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JJ’s beating him.
JJ’s beating him, and Rafe’s never felt more alive.
Backtrack: how did this happen?
The mic is thrust in his face– another bone for the Stake PR team to gnaw on. Long’s been the time any sensible company has slapped their logo on his chest, and surely, by the end of the year, a big, bold green Kick™ will have appeared on his clothing. All in good fun, as long as they keep contending for him. Every one of em’ tastes the same to him– the drink sponsors, but for a wad of cash, he’ll smile and sip carbonated sugar like a professional. Speaking of. The reporter seems very keen on knowing his predictions on who’ll win the Big Air tonight. The playoffs had dragged on long, so much so that they’d been given an intermission, and Rafe needs to score above ninety to finish in the top three. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, because if it’s not him then, well, then he’ll deal with that if it comes to it.
‘’All the athletes gathered here today are phenomenal, I mean it could be any one of them. My guess is as good as yours.’’ No, it’s not. She hasn’t broken bones and learnt the mechanics of angling the board’s bindings two degrees more to the right. Rafe’s fairly certain the short one– Japanese, maybe– will wipe out before he sticks the landing. Uneasy stomach and a mess of nerves, that’s what. But he doesn’t say that to her, because it’s bad sportsmanship, and if he has to be the perfectly groomed pet for a few companies, then he will take it with pride. Really, there are only two other people at risk of ruining his three-year winning streak. Seventeen was a drastic age to capture the people’s minds, and so was eighteen and nineteen; however, he is twenty-one, and at twenty-one a prodigy turns into an overachiever.
He’s been accused of fence-sitting by some low-life internet dwellers, as if the term isn’t as imbecile as its meaning. No, Rafe will gladly perch on a high fence and look at the carnage happening below. Best of both worlds.
A man in his late thirties, dusty black hair and a persona reeking of fame, Joseph…Joseph something, the last name was a drag, anyhow. And then, of course, his bestest buddy, Maybank. That last name he remembers, and only because he’s as high-strung as they get. Eighteen, what a sly bastard he is. Prancing around Rafe’s territory, fist-bumping him and pulling him into a shoulder hug like they are the bestest of friends. And he’s like that when the cameras are cut, too. Rafe knows he’s more than that, though. Seen the boiling rage simmering under his skin at qualifying, seen the way he chews his Red Bull-branded straw to all hell, seen the aggression in his moves.
‘’That’s very amiable of you, Rafe, and what would your plans be if you were to secure the win?’’ When, not if. The reporter, a woman with a high-pitched tone and a layer of a PR accent, drills him some more, as if the same questions and answers weren’t given a hundred times already.
Pools of adrenaline have gathered in his limbs– it’s the need for speed.
Rafe abandons her after laying on thick the bullshit and makes a beeline for the warm-up. The games have gathered fewer people than last year, probably due to the sky-high price that even he wouldn’t pay, but hey, whatever gets him the most money, right?
A few of the fans are gathered by the walkway leading to the changing rooms, looking at him with hopeful glances. Rich folks, for sure, dripped out in Artyx and Oakley's newest shit. The space smells of strong deodorant, too strong, nearly giving Rafe a headache as he gets a lungful of the air. They have separate spaces and hotel rooms to change and read a couple of dozen we believe in you messages from family members and friends alike, not that he’d had any for a long time, but he prefers to change into the gear right before starting. The hockey-grade protective gear is bulky and uncomfortable, making him look heavier in the air, but a few too many near fractures to his spine have changed his view on it.
Big Air, in the most literal form, is a discipline of throwing oneself in the air, spinning a couple of tricks, and landing. How something so ridiculous came to fruition, Rafe’s got no idea. But it gives him a kick, and that’s all that matters.
This year, he’s got the signature Redbull helmet, no ear pads to make the AirPods fit, and a nearly all-black outfit down to the boots save for the plastered sponsor logos. Black is an intimidating color, and though in the past year he’s worn an array of prudish colors, the darker tones sit with him the most. It’s a poser outfit, surely. All the wannabe park rats are sporting the same outfits. Rafe’s not too terribly good at color theory, or whatever the hell it is they call it these days, so he disguises nonchalance for an unfortunate lack of knowledge.
