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The bus route between the Olympic Village and the Rio Arena, where event finals are underway, takes exactly 38 minutes. Oleg Verniaiev knows this because he tried it with his coach and a stopwatch a week and a half ago as a test, checking to make sure they’d know exactly how to plan their time on competition meet days. Right now, he’s pretty sure they still have about twenty minutes of that journey left, but he doesn’t know much more except for one thing that is rapidly becoming crystal clear: he’ll never be able to watch beach volleyball in public again.
“Yeah!” shouts Danell in his ear, throwing one fist in the air to celebrate. He’s sitting pressed up against Oleg’s side, sharing the phone to watch the match, and the Americans have just gotten a point.
“Qui est?” asks a woman sitting two seats up from them and across the aisle, looking back. Oleg simply holds up the phone, showing her what’s playing. He doesn’t speak French at all. “Ooh, le volley-ball, c’est vrai?” The woman is wearing a judo gi, and has stashed an equipment bag in the window seat beside her.
“America’s ahead,” Danell reports, grinning. She grins back at them, the shared camaraderie of cheering on one’s countrymen not really needing a shared language to translate clearly. Oleg barely manages not to whimper.
The game pauses for a commercial break, and Danell reaches across with one hand to swipe at the phone’s screen, preventing it from going to screensaver. His other thumb slips between Oleg’s foreskin and the head of his cock as he does, rolling easily in a tight circle.
“There,” says Danell happily, sunnily, smiling. Outside there are palm trees passing by. Danell’s thumb keeps steady pressure on Oleg, rubbing back and forth against the most sensitive skin on his body, and Oleg realizes abruptly that this must be how he dies. It’ll be the story of the Games. Ukrainian Gymnast Spontaneously Combusts While Riding Bus, in every newspaper in the world, all because Danell Leyva decided it would be fun to see if he could give a handjob in public with no one else knowing. Salsa music plays over the bus’s cheap speakers, the judoka draws a water bottle full of juice out of her bag, and Oleg lets his eyes fall shut, because any further sensory input is just too much to take.
Danell can’t actually move his hand much without being obvious, so he’s torturing Oleg instead by staying still and offering a steady grip for Oleg to rut against in tiny, achingly slow thrusts. Danell's hand is rough with callouses, slick from sweat and the way Oleg has been leaking all over him for the last ten minutes. His boxers are a complete mess. The bus hits a bump, and Oleg feels that and every other pavement imperfection in the roots of his teeth and the joints of his toes because Danell tightens just a little more around him from the jostling.
He can’t look anywhere but straight ahead, so he tries to keep his expression fixed on the smiling cartoon acai fruit on a poster above the seats. It isn’t really fair, because his pale skin has always shown every blush like a streak of sunset and he’s certain that his face must look like he’s been spray-painted crimson by now. The fruit smiles maniacally at him, while Danell slowly runs his thumb up the thick vein on the underside of Oleg’s cock, and the way the bus shudders at every stop light sends shivers up his spine.
“Hush,” Danell whispers, leaning over against him, their shoulders pressed tight together, just two ordinary passengers on the bus, nothing to see here. “She’ll see the way you’re panting for me if she turns around.” Oleg bites his lip, holds his breath, tries hard not to show the desperation on his face. The game comes back from commercials, providing more noise as cover and Danell pretends to show him something on the phone as an excuse to worm his wrist deeper into the fly of Oleg’s cargo pants. He cups Oleg’s balls, rolls them subtly in his palm and tickles his fingertips up behind them then back over the wrinkled seam before sliding his hand back up his cock.
“Is this our stop coming up?” If Danell doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop drawing attention to them like the insane person he is, Oleg might snap and throttle him. “Oh, guess not.” The bus stops. The judoka gets off and a group of about ten swimmers get on, but most sit at the front, not too close. All are wearing American jackets and sporting dark impressions on their foreheads from swim caps recently removed. It’s all Oleg can do not to throw his head back against the seat rest.
In his own defense, he’d protested for a bit when Danell started this. “What are you doing?” he’d hissed when Danell had first eased his zipper down and started pawing around his boxers. He hadn’t been hard at all, who would be? They’d just walked to the bus, and had a meet coming up in an hour. His body had been ramped up for gymnastics same as it always was before a meet, but all that adrenaline buildup took a sharp turn into arousal almost as soon as he’d felt Danell's warm grip. Danell had tugged his foreskin back from his cock head, palmed him twice, then raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
At the time, they’d been the only two on the bus. The driver at the front had headphones on and was ignoring them completely. There was no one around to see as long as he didn’t yell or anything. So Oleg had given in and slumped lower, planted his feet as widely as the pants would allow and nodded wordlessly. Almost as an afterthought, he had reached for the phone to give them some plausible cover in case the driver happened to glance back. They’d be two buddies watching beach volleyball, nothing more.
