A/N: Thank you NonfunctioningAdultHuman for reviewing the last chapter :) Feedback is always appreciated. Hope you are not too disappointed that the Blitzkrieg boys are not featured yet but don't despair, their time will come.
Enjoy this chapter!
-x-x-x-
The Lad and the Tramp Stamp
Our failed copulation left me with a throbbing cock and drowning in naughty thoughts. Seeing no way out, I loudly announced that I would take a shower. Deep down Wyatt must have known I was going to jerk off. Part of me crumbled when he simply nodded and told me to enjoy the water. Not even proposing to join!
We could have helped each other out!
A creeping thought came to me that maybe he did not need any help?
Once I had cum, I brushed my teeth and tongue to make my breath smell minty fresh, and not like the onion pie I had for lunch. Then borrowed his razor to shave the few hairs that made up my flimsy excuse for a moustache (I liked the idea of having one I could style it in fun shapes that would go well with a fedora, but a man must know when to accept defeat).
I had stolen my father's aftershave which gave me two strategic advantages:
1. I saved money.
2. Wyatt wanted to fuck my dad, so this scent was sure to make him randy.
Even though I was heading straight to bed I ran a few scoops of pomade through my hair. Then, after doing a few flexes in the mirror, I was happy with my appearance. I decided to put on the robe so I could take it off gracefully, in a cinematic sexy reveal.
We had agreed to sleep naked after all. Right? It was implied.
Wyatt had either not gotten the hint or chosen to ignore it, as he was lying on the sheets in his button up pyjamas. What kind of adult still wore formal pyjamas like that? In a burst of courage I decided to still follow through on our one sided agreement and drop the robe. He did not even look up from his game boy.
I stood there awkwardly for at least a minute, posing erotically, before letting out a frustrated huff that caught his attention.
"What are you doing?"
"Some stretching exercises before bed."
I contorted my body, making sure to hold my breath just enough so I could move whilst keeping my pecks taunt enough to give them a nicely ridged outline.
Success! It worked. He was looking. More amused than aroused but I was hungry for his lingering stares.
For the squats, I turned my side to him so he could admire my form. He sat up startled.
"What is that?"
I looked behind me in the direction he was pointing.
"Did you spot a ghost?" I said with a smirk.
"On your back. Is that a sticker?"
For a moment I assumed the robe's label had gotten stuck to my wet back, when I realised Wyatt had not seen my tribal yet.
"I got a tattoo." I said cheekily.
"What? When?" Asked Wyatt, sounding stressed.
"In America. With my dad."
"How did I not see this before?"
"You were distracted, you either had my dick in your mouth or vice versa."
"It's one of those temporary ones, right? How long will it last."
I did another elaborate stretch, showing off my chiselled v.
"No, it's the real deal."
He was clutching the pillow now, nodding to himself.
"Okay. Well, that's... that's okay."
"You hate it." I realised in horror.
He shook his head while still nodding.
"No, I love it. It just looks like it's still healing. You should put a Band-Aid on it before going to bed."
I had many critics, but up until this point, Wyatt had enjoyed my eccentric style. He even told me that the way I presented myself made up my aura, and how the first time he saw me on TV he could not take his eyes off, and spent his allowance ordering all sorts of magazines from abroad as long as they featured a sexy picture of me on the cover.
If anything my style had evolved in tune with our relationship, I should be looking more appealing to him. Why did I get the sense he was not only falling out of love but growing less attracted to me?
"I'm supposed to let it airdry at this point."
"Okay."
"I'll put a shirt on."
Cramming through my suitcase, I selected a baggy top devoid of any pizazz. I was tired of trying. I was tired in general, welcoming the bed. The sheets were already warm when I climbed into them. Not caring that Wyatt radiated heat, I laid my head onto his chest. The soft motion of his breathing had a hypnotising effect, instantly calming and luring me into a false sense of security.
"Do you smell that?"
I peaked up to see him fanning a hand in front of his nose.
"My aftershave?"
He made a sour expression.
"It's awfully strong."
"I can wash it off." I suggested.
He inched away from me.
"Don't bother." He yawned, as he rolled on his side.