Warm up goes as well as placing a group of ducklings in a pond. Buncha’ idiots at the height of a few hundred feet pushing one another around, joking about something or the other. The younger ones, at least, are busying themselves with that. Rafe occupies himself with queuing songs on Spotify and stretching the sore muscle in his left shoulder. And just as number 4 has dropped from the ledge, the devil himself appears.
Talking animatedly, JJ Maybank appears like the incessant storm following Rafe. He’s yappy and all excited, explaining his game plan to a supposed friend like it’s something you say casually. Fool.
‘’And I’m tellin’ you I can taste gold. Just look at the drop, I’m gonna be flying.’’ JJ throws his hands up, nearly sending his board into a camera operator. ‘’See, y’ jus’ gotta hit that triple threesixty and dinner’ll be served with a side of Yaegermaster.’’
Oh my god, if Rafe didn’t know the kid's skillset, he’d think him obtuse. Yet a threesixty won’t come close. Nose grab, spin that three-sixty six times, make a real ballerina performance, and maybe then he’ll get to have a lick of gold.
The guy he’s flanking, a Canadian with a maple leaf sticker to the side of his shoulder, seems equally engrossed in listening as JJ is in talking. Maybe they should be strategising instead of dicking around.
‘’Mind giving some space?’’ He asks as JJ slithers a touch too close to him, board, once again, in disarray. He’s got a multitude of stupid ass cat stickers and a blurred shot of a 2000s-something meme.
A quick glance, the wind is ruffling his sandy hair (where the hell is his helmet?), and JJ’s nodding to him with such an unguarded expression that Rafe, quite honestly, wants to punch him.
‘’Sure, man, whatever works for you.’’
And he must have been right behind Rafe, because the laughter dies down and instead drizzles down to a few quiet murmurs.
Rafe’s number gets called, his brain rushes to pound his heart at an inhuman pace, and then, before he registers the pitfall or the cheers hollering from all sides, he’s dropping, picking up an immediate speed.
JJ’s face illuminates brightly on the screen, parallel to the crowd. Obnoxious, that’s how Rafe’d describe the kid. He’s staring down the drop, lips parted just barely to show off his pearly whites. The look in his eye is obscured by the layer of transparent material of his goggles, and Rafe finds himself wishing to see that look, to unearth him for who he is and–
‘’JJ Maybank, ladies and gentlemen. Rising star in the junior categories, this young man has risen amongst the ranks as a reckless boarder with flashy moves. This will be his first time competing in X Games, having only reached the age of eighteen a few weeks ago.’’ The commentator rattles off a few more facts that are supposed to be impressive, but all Rafe can do is stare at the screen and watch with rapt attention how JJ fixes his bindings. Regular side, laced boots, no visible protection straining against his clothes, and fingerless gloves.
He’d go far, far to prove himself. Peek pale skin whilst catching the edge of his board in the air, flirt with fangirls, and drink his weight in a nameless Austrian club. Oh god, how Rafe wants to beat him.
Adjusting his pants to cover the mild hard-on, Rafe shuffles his board closer to himself to rest his hands against the bindings and continues watching from the screen JJ Maybanks' performance. He's effortless, it seems, impossible to rile up and cool as can be. The whole demeanor is precedent for an array of issues, he thinks again. Insecure in bed, perhaps? But, no, Rafe has seen him in the changing rooms, there's nothing shy about him. Shitty family? There was a group of people surrounding him when he'd come down for an interview, whether they were blood-related, Rafe did not know. So what then? Some sort of complex? Overachiever?
Rafe doesn't get to finish the train of thought because JJ answers for him. The boy dips into the drop, knees bent low and back strained forward, and then he's flying.
Rafe wouldn't ever describe a person as flying, but he'd be lying to say it wasn't true. There's no complexity in JJ's skill– he's impossibly agile and quick. To the naked eye it'd seem reckless, and it is, mostly, but Rafe sees the way he catches a wobble before it starts, the way his arms seem to be almost reaching for his board, the way it seems he's holding his breath. It'd be a thing of beauty if he were on a path of destruction, but Rafe cannot give him that because snowboarding is not the same insane sport as bull riding or cliff jumping. Snowboarding is an act of grace, and JJ Maybank has made a show of it.
