, “can we put on some lights? It’s like a fuckin’ cave in here.”

“When you pay the electricity, son, you can have as many lights on as you like,” the barman grunted, lethargically wiping glasses.

The stranger looked amused. “I think that means ‘no’,” he said helpfully.

Tyson rolled his eyes at both of them. “Fine, fine.” Turning back to his new friend, he found the other man looking at him oddly. “Can I help you?” he asked, after ten seconds of silent staring. The guy grinned suddenly.

“So, Cambridge. They actually let you out the night before the race?”

Tyson blinked, confused, before he realised that he still wore his light blue race jacket. Squinting further into the murk, his eyes picked out a dark blue jacket and a pair of tiny, embroidered crossed oars. He groaned and turned back to the bar.

“Hey, Oxford, do me a favour and go piss off someone else. I’m tired.”

“So are the rest of us.” The guy - the Oxford rower - moved to lean against the bar, a little way down from Tyson. He had black hair, earrings, several brightly coloured tattoos and the cautiously amiable expression of one facing a difficult situation but willing to be friends. He was actually kind of hot, Tyson thought. Shame he rowed for Oxford and was therefore Tyson’s sworn enemy. And probably a dick.

“Are you the boys in the boats?” asked the barman, who had been watching the entire exchange with the silent suspicion of the dedicated pessimist. “The ones rowing tomorrow?”

Both Tyson and the Oxford guy nodded.

“Oxford.”

“Cambridge.”

The barman’s expression went from vaguely interested to forbidding. “No trouble, understand?” he waved his dishtowel threateningly. “If you want to fight, you do it outside.”

“Give us a few minutes. I don’t think we’re at the fighting stage just yet,” Tyson deadpanned.

“Is the fighting thing pre-requisite?” Oxford Guy asked earnestly. “Is this some Gladiator set-up where one of us gets a net and the other gets a proper weapon and then we try and kill each other for entertainment purposes?”

“Nah, that’s the Boat Race,” drawled Tyson.

“Last time I checked, they didn’t let us have weapons in the Boat Race. But I haven’t read the rules in a while,” Oxford Guy looked thoughtful. “I guess homicide would attract a wider audience -”

“Yeah, but then they’d have to pick a new VIII every year, and that would get boring. And if everybody died, there wouldn’t be an overall winner to claim the glory, would there?”

“Last man alive in both boats? That’s plenty of glory if you, y’know, survive.”

“Hate to say it, dude, but I don’t think it’s gonna catch on,” Tyson replied, grinning. “We’re supposed to be civilised types.”

Oxford Guy’s mouth quirked up. “Yeah. Supposed. Can I sit down or will I have to pay in blood?”

Tyson waved a nonchalant hand. “Go ahead. I’m not gonna stop you - unless you’re here to torture me for trade secrets?”

“Dude, I just spent four hours freezing out on the river in the middle of some godforsaken fucking wasteland. All I want to do is get a drink, go back to the hotel and drown my sorrows in popcorn and The Muppets. See?” he called down to the barman. “No fighting! We’re being civil!”

“What?” the barman had clearly lost interest. Oxford Guy sighed.

“Can I just have a drink?”

“You’re drinking the night before the Boat Race?” Tyson’s lip curled. Oxford Guy gave him a patronising look.

“I’ll have whatever he’s having,” he told the barman, and sat down. Tyson watched him as he curled his hand around the proffered glass and took a gulp, instantly pulling a face. “Dude, Pepsi, seriously?”

“Food of the gods, Oxford. Hey, do you actually have a name, or should I just keep calling you ‘Oxford’ for the sake of boundaries?”

“Nah, I can’t be fucked with the whole Oxford-Cambridge, Let’s Dance, Bitches routine. Let’s keep things simple,” he smiled, tugging a hand through the tangles in his hair. He had a nice smile, thought Tyson. “Name and place in the boat. I’ll start: My name is Nick and I’m the Bow.”

“No shit. Hi, Nick-the-Bow. I’m Tyson and I’m Number Two.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance - and hey, together we make a bow pair! That’s awesome!” Nick looked ridiculously pleased and Tyson found himself beaming back involuntarily. This was the sort of stupid rowing geekiness that he really appreciated.

“Yeah - we only need another six people and then we’ll have our own intramural VIII. What?” he added, as Nick quirked his head to one side, frowning.

“You an Okie?”

“What?”

“An Okie. Are you from Oklahoma?” Nick clarified slowly as Tyson looked blank.

“Okla - oh! Yeah, yeah, I am. You, too, right?” Tyson beamed as Nick nodded. “Oh man, I thought I recognised the accent!”

“Can’t lose the drawl,” Nick agreed, drawing out the vowels absurdly. “Or something like that. I need practice.” He smiled widely. It was a really lovely smile, Tyson decided. It was a shame Nick was an Oxford rower and therefore off-limits.

