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It was unsurprising when Marty won the World Championship. Rockwell had watched him train for months upon months, an unstoppable force. Stubborn son of a bitch had refused help from multiple coaches, but he never refuted Rockwell’s. Begged him, in fact. Investing in Marty had been the right call after all, their relationship a terse, symbiotic thing. His company's sales had surged in the months following every tournament, and the Championship was no different—the whole ping-pong thing was proving to be an unexpectedly lucrative draw for clients and sponsors alike. And with his support, Marty now had the means to compete without worrying about where he was staying for the night.
Mutually beneficial. Purely professional, he and Marty.
One year had passed since the single consequence that had ever elicited obedience from Marty, a humiliating lesson Rockwell had delivered and never repeated, something Marty treated as nothing more than a curious footnote in their history. Rockwell had held him to higher standards, and Marty responded to it, the underlying threat enough to keep him in check.
Tonight, that lesson suddenly felt alive again, an unease settling deep within him as Marty leaned into the crowd's attention surrounding him. Rockwell hadn’t intended to oversee such an event, the grand ballroom of the Waldorf gleaming under the crystal fixtures, every marble surface polished until it reflected the warm lighting a thousand times over. Columns rose like monuments, guests leaning against them in their silk and satin.
The collision of his world and Marty’s unfolded whether Rockwell wanted it to or not. His usual benefactors and executives and various upper-crust attendees—who were only here for a chance to meet the World Champion—clashed with Marty’s old friends from the parlor, who drank, laughed, and danced blithely. Rockwell thought them uncouth, but he held his tongue. It had been Marty’s idea, after all, pressed upon him for days after the Championship, insisting on a celebration.
In the end, it was difficult to refuse him. They reached what Rockwell called a compromise: a gala in Marty’s honor, provided it primarily functioned as a benefit for veterans. Marty had grumbled, but accepted.
He liked being around Marty—that was more difficult to admit. The kid got under his skin in a way no one else had before. He was hot-headed, reckless, cocky. All qualities that made Rockwell grit his teeth, but also reminded him of himself. And he could be charming in his own aggravating way. He was often mesmerized by the way Marty moved through the world, passionate and unapologetic about it. It made him want to tighten his grip at times, to rein him in, an uncanny impulse he hadn’t felt since his son passed.
And now Rockwell stood near the edge of the room, conversing with colleagues and acquaintances, eyes drifting despite himself to the bright figure at the center of it all. Marty was smiling, moving easily among the crowd as though Rockwell himself didn’t exist, and for reasons he found unsettling, he felt the first stirrings of something he could not entirely justify. He watched as Marty drifted from person to person, leaning into conversations with men and women alike, preening under each spotlight. He held himself with an effortless panache, spoke freely, completely unaware of how Rockwell followed every glance, every touch, every smile. His hand itched to settle at Marty’s waist, to remind him quietly that the whole reason he was even here tonight was because of Rockwell’s efforts. Instead, he remained near the edge of the crowd, voice calm when introductions required it, grabbing and downing a flute of champagne nearly every time a waiter crossed his path.
Marty handed his own glass off to someone as he made his way to the small podium at the far end of the room, tapping the microphone to command the attention of the crowd. The chatter dimmed just enough for his voice to carry through the ballroom.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming tonight. Jesus, what a crowd,” he began, grin wide. Hushed laughs rippled through the crowd, mostly from his friends. “I was given something very eloquent to read,” he said and held up a cue card between two fingers, “but I doubt you all came to hear me recite from this.”
More laughter. Rockwell already felt a migraine coming on.
“To the friends and supporters who got me here, thank you—I love you guys. But tonight isn’t just about me, right? So if you’ve got the means, support the men in this foundation. Put your money to better use than another tuxedo. And of course, to the man who made this all happen tonight—Milton Rockwell, everybody.”
Marty clapped, gesturing out to the crowd, and then stepped down from the podium without so much as a glance in his direction, weaving smoothly back into the laughter of his friends. Rockwell might as well have been a fixture of the room, a shadow amid the attention Marty drew. The applause rolled through the hall as something burning and ugly coiled in his chest. Maybe he was having a stress-induced heart attack. Death by Mauser sounded plausible the longer he knew him.