So he goes into the air and the cameras shutter like crazy because JJ is quite literally rotating 360 degrees in the air, hand to the middle of the board, head ducked. He's airborne for what feels like eternity, only growing farther and farther from the landing. The commentator is damn near going insane, voice rising higher and higher the farther JJ gets off the ground.
The landing sticks awkward, nearly sending the boy careening to his downfall, but he catches himself at the last moment, upper body awkwardly wobbling to not brush the snow beneath him. And it is impressive; it really is, for an eighteen-year-old kid, he sure has proven himself as someone worthy of sharing the cold with Rafe. But as with all newcomers, his skills are rough at the edges; he has ambition and talent, yes, but has yet to hone it to its true potential, and that is exactly the thing Rafe plans to take advantage of.
His cheering sounds louder than from the participants before, everyone loves a young talent.
Rafe looks away from the cascade of people pooling next to JJ and turns to brush a gloved finger against the edge of the board. Bits of wax still stick to it, and when he presses harder against it, gliding against the cold metal, a line on his glove splits.
Sixty-five, no, sixty-five point four, seventy-six, eighty-two. Low enough, no one has what it takes to steal the top step from Rafe. Except the golden boy himself, of course. JJ Maybank's name stands at the top of the list, just brushing ninety-two.
Something in the high nineties would put him on a certain pedestal, but the judges are harsh and stingy. Rafe’s calculations may be off a dial, yet the performances essentially judge themselves.
Drones are already buzzing in the air, hovering about the crowd of people gathered at the base of the slope. Soon, a victor will emerge, and JJ will bow down to the champion. And if it’s something Rafe gets off on, well then that’s none else's business but his.
This Love floods through the recesses of his mind; the lift is ascending higher and higher, the chants are getting louder and louder. Rafe can feel the taste of sweet champagne soaking him.
Vulgar display of power
All sense of pressure dissolves as Rafe reaches the top, he’s swallowing adrenaline. The motion of strapping himself in feels manual, robotic, almost as if someone else has taken over him. He motions to one of the guys for a push– executing his plan correctly will desire more force than what he or gravity can give.
With a final frost-filled breath, Rafe looks ahead at the vast void facing him; it’s now him against his own will.
Backside twenty-three forty…
Don’t fuck it up.
Gravity pulls him forward, the board lifts into the air with enough force to send a lesser man careening to his death. The snow is packed, ice meeting the sharp edge of steel. Rafe’s knees buckle, his glove slips against the tail; it won’t hold.
Never-ending pain
Quickly ending life
The rotation wavers an inch to the right, evening out his poorly executed grab. One– the world below becomes a blur. Two– the jump is no longer visible. Three– he’s dizzy. Four– the cold is blowing under his clothes.
Six.
He’s got to stick the landing, though. The nose of the board makes contact first, his legs buckle under the strain before gravity pulls him down once again, and it’s all he can do but keep upright.
The commentators must be losing their minds right now.
Showers of stinging applause and cheering whip past his ears as the oxygen rushes back in his lungs with an almost violent succession. Before Rafe can process it, he’s getting yanked around, a shrill voice yelling numbers in his ear that he cannot process.
So this is what drugs feel like. Overflowing ecstasy and mindless thrill that makes him feel high.
With shaky fingers, Rafe unclips his helmet and yanks down his balaclava to hear what’s being communicated to him.
Ninety-six point three. Ninety-six.
Victory feels like immortality, it feels like endless prowess and limitless ability.
Victory feels like cold Moët & Chandon being poured over him in the Aspen winter on the podium's top after beating JJ in the final run in the final. His grab stood longer than the boys', a hellish performance to put on three different times, and yet his first performance outshone every other attempt put on. The adrenaline carries everything in unsteady blurs; moments slip from his mind's grasp– the bite into the medal, the confetti and applause– and Rafe almost misses the volatile expression on his competitor's face. Oh, JJ Maybank is mad mad, and the silver doesn’t complement him at all.