“So,” he said, raising an interrogative eyebrow, “if you’re an Okie, what are you doing over here?”

Nick lifted an eyebrow in return. “Same thing you are, Cambridge. Getting a degree.”

“Yeah? What are you studying?”

“Engineering Sciences.”

Tyson shook his head sadly. “Oh, you’re a scientist. You have no soul.”

“Hey,” Nick pointed at him with his empty glass, “I have a soul. Yeah, engineers need a high degree of technical competence but they also need imagination, strength of purpose, commonsense - and a social conscience.” He paused. “So there.”

“Did you just quote the prospectus?”

Nick laughed. “Maybe. So. Tell me what you study, so I can insult your degree.”

“English Literature.”

“Ahhh. So you don’t do any work, right?”

“Fuck you. You mess around making little toy cars all day.”

“Oh, no. I’m way beyond cars, dude. Last week I made an automatic vending machine.”

“Er…congratulations?”

“Yeah, I know, it sucks. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Dude, I’m writing a dissertation on the changing views of children’s literature as reflected in children’s editions of Pilgrim’s Progress. My degree sucks more than your degree.” Tyson shoved a load of change across the bar in exchange for a new glass of Pepsi. He pushed it along the bar to Nick, who quirked an eyebrow.

“You know, you’re meant to buy me alcoholic drinks if you expect me to put out.”

Tyson fluttered his eyelashes coyly. “Why, Nick, we barely know each other. I’m not that sort of girl,” he paused for thought. “At least, I’m not that sort of girl until after at least five rounds.”

Nick cracked up, hands over his face. “Oh man, that’s bad.”

Tyson smirked. “Guess it’s for the best, huh, Oxford? I don’t want your girlfriend coming after me with a knife.”

Nick’s giggles subsided and he met Tyson’s eyes with smirk of his own. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend, either, which is what I think you really wanted to know, right?”

Tyson looked at him and said nothing. His breath caught as tension jolted between them, and he would have laughed at the cliché had his heart not jumped to his throat and heat not trickled down his spine. And now he was half-hard in a bar, which was just awesome. To distract himself, he leaned forward and said earnestly:

“You can tell me the truth, Nick. Have you just come out of a bad relationship? If you like, you can cry on my shoulder while we drink martini and I tell you that he didn’t deserve you.”

Nick grinned. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I look terrible when I cry and I’m not too keen on martini. Anyway, I think it was more a case of me not deserving him. I cheated on him.”

“Ooh, who with?”

“An VIII boat.”

Tyson paused. “I really, really hope you’re being metaphorical. Or are you one of those people who has a thing for inanimate objects?”

Nick laughed. “I was being metaphorical. Nah, rowing ended up taking over our relationship, and that wasn’t fair on him. So,” he made jazz-hands. “Here I am. Free as a bird.”

“Rowing kind of kills your love life,” Tyson agreed, willing the persistent hard-on to go away. Oxford dude. Day before Boat Race. Out of bounds. Hooking up with him would probably be the worst decision - not of his life, but definitely of the last two months.

“How did you start?” he asked, determinedly returning to neutral ground.

“Rowing? I started in high school. Whatever, it was better than football,” Nick said defensively as Tyson grinned. “I rowed through college, then… here. Oxford. How did you get started?”

Tyson shrugged. “My dad taught me. Thought it would make me a bit less manic, y’know? ‘Cause I was fucking insane in high school. Don’t think he bargained on buying me a rowing machine, though. I nearly flunked college completely, and then I wound up at Cambridge. Don’t ask me how because I’ve got no idea. I think I heard ‘boat race’ and decided that it was the place for me - and it was out of Oklahoma, which is probably better if, like me, you have a thing for guys and glitter. I was just lucky I liked the course - ” he broke off, noticing Nick staring at him. “What?”

Nick blinked. “You talk really fast. And kind of a lot.”

“Yeah, well,” Tyson affected nonchalance, “there are ways to shut me up.”

Nick looked momentarily dazed and then snorted. “I’ll bet.”

Once again, there was silence and a shiver of tension as Tyson swallowed and Nick’s eyes followed the movement of his throat. Then Tyson’s watch beeped and they both jumped.

“Ten o’clock,” said Tyson, just to break the silence. “I should probably go soon. Big fuckin’ day tomorrow.”

“One more drink? C’mon,” Nick smiled persuasively. “I owe you. I’ll even buy you Pepsi. Ugh,” he pulled a face.

“You don’t like Pepsi? You drank, like, two pints of it.”

“Yeah, because you bought it for me and my mother taught me manners,” Nick grinned. “I hate the fucking stuff.”

“Oxford, I’m insulted,” drawled Tyson. “It was a gift -”

“ - and it was much appreciated. So, what’ll it be? No, don’t tell me.”