A voice spoke from beside him, one of his closer associates. “You got him house-trained yet, Milton?”
Rockwell huffed. “I’m surprised he even acknowledged the foundation at all, frankly. I mean, look at this fucking mess.” He gestured vaguely toward one of Marty’s friends struggling to lift him onto his shoulders, the group cackling and singing something horribly off-key over the live music that Rockwell had commissioned.
His friend laughed. “I don’t know why you indulge him. But that’s none of my business.”
“Keeps me young,” he surmised. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out.”
With that, his friend clapped him on the shoulder and left him to stew. Rockwell’s eyes followed Marty once more, and for the first time that evening, he moved closer through the crowd.
He could see Marty was wearing the suit that Rockwell had encouraged him to, sans the blazer he ditched earlier in the night. His slacks were tailored nicely, so they didn’t bunch at the ankles like the rest of his clothes. The fabric hugged a little closer to his lithe limbs, making him look more grown-up despite the foolishness he was actively participating in.
Someone below Marty handed him a white ping-pong ball, pulled from a coat pocket.
“Don’t drop it, man,” his friend warned.
Marty only grinned.
He snapped the ball into the air. It spun once, twice, thrice—and he caught it cleanly behind his back. A few guests pointed, gathering to watch. Marty then tilted his head, puckered his lips, and threw the ball again, straight up, before blowing gently. It hovered, suspended in the air as if by magic. He twirled it with a flick of his finger, letting it rise again, and then caught it with ease. He dipped into an exaggerated bow from atop his friend’s shoulders, nearly upsetting their balance, then righted himself with athletic grace.
“Show-off,” a woman’s voice called from somewhere near the edge of the crowd.
Marty twisted toward it. She was standing just beyond the crush of bodies, champagne glass held to her lips, eyes bright with amusement. Pretty in the way girls his age usually are. Without missing a beat, Marty flicked the ball in her direction. Startled, she caught it midair and laughed.
“Gotta stay ready,” he called down to her. “Good catch, Rach.”
He hopped down in one fluid motion, smoothing the front of his shirt and his hair as though he hadn’t just been perched above the ballroom like a circus act. A little flushed from the attention and effort it took to stay balanced.
He went over to the woman—Rach—and offered his hand.
Closer now, Rockwell watched the way her fingers closed around Marty’s, familiar, like they’d known each other for years. Perhaps they did.
Marty led her to the band, the ping-pong ball forgotten in the moment, hitting the marble with a few taps and skittering away. He leaned in, teasing, letting her giggle at something private between them, entirely unaware of the heat he was drawing from Rockwell’s direction.
It was completely irrational. He wasn’t sure why he felt so wound-up.
The kid was just having fun; there was no reason to get upset over it. But he couldn’t get over the fact that he’d neglected to speak to him all night. It was like pulling teeth to get a simple thanks out of Marty.
Across the floor, Marty bent closer to the woman as the band transitioned into something slower. His hands curled around her waist, thumbs resting just above the seam of her dress, dipped his mouth to her ear. She turned her face toward him, fingers brushing his cheek. He leaned in to kiss her, easy as anything, and Rockwell felt the room narrow. He couldn’t stop staring at the handsome line of his cheekbone, his lips, as Marty licked into her mouth. The music carried them, bodies swaying against bodies in a loose orbit, Marty exactly where he wanted to be.
Maybe he needed to get laid. He and Kay were more like roommates these past years, sharing a bed out of convenience rather than a desire to be near each other. Surely that was why Marty’s little girlfriend was irritating him.
The song reached its end, and the band broke for a breath between numbers, scattered applause filling the room.
He crossed the distance before he could reconsider it, close enough to interrupt without raising his voice.
“Marty.”
Marty’s hands stilled at the woman’s waist, gaze flicking over Rockwell. “Yeah?”
Rockwell offered them a polite smile. “Forgive me. I need a quick word with him.”
