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When Vincent is finally released from the thronging press and the well-intentioned but no less overwhelming fans, he thinks about returning to his room—but the thought is not the comfort that he hoped it would be. But then, of course it’s not. That comfort in solitude is one of the many things that COVID took from him. He thinks if he never sees the inside of another empty hotel room in his life it’ll still be too soon. He pictures clean cool sheets empty of any warmth but his own, and his mind recoils from it, grasps for something else...and seizes on an idea.
He remembers which room Camden is in but he sends a quick text to get the number anyway; he knows his memory is too good, so good other people have told him to quit it, Vincent, that’s creepy—while laughing, but still. It’s not something he can turn off, that quiet hunger behind his eyes. Always watching, studying, the people around him. Never quite feeling close enough to turn off his brain and just be with them.
Never, that is, until today.
He’d known there were cameras around, people around, eyes on him both real and virtual—yet when the placement came in that put him on the podium, all of that knowledge left him, washed away by the tide of emotion that swept him out of his chair and onto the ground. He felt cracked open, unutterably fragile. But out of the cheers, the lights, the roaring in his ears and the energy thrumming through his hands—a touch. A stroke on the back of his neck; a strong set of hands pulling him up to his feet, enfolding him to rest his cheek against warm tan skin.
Now: he wants. He’s afraid to say any of the words that could come after that—afraid to think about what it means. But he wants, and so he seeks.
And finds. Camden pulls him in with another hug (his heart swells again), closes the door behind him and reaches out to ruffle his damp hair, laughing about how it matches his own—they’ve both taken the chance to shower.
Camden’s a touchy guy with everyone, always clapping a friendly hand on a shoulder or brushing an arm as he talks, and he’s no different now as they sit on the foot of the bed. Good, the analytical part of Vincent supplies. That makes things easier. Easier to shuffle himself subtly closer, so they’re sitting hip-to-hip. Easier to take his hands and pull them close into his lap, bringing their faces suddenly only inches apart.
Camden pulls up short in the middle of enumerating his off-season plans, and Vincent thought this was a cliché but he actually sees those beautiful dark eyes flick down to his lips and back. “V? Are you...?”
“—Okay?” Vincent finishes the question for him, and chokes out a laugh. “Honestly, not really. But I thought...I felt like maybe, if I’m with you, I could be.”
Camden’s eyes are wide and uncomprehending, and Vincent steels himself. Now or never. He closes the gap to brush a whisper of a kiss across his mouth. A statement of intent, nothing more.
He pulls back just an inch, awaiting the reaction. Or tries to pull back—but then Camden surges into a proper kiss, twisting his body so the force of it knocks Vincent back onto the bed. His feet are still planted on the floor, and he’s grateful for the point of solidity and stillness as Camden drapes himself on top and does his level best to kiss him senseless. Experimentally, Vincent slips a little tongue into the kiss and Camden actually moans into his open mouth—and fuck, his dick was already beginning to pay attention to the proceedings but that’s enough to take it the rest of the way.
He raises his hands hesitantly, then drops them again, realizing he has no idea how Camden might want to be touched. He hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Camden notices and saves him the trouble: he pulls back, sits up and looks down at him, and deliberately takes Vincent’s hands in his own. He brushes one down his chest and settles the other at the dip of his waist and it’s better than Vincent could’ve dreamed: sleek muscle moving under skin so warm it burns even through his thin t-shirt.
“If we’re going to do this,” Camden says, a fierce light in his eyes, “I want you to keep your hands on me. Don’t take them off unless you need to.”
And yeah, okay, Vincent is more than fine with that. “I love touching you,” he breathes out, because it’s true.
“Then we’ll do just fine,” Camden says with a smile, and seals his mouth over Vincent’s again.
Vincent tries to keep his breathing even, to keep things slow and under control, but having his hands all over Camden makes it feel ten times as intimate and urgent as it did before. So many places to stroke, to knead, to hold and squeeze—and each touch nudges their bodies closer, seeking more. He quivers as Camden noses at the soft skin of his throat and sucks a mark into the flesh of his shoulder; it’s all he can do to keep himself still.
But when Camden kisses him again, soft and sloppy and open, and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth—Vincent’s resolve finally breaks. His hips arch off the bed and his erection grinds directly into the crease of Camden’s thigh. The contact sparks through him hot and bright like fireworks and he has to close his eyes against it.
“There we go,” Camden says, sounding entirely too smug even through the rush of blood in Vincent’s ears. “I was starting to think this wasn’t doing it for you.”
Oh. Was that how he’d come across? “No, sorry,” Vincent pants out. “Just didn’t want to lose control—”
Camden actually laughs at that: a bright, open sound that makes Vincent’s eyes snap open. “V, with all due respect, I think you do. I think you came to my room and kissed me exactly because you wanted to lose control.”
“Dammit,” Vincent mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
“Also,” Camden continues without pause, “I really wanna know how you think that plan would’ve worked out for you when I did this.” He cups his hand over Vincent’s erection and gives it a squeeze, rolling his palm over it and running his thumb up the underside from base to tip, and fuck. Vincent flings his hand over his mouth just an instant too late to fully muffle the groan of pleasure that escapes him.
