This story contains male/male consensual relationships of a romantic and sexual nature. If it is illegal for you to read this type of material, please adhere to your laws.
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Part Two
Mason was shoving half of a cheese sandwich into his mouth at the kitchen counter when they walked in. Pellegrino and the kid. Mason stopped chewing and stared at them.
They had spent most of the day before in the gym together and Mason suspected that his father was seriously talking to Blake about training him, but it was rare that any of the guys got to come to the house.
"Mason, you know Blake," Pellegrino said easily, coming into the room carefully on his bad knees and sliding into his usual chair at the kitchen table.
"Yeah," Mason said and nodded at Blake half-heartedly.
"Hey," Blake said, his eyes glued to Mason. Mason remembered to chew again and then swallowed hard. The other half of the sandwich sat lifelessly in his hand.
"Blake's gonna be staying with us for awhile," Pellegrino said. "He's gonna train full-time." Mason eyed the two of them carefully, suddenly taking note of the duffel bag slung over Blake's shoulder, of the needy look in the emerald eyes.
"Yeah," Mason said again. Like it was no big deal. It was a big deal. They all knew it. Pellegrino because he had another full-time trainee on his hands. Mason because his father was about to invest his heart and soul into the guy...and because he wouldn't get a moment's peace with the kid in their home. Blake because he got to stand just ten feet away from Mason.
"You gonna show him where he can sleep?" Pellegrino asked and Mason threw the sandwich into the garbage can under the counter. His father wouldn't climb the stairs with his knees the way they were.
The upstairs of the rambling, six-bedroom house had been Mason's private domain. It had its own entrance...and he was well known for sneaking his twink-of-the-night in that way. Now, he'd be forced to share that space with Blake.
"Did Anita say which room she wants him in?" Mason asked and Pellegrino nodded, leaning back.
"She wants him in the one next to you," he said lightly. "It's the only one she's got aired out and cleaned."
Did Mason begrudge his mother the right to want to make her life easier by only having to clean one side of the upstairs rooms on a regular basis? She had always wrinkled her nose up at having a cleaning person come in to help out. Never mind the fact that their house could be classified as a mansion. Never mind the fact that the kid was going to be separated from him every night by a single wall.
"Come on," Mason said and started out of the kitchen. Blake followed him quietly, silently taking in the way that Mason moved so comfortably across the huge house, the way that the ripped up t-shirt he was wearing showcased his biceps.
Mason took the stairs two steps at a time and then waited for Blake at the top of the staircase. Blake's eyes were locked on his face as he made his way up. Mason's own eyes slashed into the sight of Blake coming up the staircase and then slid carefully away. He did what he could to ignore the fact that his heart was pounding heavily and erratically, that the blood was racing through his veins.
"This way," Mason said when Blake came flush with him, heading off in the direction of the the spare bedroom. Blake followed him quietly, silent and acquiescent in a way that scared the life out of Mason, if he would admit it. But he wouldn't. Instead, he swung open the door to the spare room, took a few steps in.
"So, this is where you'll be bunking," Mason said with a careless wave and Blake stepped further into the room, brushing past Mason slowly, his eyes taking in the vast interior of the room, the coordinating furniture, everything new and clean, unscuffed and pristine. This would be the nicest place that Blake had ever stayed in, the best place he'd ever lived.
"It's real nice," Blake said inadequately, suddenly realizing the true magnitude of what was happening to him. He was moving in with the Pellegrinos. A family name that would eaily be recognized in most American households. Both Pellegrino and Mason had been on the cover of Sports Illustrated...once they'd appeared on it together. Mason had an HBO deal. These people were millionaires. Yes, they didn't exactly put on those kinds of airs with anyone they came across, but the fact remained the same. Blake had spent the last five years of his life essentially homeless and here he was standing next to the Great Italian Hope.
It also struck him as he stood there and snuck glances at the line of Mason's profile, that this beautiful man, who it had only taken him a single glance at to become lost in, was well and truly completely out of his reach. Completely. What was he doing there? Pretending to be a boxer?
"My dad grew up in the Bronx," Mason said slowly, a low rumble from near the doorway, his arms folded defensively across his chest. "Dirt poor. His mother was too ashamed to get assistance from the government and his father was too wrapped up in boxing to spend any time at home. My father fought everyday. For everything he got. He laid bricks all day from the time he was eleven until he was twenty-two. He got up at the crack of dawn and he went out and laid bricks all day, then he went to the gym to catch a glimpse of his father and to get his dad's attention, he decided to box. So, he laid bricks and he boxed. And four weeks after his twenty-second birthday, Anita had me and my dad got in the ring with the heavyweight champion of the world...and in two rounds my dad had him out cold. He was fighting for his life. He was fighting for Anita. But he says that most of all he was fighting for me."
And with that said and done, Mason turned on his heel and left the room and Blake was left glancing after him.
Blake had not seen Mason since earlier that day. Mason had disappeared for the gym right after he'd shown Blake the room and at the gym he'd been focused and bitter, unapproachable.