Only then did Marty’s fingers drop from her. “Sorry, Rach.” He gave her an apologetic half-grin. “Be right back.” The look he shot Rockwell as he stepped away wasn’t apologetic at all.
***
Rockwell locked the restroom door behind them. The stalls were all empty, fortunately.
“I thought we were all just having a good time! Okay, I’m sorry about the speech, alright, I should’ve used the cards you gave me—”
Rockwell held a hand up. “That’s not the problem.”
“Then what the fuck is your issue?”
“You,” Rockwell spat. Anger rose in his throat, had him in a vice, and he couldn’t stop it once it spilled out. “You’re my issue. Touching and feeling that girl up in front of everybody. Parading around like you’re some goddamn clown. You’re a Championship winner now. Act like it.”
“You’re jealous,” Marty laughed. “No way. Holy shit, you completely are.”
“Watch your mouth.”
His arms were crossed, assured. Brat. “I knew you were watching us the whole time.”
“That is inane, Marty.”
“Yeah, staring at us like a pervert. You really should get better at being subtle, I mean, this is just sad.”
Rockwell leaned back against the row of sinks, a pretence of equanimity. They were hurtling towards something, and it would be better to ease off of it while they still could. “It’s unprofessional, kid, that’s all I’m saying.”
Marty was less inclined to do so. “I’ll tell you what’s unprofessional,” he snapped. “Dragging me around in front of everyone like an animal, then pretending you’re such an upstanding, high-society businessman. Shoving me in here like I’m the one causing all the problems. You—you fucking love embarrassing me!”
“I think that’s a very pedestrian way to put it. Embarrassing you?” He got close, took him by the chin, all composure out the window. “I saved you. Do you understand? Your little ping-pong career would’ve been dead if it weren’t for me—shoe salesman for the rest of your sorry, miserable life.” He let go, rough, Marty wide-eyed and stumbling with it.
He wasn’t just talking about tonight. Rockwell didn’t have to support him after his little stunt a year ago, but he did anyway. Gave him money, gifts, transportation, time that he wasn’t obligated to spend wasting on some lowlife. Marty should be grateful for that, should be groveling at his feet.
“Sure, Mr. Rockwell,” Marty sniffed. He wasn’t going to let up. “Listen, I feel bad you’re… not getting any or whatever, but I’m gonna head back to my friends now. That alright with you?”
Right before he could turn to leave, Rockwell captured him by his tie.
“Do you want to rephrase that?”
Marty was unmoving, save for the hand that shot up to grip the wrist holding his tie, ready to put up a fight. Rockwell’s eyes passed over his eyelashes, long and dark beneath his glasses, his pockmarked skin, the slight part of his lips. His dick stirred with arousal in his slacks at the sight.
Marty would leave him soon, positioned to be offered more money than he knew what to do with through sponsors other than him. Rockwell couldn’t have that.
He pulled him down, catching him off guard, knees slamming hard against the tile.
“What the fuck—”
Outside, someone jiggled at the doorknob.
Marty was about to shout, so Rockwell shoved his head against his crotch, hand tangled in his perfect, soft hair, muffling the sound.
“Ingrate,” he hissed, low.
His cock was usually slow to rise, age taking its toll on his body, but right now he was aching against Marty. The sound outside the door faded away, and he pulled Marty back, hand still holding him firmly by the hair.
Marty inhaled, ragged. “No, no, you want someone to suck you off, get a hooker, I’m not gonna—”
“You will.” He pressed his shoe against Marty’s own clothed crotch, dragging the tip of it against his soft dick. Marty keened, noise caught in the back of his throat. “You’ll do this because I’m sparing you from a more public display.”
He could imagine dragging Marty out to the ballroom floor, or maybe to a more private room, invite a few of his and Marty’s friends to come and watch him suck cock. Have those friends stick their own dicks down his throat, fondle him, whatever they’d like.
But for now, Marty was his, only his, his big eyes looking up in fear and anticipation, body curled in on him.
