Chapter 5: The Morning After Tumble
The first thing James registered was the light. Brutal, unforgiving, streaming through the burgundy drapes like a personal attack on his eyelids. The second thing was the warmth—two solid bodies pressed against him, one at his back with an arm slung over his waist, one at his front whose breath stirred the hair at his temple. He felt suspended in a cocoon of heat and muscle and the faint, lingering scent of sex that clung to the sheets.
Then he opened his eyes properly, and his gaze landed on the clock on the mahogany dresser. 10:47 AM. His entire body went rigid.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit—"
The words tore from his throat as he scrambled upright, sheets tangling around his legs like they were personally conspiring against him. The one class he actually attended. The one class he gave a shit about, and that was only because Professor Hartley looked like a brunette Henry Cavill with glasses and a voice that could make audiobooks sound filthy. And he'd missed it.
He threw his legs over the side of the bed, heart hammering, mind racing through the logistics—if he ran, really ran, he could maybe catch the last twenty minutes, could slip in the back and pretend he'd been stuck on the subway like everyone else—
His foot caught in the sheet. His body pitched forward. The floor rushed up to meet him.
James hit the hardwood with a squawk that was entirely undignified and completely unforgivable, his chin cracking against the floorboards and his pride shattering into a thousand tiny pieces. Pain shot up his arm where he'd tried to catch himself, and for a moment he just lay there, face pressed against the cold wood, wondering if it was possible to die of pure, unadulterated mortification.
Behind him, the bed creaked.
"What the fuck," Ghost's voice rumbled, rough with sleep and irritation. The mattress shifted, and James heard the unmistakable sound of a large man hauling himself upright. "James. What the hell are you doing on the floor."
It wasn't a question. It was an observation, delivered with the same flat affect Ghost probably used when surveying a compromised position on the battlefield.
"I'm fine," James croaked into the floorboards. "Totally fine. This is fine."
He tried to push himself up, but his arms were trembling and his face was on fire and he could already feel the bruise forming on his chin. He managed to get to his knees, tangled in the sheet like a pathetic, half-naked burrito, before a pair of strong hands caught him under the arms and hauled him upright.
Ghost was standing over him in all his early-morning glory—sleep-tousled hair, bare chest, boxers doing very little to hide the fact that his body was already responding to the commotion. His eyes were narrowed, scanning James's face with that intense, medical-professional focus he got sometimes, and his grip on James's arms was firm enough to bruise.
"You're bleeding," Ghost said flatly.
James touched his chin. His fingers came away red. "Oh. Great. Fantastic. This is exactly how I wanted to start my day."
He tried to pull away, but Ghost's hands tightened, holding him in place. James shot him a glare that had absolutely no effect whatsoever.
"I have to go," James said, hearing the desperation creeping into his own voice. "I'm already late, I missed the one class I actually—"
"You're not going anywhere like this." Ghost's voice was low, final. "You're bleeding. You're shaking. And you look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I haven't slept in a week because someone kept me up all night—"
"Someone?" Price's voice drifted over from the bed, warm with amusement. James turned to see him sitting up, the sheet pooling around his waist, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking up at odd angles. He was rubbing his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that made James's stomach flip. "I seem to recall you being a very willing participant in that arrangement, love."
The word 'love' did something dangerous to James's chest. He felt his face heat even more, which he hadn't thought possible, and he had to look away to keep from drowning in the tenderness in Price's voice.
"That was—that was different—"
"Was it?" Price swung his legs over the side of the bed, padding over to them with the easy confidence of a man who knew exactly how good he looked in nothing but boxers. His hand came up, cupping James's chin, tilting his face toward the light. "Look at that. You're going to have a proper shiner on that chin. Very attractive. Adds character."
"Fuck you," James muttered, but his voice had lost its bite. Price's thumb traced the edge of the cut, gentle, almost reverent, and James felt his knees go weak for reasons that had nothing to do with the fall.
"Language," Price chided, but there was no heat in it. His eyes met James's, and there was something there—something possessive and warm and terrifying—that made James's breath catch.
"Let me go," James tried again, but even he could hear how unconvincing he sounded. "I need to—Professor Hartley is going to—"
"Professor Hartley?" Ghost's voice was sharp. James winced. He hadn't meant to say the name out loud. "Who the hell is that?"