“Point proven,” he gasps out when he can breathe properly again. His head’s spinning and his entire body feels like it’s adrift. He clings to Camden’s warmth and solidity and Camden sighs happily. His own hands are traveling over Vincent’s body now, rucking up his shirt.
“Take this off?”
Vincent nods and sits up to shed it, peeling off Camden’s as well so he can drink in the sight of every lovely inch he’d only glanced at sidelong in the many locker rooms they’d shared. He gathers Camden in for another kiss, shivering at the warmth of the skin-to-skin press of their torsos. Camden’s hand finds the front of his pants again and this time he’s too far gone to even try to stop the tilt-roll-buck of his pelvis, chasing the pressure and the friction.
“Fuck,” Camden breathes, “you really want this, huh? Can I...?” He slips onto the floor to kneel between Vincent’s thighs, licks his soft pink lips as he pins Vincent with that intense gaze, and suddenly Vincent can’t get his sweatpants off fast enough.
He wants to be able to close his eyes and focus on the sensation but he can’t look away from the slow smile that breaks over Camden’s face, the obvious appreciation as he takes Vincent in hand and brushes soft finger-pads up his length, the total concentration in his eyes as he leans in and does something skilled and filthy and utterly perfect with his tongue that leaves Vincent’s cock drenched in saliva from the head halfway down the shaft. Camden withdraws just to wet his lips again and then smoothly takes him all the way in. Vincent sighs out in pleasure, soft and high, and watches (and feels; holy shit) the way Camden’s throat works as he swallows. Then Camden’s eyes flick up to hold his for a moment before he bats his eyelashes down—a demure gesture, endearing in its absurdity here—and begins to move.
And it’s good. It’s really good, and Vincent knows he can come from this; can and will, if he lets it happen. But it’s somehow not what he came here for.
He says Camden’s name, stilling him with a hand on his shoulder, and Camden pulls off. “What’s up?” he says, concerned.
“I...” Vincent says intelligently. There’s nothing wrong, he wants to say, but....But. How does he begin to articulate what he’s feeling when he himself isn’t sure of it?
“Hey, it’s okay,” Camden soothes, taking both his hands. “We can do whatever you want to do.”
The words give him something to latch on to, at least; some language to use for the pressure in his chest. “I want us to be closer,” he manages, realizing it’s the truth even as it leaves his mouth. “Can we...face to face?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, doesn’t think about details and technicalities, just blindly follows what he needs.
Camden nods seriously, then a smile breaks over his face. “I’ve got an idea. Hang on.” And he’s off to the bathroom. Vincent idly strokes himself just enough to stay hard, noticing the tacky drag of Camden’s spit drying on his skin. Hot.
Camden comes back; he shakes out a towel and spreads it on the bed before flourishing a little bottle of—“Lube,” he proudly announces. “I can slick my thighs up and you can get off between them?”
“God, yes,” Vincent groans. He almost wishes he hadn’t kept himself stimulated because his dick jumps again at the mere thought, drooling a bead of pre-come as he watches Camden shuck his pants and set to work on the insides of those perfect thighs. “You have the best thighs in the world,” he tells him fervently, meaning every word. Thighs and ass come with the territory of being a skater but Camden’s build is truly exceptional even within that already-elite group—so thick and curvy it’s nigh-on sinful.
At the compliment, Camden flushes dusky-pink across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose; it matches the shade on the head of his cock. Vincent is enchanted.
Camden lays himself down on the towel and motions for Vincent to join him. It’s Vincent’s turn to straddle across Camden’s thighs now, and he pauses to bend down for a deep kiss before propping himself up and guiding himself down into that hot, tight crease.
“I think your eyes just rolled back,” Camden points out with a shit-eating grin. “Good, huh?” And he flexes his thighs and gets what Vincent can only call a whimper in response.
The plush warmth and smooth skin, generously anointed with butter-slick lube, had been plenty of sensation already—but that ripple of enormously powerful muscle clenching around Vincent’s dick was like nothing he’s ever felt before. He wants to tell Camden how good it is but he can’t even piece together the words through the buzz in his brain, so he just kisses him again and lets his hips move, feeling the thick blunt head of Camden’s cock bumping up against his belly with every slow rolling thrust. This is good, this is right, this is everything he needed and wanted: to have the lines of their bodies pasted together with nothing in between, skin on skin on skin all the way up and all the way down. So close they’re even breathing the same air, wrecking each other’s mouths with teeth and tongue and soft, soft lips. And below: the shameless pumping drive of Vincent’s hips, speeding up now, all control lost to the mindless pleasure of it.
“That’s it,” Camden hisses, his hands raking messily through Vincent’s hair. “C’mon, good, give it to me, come for me—”
And Vincent does, his fingers digging grooves into Camden’s shoulders, his legs trembling as the orgasm wrings him through. The slickness means he can feel every twitch and jump of his dick moving against the smooth hot skin of Camden’s thighs, and he shudders his way through the aftershocks until he thinks he might cry from sheer overwhelm.