After attempting to flag down the barman (who’d been standing at the furthest possible distance, ignoring them studiously) Nick walked down to the other end of the bar and came back with another Pepsi.

“There y’go, dude,” he sat back down. “Here’s your disgustingly sweet soda. Now we’re even. And hey, I forgot to ask what race you’re actually in?”

“Hmm?” Tyson took an overly enthusiastic mouthful of Pepsi and winced as tiny bubbles shot up his nose.

“Which race? Isis and Goldie or the main event?”

“Main event, man.”

“First year in the boat?”

“Yeah.”

“Scared?”

“Shitless.”

“Don’t be. Seriously,” Nick insisted as Tyson looked dubious. “If you lose, you lose. I was in the boat last year and that was just embarrassing.”

“Ah. You guys lost by, what -”

“Something like thirty feet. It was bad. Listen, Cambridge. Don’t let anyone tell you it’s the end of the world. Yeah, it sucks for, like, a week, but you’ve got work and then trials start again and you get over it. I’m serious. You just need to find something to distract you for a few days after.”

“Are you dooming me to failure?” Tyson narrowed his eyes

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Nick said with bland innocence. “Anyway, if I wanted to sabotage your chances, I’d stab a hole through the bottom of your boat. None of this psychological bullshit.”

“You have fun trying to stab something through reinforced fibre-glass,” Tyson paused. “So. Say we lose. What sort of distraction did you have in mind?”

Nick, who had stolen a gulp of his Pepsi, pushed the glass back to him and grinned. “Oh, I dunno. I can think of a few things. If you’re interested.”

His eyebrows waggled ridiculously and Tyson couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing, choking a little into his glass.

“Dude,” he gasped around the giggles. “Oxford, are you hitting on me?”

Nick looked a little crestfallen. “I’m trying to,” he admitted. “I’m out of practice, okay? The last thing I sweet-talked was my coffee machine and that was back in January.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Tyson smiled. “You wanna take a walk?”

“What, outside? It’s cold!” Nick hunched his shoulders inside his jacket and pouted at him.

“I was thinking of the bathroom, genius. Unless you don’t want me to suck you off?”

Nick stared at him for a long moment and then got up and walked towards the bathroom at twice the speed he’d ambled down the bar. Grinning, Tyson followed. Nick was on him the moment he got through the door.

“Mmph,” he managed as Nick effectively pinned him against the wall and kissed him. It wasn’t the best of angles - their noses bumped, their teeth clicked and Nick’s head narrowly missed the hand-dryer as Tyson worked up enough leverage to reverse their positions, Nick now against the wall.

“So,” Nick said between kisses. “I’m your distraction for tonight, huh?”

“Yeah. You get to stop me going crazy,” Tyson told him, shuddering as Nick sank his teeth into the thin skin below his ear. “Ow, hey, dude, no hickeys. Lots of cameras around tomorrow.”

“Spoilsport,” Nick murmured, licking over the reddened skin.

They both froze as a clanking sound came from one of the cubicles. Tyson straightened up fractionally.

“Hello? Anyone here? Okay, good.” Nick was laughing silently into his shoulder. “I’m glad you think it’s funny.”

“Oh, man, I haven’t done this in years,” Nick lifted his head to grin into Tyson’s face. “I’d forgotten how much fun it is.”

Tyson grinned back and dropped to his knees. “Yeah, it is.” Nick’s eyes went comically wide.

“Dude - hey - you don’t have to -”

“Oh well. Since I’m down here anyway,” he smoothed his hands down Nick’s thighs, feeling his hips jump in response. “You don’t have a problem with this, do you?”

“You see me complainin’?”

Shaking his head, Tyson went to work on Nick’s jeans, getting himself hopelessly entangled in the process (“What the fuck, Oxford, is this, like, some sort of weird chastity device?”), shoving them down to mid-thigh. Pressing Nick’s hips against the wall, he gripped the base of his cock, took a deep breath and swallowed him down. Somewhere above his head, he heard Nick’s faint ohfuck followed by ow! as his head connected with the wall. Tyson hummed agreement and carried on sucking. He could feel Nick’s hands skittering over his shoulders and smoothing over the back of his head, evidently reluctant to settle them anywhere. Tyson pulled off long enough to say, “Dude, it’s fine. I’m not going to break,” and sank back down as fingers gently twisted in his hair.

It was fast, messy and just the way Tyson liked it. He sucked hard, listening to the tiny, bitten-off sounds, until felt the telltale shudder of Nick’s hips. The hands in his hair yanked hard and then Nick was coming down his throat. He swallowed as much as he could before pulling off and resting his head against Nick’s thigh. Fingers stroked clumsily through his hair.