After getting coated in a sticky layer of champagne, Rafe heads down to change and to continue his celebrations at a club. The changing rooms are fairly empty by now, a few remaining stragglers pushed to the bottom of the queue list, gathering what’s left of their stuff. The showers expel maddeningly hot water, and Rafe brushes his hands over the few blue splotches on his body left from late practice. The hockey gear is good with an additive of leaving marks– indentations of the thick material hugging his body. There surely are lines still on Rafe’s face from the material pressing over it. Most chose not to use it, but with the whipping winds he’d rather pull in shallower breaths than none at all.
The fog is starting to fill up the showers when Rafe notices the presence of someone else. Tan skin is not common– most professional athletes spend ten months out of the year wrapped up in layers of thermo, so it is with caution that Rafe glances through the suds washing down his face. But for all his convicting glares and taut figure, JJ appears perfectly calm. His back is broader than Rafe’s, thick muscle showing with every movement. Few white strips glimpse down his spine from the fog Rafe can see through, perfectly identical in what he can only recognise as surgical precision. Odd, Rafe hadn’t noticed a kink in the boy's posture, nor a lag. He probably compensates with it in exertion of his upper back or legs.
The time reads half past eight when Rafe steps out of the shower to check his phone. It’s on do not disturb, yet he doesn’t expect anything peculiar to show up. There's a message from one of the guys from Red Bull, dropping him a pin for the location of a club. He scrolls further and frowns at a missed call from his sister, the only one from his family to keep up with him. But before he can think of replying to her, a voice interrupts his thoughts.
‘’Fair won.’’
JJ’s cheeks are awfully rosy and his bottom lip too, bitten to all hell, but there he is, towel hung low over his hips, hand extended towards Rafe. Rafe chooses not to take him up on it, instead nodding once. ‘’You tried.’’
The reply comes out more bitter than he’d intended, and he sees JJ’s expression darken. He’s hung up, clear as day, and Rafe recognises the same fury he went into the sport all those years ago. The last performance was in vain, after all, and he himself was to blame for the wavering precision.
‘’Yeah, well, not as hard as you, apparently.’’ Slick bastard, Rafe thinks, clenching the straps of his duffel a little tighter. It’s a precarious position JJ has put himself into– half naked and building up to try and ruffle Rafe up. And he thinks he deserves the title, doesn’t he? Their performances were similar enough in theory, but one was carried out with precision and careful calculation whilst the other was done with agility and swiftness. The same old irritation nipping at Rafe throughout the day returns, and he mourns for the kid ruining what was supposed to be a good end to his evening. That surefire attitude went to smoke the second JJ didn’t get what he wanted, curiously so, and secretly, Rafe revels in it.
‘’Maybank,’’ he says, pulling on a moss green Essentials hoodie. ‘’You were sloppy, simple as that. That’s what cost you pole position.’’
JJ, who in the meantime had managed to get dressed as well, looks taken aback, then infuriated. ‘’The hell I was.’’
Rafe fishes a cooling spray out of the side of his pack and shakes it around a few times, lifting his shirt to haphazardly apply it over a tender spot on his ribs. ‘’Well, you were.’’ He’s turned around, back to JJ.
The silence stretches on for so long that he assumes the kid is done with him, and turns to leave, hood low over his short, damp hair. Winters in Aspen are bitter, if anything, unforgiving in their nature– currently the bane of Rafe’s existence as he walks through the packed snow to where his Mercedes sits. The wind means not hearing footfalls behind him until he is too close.
‘’At least I'm not an insolent asshole.’’
The cold metal of JJ’s zipper digs into Rafe’s palm as he yanks him back by the front of his collar, stopping the boy from escaping.
‘’Listen here,’’ he begins, teeth clenched with barely restrained ire. ‘’I don’t give a shit how much of a sore loser you are, but don’t take it out on me just because you suck.’’
And that does it; that is the boiling point at which JJ Maybank snaps like a coarsely twined rope under pressure. His fist precedes his snarl, at which Rafe narrowly avoids before sinking his fingers into JJ’s shoulders and shoving him to the ground. The two of them go tumbling down, sharp curse words exchanged in between. Rafe’s reflexes are faster, but JJ is quicker, the grip with which he had aimed to restrain the blonde slips out of reach as a blow lands to his abdomen. The sly fuck is playing dirty.