While I lay there, eyes glued at his back in that stupid silk pyjamas, that same loneliness I had once embraced and now feared more than anything crept back into my consciousness. Something had to be done.
-x-x-x-
The next morning, I rose with the sun. The restlessness and jet leg had finally caught up and had me tossing my sheets at 5:30 am.
Wyatt was looking everything but cute, drooling all over our shared pillow. His inner brat came out at night, when he hogged the blanket and spread himself midway across the mattress. I had snubbed him once, but could not bring myself to wake him. So peaceful was his snoring. I made a note to encourage him to get throat surgery before fully emancipating himself.
Then I kicked him. That shook him enough to open his eyes a slit.
"Want to go swimming?"
He glared and turned his back at me before lulling back into sleep.
At this point rejection was the expectation, no longer a surprise. A woeful sigh escaped my lungs. Seated uncomfortably at the edge of the mattress, I reminisced about the times when he was crazy about me.
Overnight, I had devised a strategy to regain his attention. It involved body work to mould myself into a gay Jean-Claude van Damme. I lay awake coming up with a calling card akin to "The Muscle from Brussel" but all I could muster was "The Hernia from Serbia". Which was a start but severely lacking in sex-appeal.
My new morning agenda called for 25 laps in then pool, after which I could reward myself in the sauna. But by the time I dragged my depressed bum to the pool area I lacked the self control to do the former and just waddled around the shallow end before giving into my urges and slouching off in the hot tub instead. As I fully immersed myself into the warm water my many wounds begun to tingle. A crystal-crusted sign I had ignored up to this point clearly marked this pool as the healing salt bath.
While I had not intended to pour salt on my wounds, I could use the healing so I clenched my sphincter, and stayed put until the burning sensation subsided into a realm where I was no longer aware. Leaning my head back, I studied the stars, obediently flickering in their set constellations. Sure, the sky was artificial, but it was a pretty sight. The hotel had gone all out on the kitsch. I struggled to admit to myself just how much I liked it and caught myself fantasising of setting up a similar ceiling light at our future shared house. Sure would save me some explaining if I could drag Wyatt down here. Out of nowhere, a knot materialised in my gut, pressing down hard on my chest. I clenched my fists. Nothing but my emotions, I told myself. There was no reason to suspect the worst.
I made a pact with myself that I would only allow myself a minute to freak out, with closed eyes, I slowly counted down from 60. It was no use, I still felt like shit. Forcefully, I guided my attention elsewhere.
On the wall across from me was a mosaic depicting knights in gladiator skirt facing off against a bull. His period get-up and pompous disposition reminded me all too much of Enrique, and I gleefully observed that he looked as though he was losing. Being all by myself I felt confident enough to giggle at the thought. Naturally that was the moment somebody chose to enter.
It took me a moment too recognise Bryce, owning to the goofy diving goggles he was wearing. My suspicion was confirmed when the person dutifully showered himself with soapy water before stepping into the Spa area. He skipped the pool and went straight for the hot tub.
"Good morning brother-in-law."
I shrugged in response.
He cautiously dipped a toe in the water before stepping in. Wabbling down the staircase, keeping both hands on the rail as though afraid to slip on the twice redundant rubber mats placed on the steps for extra precaution. Which was probably a learned habit, since his body lacked all tension and coordination. If he embraced his flaws, he could have made a talented comic, it was hard not to laugh at how clumsily he carried himself. His lack of confidence had rubbed off on me and I hovered near him so I could catch him if he fell.
My gaze wandered to his rosy skin. His shoulders and arm were speckled with what looked like white freckles but, on closer inspection, were scars.
He noticed me staring so I quickly asked:
"Are you planning on diving?"
He tapped the goggles with his finger. "The chlorine irritates my eyes. I do not want to lead our team meeting looking like I hit the crackpipe."
"It's a saltwater pool." I replied a little too smugly for someone who did not take the time to read the sign before entering.
"Oh."
Bryce put his goofy glasses down, folding them as neatly as the laws of physics allowed rubber to be arranged.
He spread out his arms and let himself glide across the basin.
"Just like in the Dead Sea." He concluded.
I looked back perplexed, so he elaborated.
"The high salt content allows you to float."
"So does the excess fat on my bum."