“Jesus, Cambridge,” Nick breathed reverently. Tyson looked up at him and grinned.

“Ok?” he licked his lips and Nick groaned.

“I see what this is. You’re trying to sabotage the Oxford chances by killing me.”

“You can’t row if you’re dead,” Tyson agreed solemnly.

“An astute observation, well done.” Nick eyed him as he shifted a little painfully on the floor. “Need some help?”

“Please. Sore knees, sore shoulders, sore back, sore legs… Christ, I’m a wreck.” Tyson looked at him forlornly and Nick hauled him to his feet, dragging him into kissing range.

“Do you think this counts as fraternisation?” he asked against Tyson’s mouth.

“Probably,” Tyson looped an arm around his neck. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Nick hesitated, one hand sliding down to palm the front of Tyson’s jeans. “Can I return the favour?” he asked, absurdly polite, and Tyson stifled a giggle, burying his face in Nick’s shoulder.

“Nah,” he said, edging his hips away. “Later.”

“Oh.” Nick sounded disappointed. Tyson pulled back to look at him.

“I’ll row better,” he explained. “Come round tomorrow evening. You can blow me then.”

Nick’s mouth twitched. “Thanks,” he said dryly. He looked at his watch. “Agh, fuck. Half-ten. I’d better go or my coach will skin me.”

Tyson’s phone beeped. He fished it out of his pocket.

From: Butcher

where r u? i changed ur facebook profile. U r now man seeking penguin.

Tyson sighed. “I should get back, too, before my team destroy what social credibility I have left. C’mon.”

They scuttled out of the bathroom and out into the street as unobtrusively as possible, giggling and avoiding each other’s gaze. Nick cleared his throat and pointed over his shoulder.

“Well, um. I’m going that way.”

Tyson edged in the opposite direction. “I’m going this way. So, I guess I’ll see you -”

“- Tomorrow -”

“- On the river -”

“Yeah.” There was an awkward pause, and then Nick touched Tyson’s shoulder. “Good luck, Cambridge, yeah?”

Tyson nodded. “Yeah. You too.”

**

He slept fitfully, more awake than asleep most of the time, occasionally plunging into dreams so vivid he had to open his eyes to make sure they weren’t real. Everything distracted him; the dim, orange glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains; the dripping tap in the bathroom; the pad-pad-pad of feet outside in the corridor as, one by one, the rest of the team emerged from their rooms to pace, bite their nails and pretend that they were totally relaxed and that everything was fine.

Tyson clicked on his light at half past two and sat at the end of his bed, mulling over their chances. Chris was heavier than the average cox. They’d never mention as much to him, but he slowed them down. On the other hand, he was strong, and uncannily good at finding the clear line of water that could make or break a race.

His team weren’t fashionable rowers - they didn’t have the layers of muscle and bulk useful for powering a boat forward. But they were light, wiry and could move fast, always an advantage in a long-distance race. All in all, Tyson decided, they had a pretty good chance. As much of a chance as the Oxford team had, anyway.

When his alarm went off at five, he woke up, cold and stiff, still at the end of his bed.

**

He didn’t wake up until he was out on the water, not properly. He remembered a few vague details: breakfast, or to be more accurate, throwing up after breakfast and having more food forced down his throat by Butcher and Spencer; the morning run and warm-ups; the few fidgety hours before the race when they all pretended to study and the weird feeling of detachment as they hefted the Blue Boat down to the river.

It felt as though he blinked, and suddenly, he was out on the Thames, shivering like a whippet in a thin t-shirt, his oar resting, cold, across his thighs. For a moment, he was completely disorientated. He craned his head around and whispered to a white-faced, tight-lipped Tom:

“Conrad - hey, Conrad. What side of river did we get? Middlesex or Surrey?”

Tom stared at him. “Middlesex. Or weren’t you listening?”

Tyson breathed a sigh of relief. Being on the Middlesex side of the river meant a split-second advantage - the Thames curved generously around towards the Surrey side; bad luck if it was your team that had to follow that curve.

The announcer was saying something from the back, probably for the benefit of the crowd. In any case, it was tinny and far away, and Tyson was too strung out to pay much attention. Instead, he surreptitiously turned his head towards the Oxford boat, trying to catch a glimpse of Nick. They were almost parallel in their different boats, but all Tyson could see of him was a bowed head with tousled black hair and the occasional flash of silver as his earrings caught the sunlight. Suddenly, he looked up and across at Tyson’s boat and Tyson froze, imagining their eyes locked across the expanse of water. Then Nick dropped his head again, and Tyson sighed.

They weren’t friends today.

Chris’ voice jerked him back to the boat.

“We can do this. We’ve spent the last six months training for this - let’s make that godawful fucking week with the Royal Marines mean something! We’re an amazing team - I know it, Coach knows it. We’ve got the technique, the stamina and we really, really want to win. And that’s got to count for something.”