"Nobody. It's—he's just a professor. He's not—"
"You're bleeding, you can barely stand, and you're worried about some professor?" Ghost's grip on his arms tightened. "Jesus, James."
"I'm fine," James insisted. "I just need to get dressed and—"
Ghost's hand moved. Fast. One moment it was on his arm, the next it was sliding down the back of his boxers, fingers finding the slick, tender evidence of everything they'd done the night before. James gasped, his hips jerking forward, his protest dying in his throat.
"Still loose," Ghost murmured, his voice dropping to something low and dark. "Still open. You think I can't feel how empty you are, love? How much you want us to fill you up again?"
"Fucking hell," James breathed, his hands coming up to grip Ghost's shoulders. His body was betraying him, responding to the touch, his cock twitching against his thigh. "You're not—you can't just—"
"Can't what?" Price's hand was in his hair now, tilting his head back, forcing him to meet those steady blue eyes. "Can't remind you what you promised last night?"
"Promises made under duress don't count—"
"Oh, it counts." Price leaned in, his mouth brushing James's ear, his beard scratching against James's cheek. "You said you'd stay. You said you'd be good. And now you're trying to run off before we've even had our morning coffee." His hand slid down, pressing flat against James's stomach. "That's not very good, is it, dove?"
James's brain was short-circuiting. He was caught between them, Ghost's hand still working inside his boxers, Price's body warm and solid against his front, and every rational thought was dissolving into a puddle of want.
"I'm going to miss my class," he managed, but his voice was pathetic, weak. "I'm going to fail. I'm going to have to drop out and become a barista and it's going to be your fault—"
Price kissed him. Deep and possessive and thorough, swallowing the rest of his protests. James melted into it, his hands fisting in Price's hair, a desperate sound escaping his throat.
When Price finally pulled back, James was gasping, his lips swollen, his eyes glassy.
"You're already late," Price said, his voice low. "Might as well make it worth it."
"Here," James said. "I promised I'd stay, so I'm staying. Fuck, I'm staying. On my knees. For them."
The words felt like a brand, searing into his chest. He stayed.
The light in the room was soft, the curtains drawn. James was on his knees between them on the bed, his mouth moving over Ghost's cock, his hand wrapped around Price's. He was lost in the rhythm of it, in the weight of Ghost's hand on his head, in the low sounds Price was making above him.
"Oh, God," Ghost groaned, his hips thrusting up, fucking into James's mouth. "Fuck, I'm going to come."
James didn't pull away. He kept going, taking Ghost deep, swallowing as the first hot spurts hit his tongue. Ghost cried out, his body convulsing, his hand fisting in James's hair.
When he was done, James pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Fuck," he said. "That was—"
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with a series of messages. James glanced at it, his stomach sinking at the name on the screen.
Professor Hartley.
"What's he saying?" Price asked, his voice low.
"Nothing," James said. "It's nothing."
But it wasn't nothing. It was a text. A long one. Something about his absences, something about his grades, something about his future.
"I have to go," James said again, pulling away from them. The words felt hollow. "I really, really have to go."
He pushed himself off the bed, not quite able to meet their eyes. Not able to meet the disappointment he was sure he'd find there.
"James." Price's voice nailed him to the spot.
"Look at me."
He did. Price was still lying in the bed, Ghost beside him, both of them looking at him with eyes that saw right through to the core of him.
"We're not going anywhere," Price said. "Go to your class. Deal with your professor. But come back. Come back to us."
"Okay," James said. The word came out hoarse. "Okay."
He left. The walk to his apartment was nothing but. The shower was quick, the change of clothes quicker. He didn't look in the mirror. He didn't want to see his reflection, didn't want to see the marks they'd left, the promise he'd made.
His phone buzzed again. Not Professor Hartley this time. Price.
We're here. Whenever you're ready.
James stared at the screen. The words were simple, but they felt like an anchor, pulling him back.
He went. He let the hot water wash over him, let it beat against his skin until the marks felt less like evidence and more like a map. He dressed, grabbed his bag, and went out into the city, but his feet didn't take him to campus.
They led him back to the apartment. Back to them. He stood outside the door, his heart hammering in his chest.
Ghost opened it before he could knock.