He doesn’t let himself relax yet; Camden is still hard and wanting, that gorgeous pink shade deepened now to a rose-red that looks just this side of painful. Camden sees where he’s looking and fumbles for the lube, but Vincent beats him to it, licking a stripe up his palm and spitting into it generously before wrapping it around Camden’s cock. He’s rewarded with a groan coming deep from Camden’s chest. The filthy spill of words starts up again with a more urgent tone: ragged little high-pitched scraps of sound just barely distinguishable as please and fuck and yesyesyes, the last of which quickly becomes Vincent’s favorite.
Experimentally, Vincent thumbs at a pebbled brown nipple with his free hand; when that doesn’t get much of a reaction, he moves up to stroke at Camden’s throat and along the line of his jaw. Camden turns and takes Vincent’s hand into his mouth, nipping at the soft flesh at the base of his thumb, and it gives Vincent an idea.
“Lick me. I want both my hands on you.” He’s big enough to warrant it, and Vincent wants to enfold every inch of him.
Camden obliges and Vincent shuffles himself back a bit so he can sit up and watch it properly; both his hands in tandem now, taking the most vulnerable part of Camden, feeling the flesh swell and strain for exactly what he’s giving it. It’s a different kind of pleasure, to be in control for the sole purpose of making someone else lose it, and a part of him is sorry it’s over even through the wave of satisfaction at seeing Camden clutch his forearms and cry out, at feeling Camden’s cock throb and spasm against his hands.
Camden’s whole upper chest is spattered with come—there’s even a drop on his chin. Vincent stares stupidly as he lets Camden’s softening dick slither from his grasp, suddenly unsure of the etiquette, but Camden props himself up on one elbow and scrubs it away with the towel that was under him. He rolls over onto the rest of the bed and offers the towel to Vincent, and they clean up just like that, tossing it onto the floor afterwards; it’s no substitute for a shower but judging by the loose, boneless look of Camden’s movements, he wouldn’t be up for one anyway. Vincent can’t say he’d argue.
He slides under the covers and cuddles up to Camden, feeling pathetic and vulnerable, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t want to be asked to leave; he’s not sure he’d be able to explain why he doesn’t want to be alone. But Camden doesn’t ask, just hits the switch on the bedside lamp and nuzzles a buss into his hair and pulls him close, and Vincent listens to their breathing slowing in tandem as his anxieties retreat once again.
Vincent is awoken by the blare of his alarm, and has to scramble ungracefully to his discarded sweatpants to shut the damn thing up. Camden shifts and mumbles something soft and inviting but it’s like a spell has been broken by the cold light coming in through the curtain, and Vincent hustles himself into the bathroom instead, his clothes bundled in his arms.
He pauses dressing to press the rosy mark Camden left on the meat of his shoulder: first lightly, then hard, as if he could crush it, wipe it away.
He puts his shirt on. Manages to look himself in the eye; looks away, unable to hold it.
He knows what he has to do.
Camden’s halfway sitting up when he emerges, and a smile blooms on his face when he sees Vincent. “Morning, handsome,” he says easily, his voice still rough with sleep.
At least let him get dressed first, Vincent thinks. “Morning,” he says back. “I have gala practice today, and you said you have to fly out soon.” He knew Camden had scheduled his flight without expectation of a gala invite; a correct prediction, it turned out. Vincent plops himself into the desk chair and waits.
“Wanna grab breakfast together?” Camden offers once he’s pulled on a fresh set of clothes.
“Actually”—the words clog his throat; he swallows hard and pushes through—“I need to tell you that...” He takes a deep breath. “Last night was great but it can never happen again. I...I love you like a brother, Camden, and I can’t let it, let us, be anything more than that. We’re going in different directions and I can’t—” Lose show opportunities. Let myself long for you from a distance, distracting myself from school. Be disowned. “I can’t,” he finishes.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he looks up at Camden. Anger, maybe, at being used and discarded. Shock at the suddenness of it. His mind conjures a dozen possibilities.
He thinks the tiny, sad, accepting smile on Camden’s face might be worse than them all.
“I’m sorry,” he starts to say.
Camden holds up a hand. “I get it, dude. It’s okay. Doesn’t have to be a big deal.” He stands. “Breakfast?”
Vincent stands too, mumbling something about wanting a shower.
Camden laughs. “Fair enough. I’ll get packed up here first, then. Have fun at the gala—I’ll try to catch it on the flight.” He crushes Vincent into a hug; Vincent reciprocates just a heartbeat later, pathetically craving the affection that he himself had put an end to just now. None of that, he tells himself harshly. This is final; never again.
And if he sees an unusual brightness in Camden’s eyes as he pulls back from the hug, smiling and clapping him on the shoulder and telling him good luck with everything; if he hears a shaky shuddering exhale just before Camden’s room door falls closed—well, he tries not to think about it. Sets his mind on the future and walks away from something he knows could’ve been good if he’d only let it.
He hates himself more with every step.
He holds his chin up and keeps walking.