Conrad, who could no more resist poking fun at people than he could resist breathing, started to hum ‘Chariots of Fire’ which was quickly taken up by the rest of the boat. Chris scowled.

“You’re all lousy rowers and I hate the lot of you.”

“But it was such a beautiful speech,” Mike said with a soppy smile, and the Cambridge VIII chuckled quietly, glad that the sickening tension was broken. Then the umpire stood up, and Chris’ expression tensed.

“Okay, guys. Here we go,” there was silence as Cambridge held their breath. “Set ready.” Seven oars dipped into the water. Tyson breathed out, sinking into his headspace. “Ready, all. Row.”

They found their rhythm, bodies easily falling into movement honed and perfected by months of training. Four miles of water translated roughly into twenty minutes solid rowing - nothing they hadn’t done before, but the element of competition would make it that much harder. It took perhaps five minutes before the pain settled into Tyson’s muscles, increasing steadily as he kept up the pressure. He heard the cries of the Oxford cox - the boats had come close together. Don’t look at the other boat, he reminded himself.

The world outside the boat became surreal. Screams faded in and out again as the boat went by, the wind whipped through Tyson’s hair and through his shirt, now damp with sweat. Above his burning muscles, he heard Chris’ shouts of encouragement and code-words to hide their intent from the Oxford team. Then, over the top, the booming voice of the umpire through the megaphone.

“Cambridge, you are too close. Pull back.”

They were neck and neck. Chris swore. “Hard on starboard, guys. Then firm up and give her ten. Let’s pass the bastards.”

Tyson put his head down and rowed hard.

Dimly, he heard Chris’ shouts become more urgent, but forced himself to listen for the command and not the tone. If something was wrong, Chris would let them know. He glanced upward, still rowing. Barnes Bridge was up ahead; less than a mile to go, one last bend in the river to negotiate. The Oxford boat was nowhere in sight. People and colours blurred on the bank, and he looked back down, dizzy and aching. Tom breathed raggedly behind him.

“Well done, guys, we’re closing, a couple more minutes, come on,” Chris yelled.

Tyson’s breath wheezed in his lungs. For a second, he contemplated dropping his oar, diving into the water and swimming for shore, just so he could stop rowing. It was only the thought that he’d probably cramp up and drown that stopped him. That and the fact that Barnes Bridge was already behind him. Less than a mile and he would be able to stop.

Less than a mile and he would be able to stop.

Less than a mile.

Less than a mile.

The screaming from the banks grew loud, as though someone had suddenly turned up the volume. Chris said something, and Tyson shook his head, confused.

“Paddle,” Chris repeated, expression unusually sober. “Paddle and then easy oars, guys. It’s all over.”

The rest of the VIII looked up, startled, and then down again. Chris was right. They had lost.

For a moment, Tyson shut his eyes and let everything blur into white noise, forcing his breathing to slow down before it skittered out of control. Opening them again, he looked for the empty Oxford boat, already near the bank, its team waist-deep in the Thames. Nick was laughing with the rest of them, his face bright and happy as he dragged the Oxford cox into a headlock and dunked him in the river. The cox, who looked barely older than eighteen, came up spluttering and giggling, rubbing murky Thames water out of his eyes with one hand as he shoved Nick with the other. Nick tousled an affectionate hand through his hair and looked up, catching Tyson’s eye. Tyson looked back, knowing the disappointment was plain on his face. Nick’s face sobered a little, and he lifted his hand in a tiny half-wave. Tyson smiled back, swallowing the bitter feeling in his stomach, and then looked away, turning his attention to the blue sky above his boat.

At least they’d picked a beautiful day to lose. Tyson shut his eyes and let the watery March sunlight wash over his face, clearing the fizz of adrenaline from his bones.

**

Later, at the trophy presentation, they stood around in clean clothes, trying not to look too obviously dispirited while the Oxford team stood on the stage, beaming widely.

“Okay,” Chris muttered gloomily as the Oxford team accepted their trophy and proceeded to attack one another with champagne bottles, “let’s at least pretend to be magnanimous.”

“I dunno,” Mike had rejected his Cambridge sweater in favour of his oldest and apparently filthiest hoodie. It was - or once had been - purple and clashed horribly with his turquoise Cambridge boots. Tyson thought that was probably the point. “Can’t we just grab the trophy and run away laughing?”

“No. That wouldn’t come under the heading of ‘magnanimous’,” Chris said firmly. “We’re going to applaud politely and then we’re going to go out and get absolutely wasted.”