"I've taken a look, and there is none."
That little bastard. He actually caught me off guard there. His eyes glinted cheekily; through he was forced to shut them when I splashed saltwater in his eyes.
"Darn. That still burns."
"Well, yeah."
Before he could reach for his unflattering eye-protection, a gust of cold air hit us. Somebody else had opened the door to the Spa area. It was Drago, the dreamy Serbian contestant that had quite literally beaten the shit out of Takao the night before. Needless to say, Bryce's embarrassing goggles remained at their spot.
Lucky for us, the water was steamy enough to let us pass off our flushed faces as a side effect of the temperature.
Drago was perfect. Not even the blue plastic cap we had to cover our hair with could contain his sexy aura.
"Am I interrupting?" He said with a laugh in his voice.
"Course not. The spa is open to everyone." Bryce rattled off, sounding about as smooth as a mine train.
Drago cocked a smile.
"Enjoying your honeymoon?"
"We're not." The two of us bust out a little too defensively.
Drago wrinkled his forehead in confusion, poor guy probably thought he had walked in on a fight.
"He's my brother-in-law." I clarified.
"I'm Bryce."
"You are team manager." Eager interest rang in Drago's voice. Though it was hard to tell if he was stating a fact or asking a question.
"Correct. That's me."
Bryce smiled proudly and tried to prim up his appearance by pushing unruly strands of hair under his plastic hood. Drago flashed him a cool grin then turned his back towards us and dove his sexy body into the pool.
We tried not to gawk. And failed.
While we were limply marinating in the bubbly water like ramen noodles, Drago diligently swam his laps, dragging his sculped body through the water with grace, as though he enjoyed having the gaze of two horny gay boys on him. When I got up to leave, it was not for a lack of hunger, but out of embarrassment. My baggy shorts could no longer contain the throbbing bulge.
Bryce trotted behind me. No need to ask why. He followed me through the dressing room into the elevator. It was one of those old school ones with a secondary door that had to be manually shut before the automatic doors could close.
Without checking if we were out of hearing range, Bryce let out a whistle.
"That Drago is hot and he knows it. I think he gets off on it."
"Of course, he does. The championship is an internationally televised event and he choses not to wear a shirt."
"Must be some sort of exhibitionist." Bryce concluded, he grinned sheepishly. "I don't mind."
Neither did I, but I did not dare to admit it in case the twins had a brotherly code.
"You don't have to keep wearing that cap." I said instead.
He was still fiddling with it, compulsively sliding more and more hair underneath.
"I could use your help." He mumbled.
"With what?"
He kept fidgeting, shifting weight across his feet. I inquisitively raised an eye brow, urging him to get to the point. My head was elsewhere. By now Wyatt should be up. Maybe I could talk him into taking my virginity already. Would that be enough to reignite his interest in me? God, I was pathetic, what had become of me?
After making sure the elevator doors had closed for good, Bryce tore his plastic hood off in one jerky, inelegant motion. It took all my restraint to hold back an audible reaction. The right side of his head bore a massive bold spot that had not been there the night before.
"I could not sleep." He said, head bowed.
"How can I help?"
"Any way you can. You do your own hair, right?"
"Usually I have more to work with."
I was trying to lighten the mood but my comment had the opposite effect. Tears clustered at the corner of his eyes.
"I can make it work." I hastily added. "Might have to give you a mohawk. Or an edgy undercut. But it will look cool."
"I've been wanting to shave it all off, but my parents would murder me."
"Have they ever tried to help you? Offer to let you see a therapist or put you on medication?"
"Does yelling at me count?"
It was heart-breaking to how the people we loved and respected the most dismissed our greatest struggles as a personal attack against their values. Some days the disconnect felt so great that I wondered of a wave of cognitive amnesia swept adults' minds at 21. Why else would they act as though we were in control of the very things we had the least control over? Jumping to the worst possible conclusion, that we picked up a bad habit only to get under their skin, when most of the time it was a coping mechanism.
Bryce slumped against the keyboard panel, accidentally activating all the buttons at once. His slouched shoulders carried the sad acceptance of his situation.