They swap positions, rolling around in the snow, now JJ on top, directing his hits to the tender side of Rafe’s. He’s got one leg between his, fist clenched with such anger one would take Rafe’d cheated his way to the win. Through it all, however, one not so fleeting thing becomes apparent. Instead of having the desired effect of supplying himself with adrenaline, Rafe feels his blood travel south. And fuck if he weren’t enjoying the predicament.
A crowd has gathered around them, by now, cameras inches from them, gasps and hushed words about the winner and the runner-up squabbling. They’re near the car park, behind the hospitality suites and main building of the event. Rafe’s sure this ought to ruin his detached personality. Rolling around with the rookie could hardly be considered reserved.
JJ’s vocabulary forefrontly consists of calling Rafe a bitch and uptight, but he has nothing on the latter’s experience. Rafe flips them over once again, finally achieving in pinning the thrashing JJ by his arms. Sparks of something misplaced lick against Rafe’s mind; the thrill, the exhilaration is as poisonous as it is welcome. He’s finally succumbed to the venom Rafe knew was festering inside him. The tightness in his pants he hopes the boy does not notice, for the situation is bad as is. There’s snow covering both of them, and Rafe’s hood has slid off.
They freeze for a fraction of a second, JJ’s chest heaving violently as he tries to kick Rafe with his legs. And that’s when he notices it, the bulge in the other’s pants the rest of the crowd are blind to. Something akin to disbelief and then hunger flashes across his face before there are hands on Rafe, pulling him back vehemently.
It’s a few hours later that Rafe finds himself in a flashing club, downing shots of pure vodka one after the other. His mind is still on JJ, begrudgingly so, refusing to budge. The VIP area is packed with a dozen different athletes, at least, all in different states of intoxication. Most he does not know, does not care to, only nodding in passing and pretending their 2018 pole meant something. A remixed kind of pop song with way too much bass is thrumming through his ears as he clears another shot glass, glaring ahead at the drop below to the dance floor.
Their separation had been quick, and JJ had only halfheartedly tried to go after him. What troubles Rafe, however, is the reaction he’d had to his reaction. The boy didn’t strike him as someone to run his mouth, and even if he did, the only proof that existed was between them. And it was not like he jerked away, anyhow. With the matter settled, he excuses himself from the woman trying to hit on him and descends to the dance floor. Rafe had never had an affinity for tightly packed crowds and loud music, but the back door that he’d spotted upon entry stood right behind it. Smoking came as an itch of boredom or displaced annoyance, both of which he tended to gravitate towards, but tonight he could, he would.
The back door is within a few feet of him when a familiar figure flashes in his peripheral vision. It’s JJ, hands low on a woman's waist. He’s certainly not old enough to even be in here, but Rafe won’t be one to call him out. For a moment, every noise dies down, and it’s the two back in the chilling air, JJ’s mysteriously dark eyes staring back at him. As fast as the moment begins, it ends, and just before Rafe turns away, JJ peels himself away from the woman– their eyes lock, and oh so painfully the blonde slides his gaze down the length of Rafe’s body.
Suddenly, smoking doesn’t sound so appealing; in fact, it is now the last thing that Rafe wants to do. He turns around so sharply someone must think him narrowly sane, and goes straight for the bathrooms.
The VIP area offers exclusively divided bathrooms, which Rafe knows aren’t for anything decent. Having yanked on JJ’s shirt on the way, he’s more than confident the advances laid out weren’t a trick of his mind. Right on time, JJ slips in, looking three drinks deep, minimum. The lock clicks shut, and it’s then that Rafe knows their fates are done for. The interior of the restroom is far nicer than the dingy bars of Denver Rafe’d gotten used to. It’s clean as far as public establishments go, with a lengthy mirror accompanying the sink that’s already sprouting seeds of misdeed in his mind.
Rafe steps closer, eyes narrow and analysing. JJ doesn’t look unsure, he looks unsatisfied, as if what they left by the foot of the snowy peaks had, too, been bothering him.
‘’Didn’t know they let kids in now.’’ The exhale of JJ’s laugh nearly hits Rafe’s lips that’s how close they are. Still, he doesn’t advance, looking the younger down.
‘’Fuck off.’’ And with that, JJ’s hitting the wall next to the door. Rafe’s fingers are tight in his hair, forcing him to look up.
Stormy blue eyes reflect the heat of the hunger pooling in Rafe’s gut, and then JJ’s spitting back the same venom. ‘’I don’t kiss on the mouth.’’ But Rafe doesn’t dignify him with a response. The sweet scent of champagne still clings to the blonde's skin as Rafe sinks his teeth into the tenderness of JJ’s neck. A knee is already slotted between his legs, grinding into the growing hardness.
‘’Not so tough now, are you?’’ Rafe taunts when JJ lets out a particularly breathy moan.
‘’Fuck off.’’
The buckle of the belt comes next, and then JJ is evading touch to sink down to his knees, already palming Rafe’s hard-on to a full erection. He’s quicker and shrewder than Rafe had expected, and before he knows it the warmth of a tongue is circling his tip. With nothing to say or do, Rafe rests a hand against the tiled wall before realising this is the kid's way of taking control.
Remorse would come to those dignified enough to have it, of which JJ is not. His complaint gets muffled when the entirety of Rafe’s length presses down his throat. A tear wells at the corner of his eye, but then his nails dig the sides of Rafe’s thighs, and it’s all the confirmation he needs.
Fucking slowly in his throat, Rafe’s mind begins to haze with searing lust, and on top of that, resentment. Because who does this kid think he is, coming onto unfamiliar turf and getting pissy about it? The pain grounds him, reminds him who’s on top. After concluding the lack of oxygen might be getting to JJ, he pulls out, which was not long at all, though the boy still coughs and calls Rafe a slur regarding an animal.
‘’You’re out of your mind.’’ But he’s turning to go again, so who’s to judge. Rafe steps back, kicking with the tip of his shoe JJ’s knee.
‘’No, you’re not getting that.’’ At which the scowl returns on his face, but yet again Rafe refuses to yield. He watches JJ rise before leaving more marks on the side of his neck and along his collarbone, all whilst undoing his pants. The sink is a few paces ahead, at which he manhandles JJ the whole way.
‘’Lube?’’
‘’Back pocket.’’
Slicking up two digits with the fruity-smelling lubricant Rafe pushes into JJ, watching from the mirror him bent over the sink, face contorting from a look of displeasure to something more lustful. But JJ is an impatient brat, complaining all the way.
After Rafe’s added a third finger because he is not a monster and doesn’t know the other’s tolerance, JJ growls. ‘’Fuck, how long are you taking, just fuck me.’’
That does it; Rafe has got as much patience as JJ is allotting him, and it’s not a lot. He wraps a hand around himself, silently recoiling at the cold slickness before fully sinking into him..
Getting off on violence must be some sort of childhood trauma response, but God does it feel so fucking good. The sheer relief of finally seeing JJ get literally dicked down strokes Rafe’s ego beyond limit. He revels like the most egotistical man at the gaping expression on JJ’s face, the flickering defiance, and the heat encapsulating him.
The pace is brutal, without restraint or reserve, the way he just knows JJ likes. Every couple of thrusts he thinks he sees JJ crumple, little by little, nails digging harder and harder into the porcelain, cheek pressed against the cool material.
‘’Big man, aren’t you.’’ Rafe leans forward, mouth next to JJ’s ears, pressing against his prostate with the only telling factor being the rough moan leaving the other's lips.
‘’Fuck…you.’’ Still, the defiance remains, and Rafe uses the remaining will he has, because he knows both of them are close, to slam against the sensitive spot of JJ’s that makes him go mute.
The warmth release that Rafe coats JJ’s insides with, in a way, feels almost possessive, but it is so far removed from what he’s actually feeling that he pulls out once JJ has come. The euphoria of an orgasm fades way too quickly, and with it it brings a sense of clarity. He steps back, staring at the disheveled mess that is JJ Maybank, panting against the porcelain, fogging up the mirror.
‘’For what it’s worth, you’re still an asshole,’’ JJ says, locking eyes with Rafe through the reflection of the mirror.
A quiet huff of laughter escapes Rafe, bitter. ‘’And you think you have the right to say that, bent over for me?’’
‘’Hm. Yeah.’’ And his tone is so serious that Rafe cannot stop a genuine laugh from escaping his lips.
‘’Brat.’’