**

When Tyson woke up, his room was almost pitch black, and he blinked confusedly, wondering whether it was possible to drink so much you went blind. Craning his head to one side (ignoring the swimmy feeling in his stomach and bone dry mouth), he focused blearily on the clock. The glowing numbers told him he’d slept nearly five hours - or that it was five hours since he’d passed out. Tyson thought it was rather more a case of involuntary emergency shutdown to prevent alcohol poisoning than actual sleep.

He wandered into the bathroom to splash water on his face and clean his teeth, before grabbing his bag and heading outside, hoping the cold air would clear his head a little. Sitting down on the steps outside the hotel, he huddled down in his jacket, watching his breath puff out in little clouds - for March, it was really freaking cold. A flurry of movement caught the corner of his eye, and he twisted around, shoes scraping on the pavement.

Nick was slouched against the wall on the edge of the pavement, weirdly orange under the glow of the streetlight, apparently absorbed in his cuticles. Tyson stood up, grimacing as his muscles protested, and shoved his hands in his pockets, making his way over.

“If you’re going to stand on street corners then you should get nicer boots,” Tyson said, leaning against the wall a little further away. “Are you stalking me?”

Nick looked up and smiled. “Well, not intentionally. Would it sound really, really creepy if I said I found out where you guys were staying and just hoped you’d be around?”

“That’s a little creepy. But I guess it depends what you’ve come for,” Tyson smirked. Nick sighed, and his smile dimmed.

“I just wanted to say sorry. About today.”

Tyson felt the grin slide off his face and he scuffed one shoe along the ground.

“Why? You won. If we’d won, I wouldn’t be sorry; I’d be fucking ecstatic. I’d be out celebrating, probably with alcohol -”

“What, more? You smell like you fell into a distillery vat -”

“- I wouldn’t be hanging around the Oxford hotel, waiting for one of the team to come out, just so I could tell them I felt sorry for them -”

“Hey!” Nick said sharply, and Tyson closed his mouth, a little disappointed. A really good (if slightly inebriated) rant would have helped to clear his head. “Fuck that. I didn’t come here to gloat. I came to see if you were all right! They put so much fucking pressure on us - on both teams, to win this fucking race, and losing - well, it fucking sucks, all right?”

Tyson blinked a little. He’d been slightly mesmerised by the number of times Nick had managed to fit the word ‘fuck’ into his speech. Maybe there was more alcohol in his bloodstream than he’d previously thought. Nick’s mouth was set in a tight defiant line. Tyson decided to give up without a fight.

“All right. So if you aren’t here to take the piss…? What, then?”

Nick seemed to relax and he smiled a little. “Remember how I offered you a distraction, yesterday?”

“Vaguely,” Tyson lied airily, as though he hadn’t spent the majority of the afternoon thinking about it.

“Well, um,” Nick took a slightly hesitant step closer. “I’m still up for it if you’re still up for it?”

Tyson stared at him for a moment, before grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the hotel doors.

“I’m not going to get lynched if I come inside, right?” Nick asked, giggling as he stumbled over Tyson’s legs.

“I will protect you,” Tyson said grandly. “Though if Chris sees you, you’re on your own. He’s convinced your cox was trying to ram us this afternoon.”

“Ryan?” Nick frowned. “He wouldn’t - well, yeah, maybe. What can I say? We all want to win.”

“I get it, man. Just make sure Chris doesn’t see him or there will be blood.” Tyson ducked into the lobby, still holding Nick’s hand, and towed him down the corridor.

“This is when you tell me that your room’s on the seventh floor isn’t it?” Nick said, eyeing the stairs apprehensively. “You’re gonna have to carry me up, dude, I’m an old man.”

“I’m actually on the fifth floor, Methuselah, but thanks all the same. And hey, whaddaya know?” Tyson smirked and pointed. “An elevator.”

Nick paused. “Huh. So there is. Pity for you - you don’t get to carry my fine ass up a million flights of stairs.”

“I can think of plenty of other things I’d rather do with that ass, if you know what I mean.”

Nick shook his head, grinning, as the elevator dinged. “Man, you’re terrible. Do you just collect crappy pick-up lines and drop them into random conversation?”

“Only with people I really like,” Tyson leered ridiculously and hip-checked him into the elevator. The doors swung shut, and for a moment they were silent as gears groaned and the elevator creaked jerkily to life. The lights flickered and Tyson stared at them dubiously.

“Only the best for the Cambridge VIII,” he muttered, wincing as the elevator slowly shuddered past the second floor.

Nick’s lips quirked. “The walls at our place are so thin that I could hear Eastenders coming from both of the rooms next to mine. It was like Surround Sound. I didn’t even have to watch the show.”

“It’s so nice to know our universities care about our comfort,” Tyson agreed, making a grab for the wall as the gears suddenly screeched and the elevator juddered threateningly. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not a fan of elevators?” Nick said sympathetically, lips twitching with amusement.