The thought that he'd see Mason at Anita's dinner table had sustained him and he was sharply disappointed when he got there and realized that Mason wasn't coming.
Pellegrino and Anita had an interesting relationship. They talked very little, but spoke a lot with their eyes. Blake watched as they stared at each other, the smiles and frowns and the little touches and caresses here and there as he shovelled one of the best-tasting meals he'd ever had into his mouth. His parents had always blown either hot or cold. There had been the times when they couldn't seem to keep their hands off of each other and then the times when they were pretending that the other person didn't even exist.
"When's Mason coming back?" the words were out of his mouth before he could recall them, or even think about them. He shifted uncertainly in his seat as both Anita and Pellegrino's eyes locked onto him. Was he being obvious? Could they figure out how he felt?
"I dunno," Pellegrino said, his voice a gravelly rumble from lack of use. "He spends a lot of time out or on his own."
Blake nodded, shifted the food around on his plate. He had been ravenous after leaving the gym, covered in sweat and aching. But now, he wasn't sure if he'd even finish the meal, even though he'd never tasted anything like it.
"Ain't you got no friends around here?" Pellegrino asked slowly, after a moment. "I don't make you spend all of your free time under lock and key unless you got a big match coming up."
Blake shook his head.
"I got a lot of people I know," Blake told him. "No friends." And it was the truth. But he could already see that spending every evening with Anita and Pellegrino wasn't going to fly.
Pellegrino grunted and went back to eating. Anita's eyes were on him, shining...compassion, not pity. That he could take.
"I'll help with the dishes," he said, more out of desperation than good manners and her smile widened...and her eyes softened to a warm shade of caramel. And something inside of Blake warmed up, too...melted a little bit.
Blake could hear Mason in the hall a little after midnight. Someone giggled...and it wasn't Mason. Too high-pitched, but not girly. Blake's eyes opened wide and he stared at the ceiling. He knew. That Mason was gay. Everybody did. He wasn't going around trying to hide it, he'd mentioned it in interviews and everything.
In a way, Blake admired that about Mason, that he faced things head on and didn't pussyfoot around. The press had never been able to drag him through the mud because he'd been upfront and honest about who he was... and he still kicked ass in the ring better than anybody had in years.
Still, Blake wasn't entirely certain that Mason acted on his sexuality. But as he listened to more than one set of footsteps creep down the hall, he knew that Mason did. His heart lurched in his chest and he was frozen for a long moment. Then, he hopped stealthily out of the bed and crept quietly to the door and opened it a crack, determined to see who this guy was, what kind of man could catch Mason's eye.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dark hall, to differentiate shadow from flesh. Mason had the guy pressed up against the wall, their lips locked, their tongues dueling. The guy was tall, taller than Blake, but on the skinny side. Blond hair, long, thin fingers that clutched frantically at Mason's back. When Mason pulled back, Blake took in his face, the guy was gorgeous, supermodel pretty, perfectly arched lashes, pouty red lips, big, heart-stopping blue eyes. There was glitter on his face, along the line of his impossibly high cheekbones...he was a club princess, a fucking twink. Something that Blake could never be, not even if tried.
Was that Mason's type? God.
Blake watched as Mason pushed the guy into his bedroom and slammed the door behind them, left alone, peering into a now empty hallway. Blake shut his door with a quiet click. He crouched there, breathing unsteadily for a long moment. His mind racing, willing his heart to stop pounding so loudly, his ears stretching for the slightest sound.
He heard them, muffled kisses, the bedsprings groaning. Silence, then laughter, Mason's...and the giggle. Silence, again. Blake sat on the plushy carpet near the door, his legs bent at the knees. His head low.
Rhythm. The sound of the bed creaking and groaning in sequence. Mason was fucking his twink. Blake felt tiny, pinpricks of awareness against his skin. The glitterboy was bottoming for Mason. Was that why he chose the type?
Blake would bottom for Mason...any day. God, it hurt. His heart ached in his chest. He wanted to be the one, the guy that Mason wanted. The guy that Mason fucked.
But Mason wouldn't even look at him...wouldn't even care. Blake clenched his fist, cursed the fact that his dick had decided to spring to life, long and hard against his thighs, pulsating. He would not...could not touch himself, not when Mason was in there with someone else. He wouldn't.
Blake stretched his legs out, clenched his fists, ran his hands across the flat expanse of his stomach, his fingertips touched the waistband of his boxers....his cock, angry and red and leaking. He palmed it slowly.
He could hear them, the sound of Mason grunting. Mason was a loud lover. With almost the entire house between him and his parents, he could afford to be. And Blake began to stroke himself, helplessly, to the rhythm and the sounds coming from Mason's room.
Blake pretended that it was him. That Mason's tongue was in his mouth, that Mason's dick was inside of him, pounding in search of release. That Mason loved him.
It didn't take long for him to come against his boxers and his thighs, breathing crazily, aching for release but still feeling the tension when it finally came. Blake bent his knees and buried his face in his arms, listening to the sounds of Mason reaching his climax, mentally blocking out the blond twink's moans and cries. *********************************************************** To be continued......
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