Marty seemed to resign himself to it. Rockwell undid his slacks and guided Marty back, demanding he lick his cock through his boxers. Marty mouthed at it, clearly unsure and shaking slightly. “Fuck,” he groaned. “That’s it, put that loud mouth to good use.”
Marty looked beautiful, licking the outline of his erection, breathing hard through his nose, brow twisted in confusion and anger. Rockwell would do anything to keep a photo of him like this, would tuck it in his wallet for safekeeping until the edges frayed and yellowed. All he could hope was that the memory of him would last in his mind.
Shoving his cock in Marty’s mouth was harder, the kid being unused to it. His teeth caught on the skin just slightly, and he gagged hard at the intrusion. It wasn’t great. No matter. He would just have to fuck his mouth until he got better. He could train him, giving him lesson after lesson until he was taking Rockwell deep in his throat, gag reflex reduced to nothing.
He kept his foot on Marty, dug his heel into his balls until Marty winced on his cock. Marty pulled back for air, voice broken and high. “Please—please.”
“Please what?”
Marty just shook his head, saliva and precum smeared on his chin. Cute. Rockwell kept the pressure of his heel steady, feeling his cock grow beneath his shoe. Marty made another sound of misery, something close to a sob but not quite. Rockwell thought he could listen to that forever.
He gave himself a few firm strokes, then forced Marty back to it with a hand. His tongue lapped helplessly at the underside of his cock, right over the vein. Rockwell gave a throaty sound of approval, and Marty did it some more—he was anything but a quitter, Rockwell thought.
He lasted only a minute more, fucking deep into his mouth, Marty gagging loudly as he held onto Rockwell by his thigh. The sound reverberated off the walls just before Rockwell came down his throat with a groan, continuing to thrust into the hot, wet heat of Marty’s mouth. Marty had no choice but to swallow, some of it trickling down his lip, wiping it with the back of his hand.
His foot never moved, and Marty began to hump against it as Rockwell pulled out.
“You like that?” Rockwell grinned.
They had never done this before, but they weren’t strangers anymore. Teasing each other was a part of their routine, it was commonplace—Marty’d get on his nerves, he’d get on his. For some reason, this felt natural. Like this was always bound to happen.
“No,” he rasped, hiding his own embarrassed smile in Rockwell’s pant leg. “Fuck off, old man.”
Marty didn’t move away. Neither of them did.
“Just take what you need, kid.”
“Fuck off,” he repeated, unyielding against his foot. Rockwell rubbed it back and forth in time with Marty’s frantic little frots as he moaned in short, jagged breaths. If Rockwell could, he’d be hard again just listening to him.
Marty eventually came in his pants with a deep moan, muffled against Rockwell, aftershocks rolling through him as he rutted desperately into his sole.
Rockwell ruffled his hair out. Marty swatted him away.
“Give me something to wipe this shit off.”
Rockwell tsked, heel pressing deeper. “Ask nicely.”
Marty grimaced, inhaled sharply through his teeth. “Please give me something to wipe this shit off.”
With exaggerated reluctance, he showed the little asshole a bit of mercy and tossed him his handkerchief. Marty muttered to himself as he scrubbed the remaining stains out of his briefs, jaw tight. Rockwell tucked himself into his pants, smoothing everything back into place.
“You should head back—”
Before he could react, Marty surged up and caught him by his lapels, kissing him.
Rockwell shoved him back on instinct, irritated. Who did he think he was?
Then Marty grabbed him again, making a frustrated sound into his mouth, fingers fisting into Rockwell’s shirt, daring him to push him away a second time. He pressed closer, trying to prove something. Defiance, maybe, or gratitude—probably both. Wanted to make Rockwell as uncomfortable as he was. Shoes scraped against the tile as Rockwell responded in kind, gripping the back of his neck to angle him where he wanted. It was angry, strange, but also somehow filled with a deep sense of knowing.
Half of him wanted to split apart, slap Marty across the face, tell him that he wasn’t allowed to lunge at him whenever he pleased, but he didn’t.
He kept kissing him, thumb pressed firm against warm skin.
Outside, the knob rattled.