“Have you seen me, dude? I’m not built for these things.” Tyson edged himself as close to the wall as physics would allow and glared at the glowing number above the doors as it smugly blinked to ‘4’.

Nick nodded seriously and then leaned forward, curling a hand around the back of Tyson’s neck and pulling him down into a kiss. Tyson released his death-grip on the wall to snake an arm around Nick’s waist, dragging him in closer. Nick hummed approvingly and stepped closer, crowding him against the wall. By the time the elevator ground to a halt, Tyson’s hands were clenched in Nick’s jacket and he had totally forgotten about dying in a potential elevator accident. He grabbed Nick’s hand as the doors slid open and dragged him out into the corridor.

“I can’t believe we just made out in an elevator,” he muttered as they walked. “The cliché practically hurts.”

Nick grinned at him. “I said I’d provide a distraction,” he said easily. “I never said it had to be original.”

They stopped in front of Tyson’s door and waited as Tyson fumbled in his pockets for his key which refused to come to light. Finally, exasperated, Tyson dumped the contents of both pockets on the floor and rifled through the mess. Nick dropped onto his knees next to him, sniggering.

“Need some help?” he asked, voice brimming with amusement.

“Shut up,” Tyson muttered, trying to untangle the keys from a bracelet. “This is a fucking excellent way to set the mood.”

“Totally,” Nick stood up, watching as Tyson stuffed everything back into his jacket and then pulling him to his feet. “Nothing gets me going like a treasure hunt.”

“Oh yeah?” Tyson quirked an eyebrow at him as he pushed the door open. “I’ll have to remember that the next time I-”

Nick laughed and shoved him forward into the room, pushing him backwards onto the bed.

“Seriously,” Tyson protested earnestly, propping himself up on his elbows and watching as Nick divested himself of his socks and shoes. “It’s important share your sexual preferences with your partner-“

He stopped short as Nick dropped onto the bed and rolled in between his legs, kissing him thoroughly.

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Nick asked against his mouth. He made a sound as Tyson bit his lip in retaliation.

“Rarely,” Tyson replied, shivering as Nick dipped his head to mouth at his collarbone through his shirt. “I’ve been told it comes from my constant need for attention but I like to think it’s a charming part of my irrepressible nature.”

“It’s fucking charming,” Nick swung a leg over Tyson’s hips and settled in his lap. “But right now I think you should stop talking and let me distract you.”

Tyson looked up at him and grinned. “I can work with that.”

“Awesome.” Nick dropped his head to kiss him, shifting his thigh between Tyson’s legs at the same time. Tyson hissed and dragged him closer, bringing their hips flush together.

“Yep,” he managed. “This is good, this is-“ he shuddered as Nick slowly rolled his hips forward.

“Working?” Tyson was gratified to hear that Nick sounded a little breathless.

“Little bit, yeah,” Tyson gasped as Nick picked up the pace and then squeaked as Nick sank his teeth into the skin under his jaw.

Nick pulled back and peered at Tyson from under his bangs. “No biting?”

Tyson curled his fingers into the hair at the back of Nick’s neck and dragged him back within kissing range. “No - no, keep going with the biting, dude. Biting is - is good.” His hips jerked forward as Nick sucked a bruising kiss into the other side of his neck, “I am fully on board with the biting-“ he trailed off, mouth dropping open, as Nick rocked his thigh up hard between Tyson’s legs.

“Still talking,” Nick said into the curve of his jaw.

“Fine, fine, no more talking. Just keep doing that,” Tyson shuddered as he thrust up against the pressure of Nick’s leg.

Nick grinned. “OK, Bossy.”

“I’m not bossy,” protested Tyson, arching up hard and letting his eyes drift shut as sparks started to fire at the base of his spine. “A little demanding, maybe…”

Nick snorted. “Demanding, sure.” He ground down once more, hard, and then groaned and pulled away.

Tyson sat up, eyes flying open. “Dude - no way - you cannot bail on me now!”

“I dunno,” Nick said solemnly. “We didn’t actually agree on a specific distraction. There’s always the TV. We could watch golf!” He managed to keep a straight face for perhaps three seconds before cracking up. “Man, your face. Nope. As fun as this is, I had a plan and it’s getting away from me.”

He slid down Tyson’s body, and Tyson groaned. “Seriously?”
Nick paused, fingers hovering over the waistband of Tyson’s jeans. “Or we could do something else.”

“No - no, this is great,” Tyson said quickly. “You’re just, like, my favourite person right now.”

Nick grinned. “So you’re okay with this?” he edged his fingertips under Tyson’s t-shirt.

Tyson rolled his eyes. “Yes, Jesus.”

Nick’s grin grew wider. “Awesome!” he slid a little further down the bed and winced. “Ow, fuck.”

“Triceps?” Tyson asked sympathetically. His own had been burning continuously since the race had ended.