Now he’s paying for the choice, gritting his teeth and hoping that the swimmers at the front of the bus ignore them. America scores again and Danell both whoops in his ear and gives him two hard, fast strokes in a row. Oleg straight up growls at him, and prays that the noise from the volleyball announcers on the phone cover it well enough.
“What happened?” says one swimmer, looking their way.
“Kerri Walsh is kicking ass over on the sand courts,” Danell reports, and the swimmers dig for their phones so they can watch too. “Does it feel good?” he leans over to whisper in Oleg’s ear, and adds a wicked twist to his wrist motions.
“Just the top,” Oleg pleads. “Just a little. Please, I can’t --”
“Okay, I’ve got you,” Danell whispers back. “I’ve got you, don’t worry. Relax and trust me, okay? Let me hold the phone.” Oleg takes two short breaths through his nose, because he isn’t sure what sort of noises might come out if he tries to open his mouth. He passes the phone into the hand that isn’t in his pants.
“I think it’s this one,” Danell says nonsensically towards the phone, but he could be setting the thing on fire for all Oleg cares, because Danell’s other hand has gripped him firmly, skimming the foreskin back from the whole head of his cock and just squeezing him in circles, over and over, relentless.
Oleg’s body is winding tighter and tighter, curling helplessly forward as his stomach contracts, trying to contain what he’s feeling. “Fuck, fuck,” he whispers. The bus slows down, and the momentum throws him forward until his forehead rests on the seat back in front of him.
“Oh, damn,” says Danell’s voice above him, then Oleg sees the phone thrown down onto the floor between them. “Guess I dropped it. Can you see where it went? Oh, there it is.” Oleg isn’t sure what’s going on, but he nearly jumps out of his skin when Danell jerks hard at his cock, a couple firm strokes, then actually pulls his hand away completely. Oleg’s cock is exposed for anyone to see, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from gaping at Danell. Seeing the flush red of his cock head so blatant in the open is a headrush, and feeling the cold air of the bus suddenly on his wet skin is a shock, but it pales before the lightning bolt that runs straight through his balls when Danell drops his head to Oleg’s lap and replaces his hand with his mouth.
It doesn’t even take a full second, he’s coming before his brain has finished processing the visual. The certain knowledge they’ll be caught competes with the suction of Danell’s furnace hot mouth for supremacy in his consciousness. Fuck it, says his brain, and the orgasm hits him with a crack he’s almost certain he hears out loud. For about fifteen seconds Oleg is good for nothing at all as his nervous system sets off nuclear explosions in every pleasure receptor he owns.
When he comes back to Earth, Danell has surfaced from his lap with a triumphant look on his face. “Got it,” he says, brandishing the phone that he’s picked up from the floor. “It sort of slid under that seat, I had to reach to pull it in.” Oleg stares at him, dumbfounded.
Danell returns his sunniest, most innocent smile, and neatly tucks Oleg back into his pants as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The swimmers are still watching beach volleyball. The bus is still creeping down its route, the driver still oblivious. Twelve other people on this bus, and only Danell has any idea that Oleg just came his brains out not seven feet away from them. God is real, this is nothing short of a miracle. His boxers rub sticking and disgusting across his sensitive skin, damp from where he’s leaked all over them. He tries not to make a face at the overload of sensation too soon after he’s come.
“Oh hey, this is our stop,” says Danell and pulls Oleg suddenly to his feet and out into the aisle. “You’re leaving your stuff man, get it together.” Oleg blinks at him, astonished, then mutely accepts the gym bag that Danell thrusts into his arms. The bus driver is looking at them now, waiting for them to exit.
He follows Danell to the front, working their way gingerly between seats to try and fit the unwieldy gym bags through. He would swear that the bus has grown three times as long as it had been when they got on; the journey seems to take forever. He’s a few seats away from the door when a swimmer with white-blond hair looks up from his phone and grabs Oleg’s sleeve. “Hey man, uh. Um. Your zipper --.”
“What?” Oleg looks down. They’d forgotten to rezip his zipper. “Fuck me,” he breathes. Ukrainian Gymnast Spontaneously Combusts While Exiting Bus, Nearby Swimmers Traumatized, the headlines will read. The heat in his face could cook a twelve-course meal for fifty.
The swimmer shrugs, nonchalant, as Oleg fumbles with his pants. “Happens to everybody at some point, dude. I just didn’t want you to get out there in front of cameras.”
Cameras. Oh, Christ.
“Thank you,” Oleg says, and tries not to give the impression that he’s fleeing as he follows Danell off the bus.
In front of them, the Olympic Stadium rises white and geometric in the distance. They have event finals in an hour. His brain is not even in the same solar system as competition-ready. His face still feels like it could fry eggs. Nearby, his coach is waving at them, no doubt wondering where Oleg has been.
“Fuck,” Oleg mutters and Danell gives him the biggest, most shit-eating grin Oleg has ever seen.
Oleg does not feel even a tiny bit bad about letting him get two steps ahead, then kicking him in the ass. Hard.