"Even if they did, it would not be out of concern. They are old school. They used therapy as a threat with Wyatt when he was overstepping their boundaries. It was nothing more than an elegant way to urge him to "quit acting crazy"."
"Stop adhering to their rules. Make your own."
My advice rang hollow. If it was that easy, why did I base my worth on whether Wyatt wanted to plunge my hole, or worse, what my father and grandfather thought of me? It did not help that their morals were contradictory, though this hindrance the only thing that allowed me a degree of freedom.
-x-x-x-
The bathroom was clad in yellowing soviet tile that covered floor, ceiling and walls in a hallucinogenic fashion, reminiscent of a bad trip down the rabbit hole. Currently, the dishevelled floor was littered with fluffy coils of brown. At the epicentre of the storm, stood Bryce, still panting, razer in hand and a look of terror in his eyes. Gripping the edges of the mirror, as through breaking it would undo his negligent act of rebellion.
A wide bald strip stretched diagonally across the left side of his skull.
"Oh no, oh no! What did I just do? Why didn't you stop me?"
"You didn't seem like you wanted to be stopped."
He turned to me, his pupils blank, and with a deadpan voice he foretold:
"Mom is going to kill me."
I shook my head.
"She is hundreds of miles away."
It was not very reassuring, considering his family owned an airline.
"There is a way, and she is sure to find it." Bryce said shakily.
The razor was still buzzing when I unclutched it from his twitching hands.
"I can fix this. I've done worse to own my hair."
With a few swift motions, I ran the razor over his head, trimming the sides, blending the lengths and leaving enough on the top for him to get used to without risking a melt down. Not to pat my own back, but I did well, I stepped back from my creation feeling proud.
"Oh my lord, I've got a mohawk!" He shrieked.
"It's barely even a fauxhawk."
"I have a mohawk!" He repeated, voice wailing from horrified to excited.
Still not a mohawk.
Running a hand over the top of his head, he let out an animated cackle.
"This is so punk." He winked at his own mirror image. "I look like a total baddie."
One that was still afraid to use the word "badass".
"You can spike it up to make it look even more unorthodox." I said semi-ironically.
"YES!"
He loaded a greedy amount of gel into his palm and styled his hair until it was stiff. Content with his creation, he strut in front of the mirror, trying out various poses, arm crossed, then propped on his hips, all while flashing an ecstatic smile.
Intuition told me, I had awakened something.
-x-x-x-
Bryce was stoked to parade his new look at the breakfast buffet.
"What is that?" Oliver asked aghast, the edges of his mouth twisted to a scowl.
"Kai cut it. How do you like it?"
"I don't." Oliver said sharply, and nonchalantly turned his attention back to his coffee. As though he made it a goal to live the stereotype, his breakfast was a single cigarette.
Bryce did not allow his scrutiny to rattle him. It helped that Wyatt was showering him in compliments.
"It's swank, bro. You look fresh as an MC." He said like someone who had lifted those words from a rap song without having any idea what they meant.
"Do you think I can pull it off?"
"Absolutely. You're shredding it."
The moment of truth came when Enrique entered the breakfast hall with Julia, the Spanish girl, slung around his arm. How he managed to appease her after yesterday's humiliation was a secret between him and the pharmacist.
We all held our breath as he trotted up to Bryce taking deliberately slow steps.
"I hate it."
Bryce collapsed into his chair, clutching his face in his hands. Wyatt protectively threw his body around him as though he was shielding him from a landmine.
Enrique himself seemed shellshocked. Petrified, he watched the reaction to his words sink in. A trace of guilt danced across his features. He lowered his gaze, turning away from Julia in shame.
"Hey, Ice!" Drago's husky voice broke through the heavy silence.
His banal act of passing by our table stole everyone's attention. Once again, he was shirtless like on the day he was born, though I am sad to report that the sightline to his nipples was blocked by a trey, liberally loaded with eggs and sausages.
"Zdravo, Drago." Bryce said with forced politeness.
Tilting his head to the side, the observant Serbian probingly asked: "New hair?"
Bryce nodded shyly, contorting his palms to obstruct the bold sides of his head from Drago's attentive view.
"Is hip. I like."
He winked, startling Bryce, then flashed a coy smile as he walked on, leaving behind an air of coolness.