“Lats,” Nick said, pulling a face. “It’s a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.” Tyson shivered as Nick smoothed his hands over the skin of Tyson’s belly. “Rowing really messes you up. I’m twenty-five, I’m practically bankrupt, my degree course is definitely suffering and my physio bill is insane.” He frowned a little and then yelped as Nick dug his nails into his hips.

“No talking about rowing,” Nick told him sternly. “I’m supposed to be distracting you from the rowing obsession.”

“And you’re doing a fabulous job,” Tyson agreed, watching as Nick flicked open the button on his jeans, dragging them off and dropping them over the side of the bed. He settled back between Tyson’s legs and quirked an eyebrow.

“No boxers? Nice work.”

“Gotta tell you, man, I’m just lazy,” Tyson admitted, swallowing as Nick smoothed his hands up Tyson’s inner thighs. His dick was taking perhaps a little too much interest in the proceedings. Tyson silently told it to calm down before things got embarrassing. It was just difficult to remember that when Nick sucked the head into his mouth.

“Jesus Christ!” Tyson’s hips jerked upward without his conscious volition and Nick choked a little. “Sorry, sorry, are you ok?”

Nick smiled. “Peachy-keen. It’s been a while, though, I should probably warn you.”

He wrapped a hand around Tyson’s cock and slid his mouth back down. Tyson made a noise that was probably only audible to certain species of dolphin. Nick’s hands tightened on his hips and he slid down further, pressing his tongue to the underside. Tyson choked on a gasp, and Nick pulled back a little, palpably smug even if his lips were wrapped around Tyson's dick. Tyson tried to glare at him but probably achieved something nearer to dazed.

“Come on, fuck, you have to-“ he managed and then trailed off as Nick hummed approvingly and sank back down again, sucking hard and Tyson could feel it in his fucking bones. He blindly flailed at the bed for something to grab onto and wound up fisting his hands in the sheets, arching his back as Nick did something creative with his tongue. The heat was coiling again in the base of his spine, intensifying as Nick shifted and started up a dizzying rhythm with his hand and his mouth. Tyson teetered, panting, on the brink. Then Nick swiped his tongue under the head of Tyson’s dick, sliding his nail down the sensitive underside, and Tyson came, choking on a gasp.

He let his hands unclench from the blankets and stared up at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath. When the sparkles faded from his vision, he propped himself up on his elbows. Nick was kneeling halfway down the bed, head bowed and one hand shoved down his jeans.

Tyson cleared his throat, trying to remember how to form words. “I can - I can help you with that,” he gestured a little shakily.

Nick looked up at him and shuddered hard, curling in on himself as his orgasm hit. Slowly, he straightened up, looking a little sheepish. “Normally, I am so much smoother than that,” he said, pulling his hand out of his jeans and wincing.

Tyson grinned. “You are fucking smooth. I think you might have killed me.”

Nick raised an eyebrow, furtively wiping his hand on the sheets. “But you’re not thinking about rowing any more, are you?”

“Nope,” Tyson shook his head sadly. “No more rowing. I’m dead, Oxford. You fucking killed me with your amazing blowjob skills.”

“What can I say? I’m the team’s secret weapon.” Nick crawled up the bed to sit by Tyson.

“I think Cambridge needs one of those,” Tyson said thoughtfully. “I could volunteer. Be your counterpart. Then we could do this all the time.”

“For the sake of the team,” agreed Nick, looping a hand around Tyson’s neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

Tyson hummed happily and tugged him closer. “Oh hey, it’s seven,” he said suddenly, looking at his clock over Nick’s shoulder.

Nick frowned and started to pull away. “You have to do something? I can clear out in, like, five minutes-“

“Wait - no!” Tyson grabbed his arm and hauled him back onto the bed. “Seriously, man, I’m not chucking you out. It’s just that Deal or No Deal’s on in a few minutes and that show’s fucking addictive. You should stay and watch with me. Unless you’ve got somewhere else you have to be?”

“Nope,” Nick grinned, grabbing the remote from the bedside table. “We leave at ass o’clock tomorrow. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“So stay,” Tyson said, waggling his eyebrows in what he hoped was an inviting way. “Mock Noel Edmond’s choice of shirt with me.”

Nick laughed and turned on the TV.

**

Tyson sat up with a whimper of pain, his muscles aching sharply. Dawn light was filtering through the curtains, Nick was gone and his alarm clock was beeping five o’clock by his bed. He scowled.

“The one day I didn’t have to be up. You suck,” he told it and prepared to lie back down before something caught his eye.

There was a note on his bedside table, a name and a number scrawled onto a piece of paper. Tyson picked it up, grinning, and fished around the bedside table for his phone. He dialled the number.

“Oxford, this is your morning wake-up call.”

**

Thoughts? Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated!