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John Carter isn’t brooding, and he definitely isn’t sulking. Every solo basketball game he has ever played is always this impassioned. And it isn’t because he’s imagining dunking on the object of this fit. Which this isn’t—a fit—but he is winning, just so it’s clear.
Although it is a bit eerie when he wills his phantom opponent out the ER’s front doors.
“Carter.”
If it was even yesterday, the urgency in the man’s voice would have been enough to snap Carter’s neck from how quickly he'd turn his head—always the first to stand at attention, to bend the knee without complaint. Some may call it overzealous, but Carter understands the value in submission. Yes-men run the world—But it’s today, and the circumstances of their relationship are suddenly very different. So Carter continues to ball like there isn’t a whole human mass blocking his path.
“I gotta talk to you.”
Carter sidesteps him with uncharacteristic grace, more indicative of his mood than any screaming match could be. They’re at this for an embarrassingly long time, Doug stepping up to speak and just as quickly being shot down as Carter evades. He catches the ball to get his attention.
“I didn’t know about you and Harper, alright? I’m sorry.”
He attempts to shoehorn in, like that’s supposed to make Carter feel better. How slick and sexy Doug Ross managed to snake his way into the bed of yet another girl. Which wasn’t necessarily the part that bothered him, he and Harper were only ‘sort-of’ seeing each other—she wasn’t a claim to stake. She had every right to explore her options. What really got under his skin was the disgusting overindulgence. An unrelenting, impenitent greed. Predator stuck on ‘prowl’; out to devour anything and everything in its path. That Doug Ross claims freely, blindly, with no regard for others, and that people will just let him do it. Will enable him. And go out of their way to shield him from fault. Ross didn’t know any better—seeing as Carter (a nameless, faceless dud) was unworthy of mention—, how could he have known? So out he walks, a free-man, absolved of his guilt, but noble enough to endure the torment anyway, for Carter’s sake: and Carter’s just supposed to accept this.
How shitty. Carter smacks the ball clean out of Doug’s hands and resumes dribbling. Something finally seems to dawn on Doug with the way Carter is looking at him, sizing him up, because he drops his coat and untucks his shirt. They make an incredibly quick start to this game. Doug comes at it civil, making small advancements, which very quickly lose out to Carter’s charge forward. He knocks into Doug roughly. The structure of their match devolves immediately into a scuffle.
“Hey! Hey!”
He tries his hand at manhandling, coming up from behind and wrapping his arms around Carter—this jackass—as if physically overpowering Carter will make him any more receptive to what’s looking to be the shoddiest attempted apology of all time. Anger simmers in his gut with Doug’s massive paws on him—reminded of where those hands have been—and he attempts to shoulder him off. Which really should be easier, he’s never known Doug Ross to not have to physically look up at him each time they interact. But he also doesn’t seem to have missed arms a day in his life. Or maybe the sturdiness is genetic? It’s not important. Carter pushes back, which quickly becomes writhing when Doug doesn’t let go.
“Get off!”
“Nobody meant to hurt you, Carter!”
He wants to find a 12-gauge and take it out back with how his frustration presents: tears teeming in his eyes, his hands shaking. Which adds the most incredible insult to injury, the likes of which the world has never seen: because not only is he a loser, but he’s crying about it. His enraged simmer crescendos into a blistering, malicious boil. He shoves back hard, elbowing Ross in the face.
Which Ross is less than levelheaded in receiving. Understandable. There’s a quick flurry of arms and Carter very soon finds himself backed into the side of a building, his lapels bunched up in Doug’s hands. His mouth takes a nasty blow, and Carter braces for the next, but Doug’s fist doesn’t move. It’s only then that he realizes that Doug didn’t punch him at all. He’s kissing him. Hard. Face cupped roughly.
And for the first time ever Carter understands why a woman would abase herself on him, knowing his track record. Because Doug Ross is a damned good kisser.
Carter reels for a moment, just taking it, his eyes rolled back in—is that ecstasy? At first he mindlessly laps into Ross’ mouth with kittenish licks, but eventually finds his bearings long enough to not completely sink to the floor as Ross overtakes him. He’s quick to match his fervor. Give it enough time and their noses might meld together from the friction. Which he chalks up to misplaced feelings for Harper. This whole frenzy must’ve crossed some wire in their brains. And without her physically there, this is how they must make do. Where else could they outpour all this jam-packed energy? The basketball rolls away. This really just made the most logistical sense.
Carter’s fingers are all sorts of tangled in Ross’ hair when the kiss is suddenly broken. And if this dynamic wasn’t emasculating enough as is, Doug holds Carter there firmly with little effort. Carter thinks he sees hunger in those lidded eyes—peering up at him through the densest set of lashes in all of human history like he’s the only person in the world—and has his second revelation of the night. Who in their right mind could refuse this ever again? He wonders if Doug can feel his heart hammering in his throat with the way he continues to hold his jaw. He swallows, eye-contact unwavering, and he swears Ross’ gaze falters, swears his thumb moves gently across his cheek. This part feels the most unnatural, the tenderness, as if they weren’t just familiarizing themselves with more intimate ground. Condensation clouds between them that Carter can’t quite place if it’s from their infused breaths or his fevered skin. They’re quiet for some time, catching their breaths, before Doug rips his hands away like he’s scalding hot. Maybe it was his skin after all.
"ah… I'm sorry.”
There’s a longer beat before Carter answers.
"yeah, me too."
They stand there a moment, not really sure where to look, what to say. Doug backtracks first, stepping away. Carter swipes a hand over his bruised lip, turning his gaze to the ground like there’s something interesting about it. He notices Doug’s coat on the floor and almost goes to pick it up. Doug’s a lot quicker, scooping it up and slinging it over his shoulder.
“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, Carter. Get home safe.”
“yeah. You too.”
They walk in opposite directions and no one thinks to look back.