Anti-Gravity Love Song, Part I

Title: Anti-Gravity Love Song, Part I
Pairing: NBA (Golden State/Dallas), Matt Barnes/Devin Harris
Rating: NC-17
Summary, etc: I realize that these two aren't exactly the biggest names in the league. However, they have a history, and I couldn't resist. In this part: an off-season encounter in the desert, taking place this past summer. Much credit goes to littlestclouds, for reading through this and giving me advice.
cross-posted at sports_slash and nba_slash.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission. It is a work of parody. Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual persons is purely coincidental. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person). Any mention of the National Basketball League, the NCAA, any associated entites, or any copyrighted material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976 and is not intended to infringe upon any copyrighted material.

The night is neon-bright after the dark of the limousine, but the air is just as stale. It's Friday night, summer in the desert, and the Strip is packed for miles. Devin blinks against the light and the heat still rising from the concrete.

He follows Stack into the vestibule of Caesar's, where C-Webb's charity event is going on. It's even more crowded than the street, full of players and stars and randoms and girls - lots of girls. Everywhere, all kinds. Most attached to the arms of men bigger than Devin, but he at least appreciates the view - especially after a plane ride and then a limo ride with a particularly irritable Jerry Stackhouse.

Stack gets accosted by a friend and disappears into the crowd, and Devin glances around, looking for people he knows. He sees C-Webb himself, Omarosa, Nas - or is it Pras? He never knows the difference - Michael Redd, Kirilenko, and a giant puff of hair that he's pretty sure belongs to Joakim Noah. He looks right past Barnes without even realizing it, then double-takes so fast that almost falls over.

Barnes is in a pool of light by the windows deeper in, talking to a small man with a microphone, not looking at him or at the camera pointed up at his face. He's doing what Devin's doing, looking around like he's trying to find someone. His gaze stops on Devin and he stares him down, and it's like Oakland all over again. Except now he's flashing a grin down at the interviewer, and Devin is standing frozen in the middle of the thoroughfare.

Kevin Martin grabs him around the shoulders and tells him something, he has to meet somebody, and Devin lets himself be pulled away. Not before looking back, though, and he sees Barnes turn to leave the interviewer and look almost, for just a second, lost.

*

It's only been a few weeks, but already it feels like the longest summer of Devin's life. He wants the season to start again, to redeem himself even if the court doesn't seem too inviting right now, but he doesn't want to see most of his teammates - doesn't want to see Dirk, and he knows Dirk doesn't want to see any of them. So he's left his empty house and the barren suburbs of Dallas to try and entertain himself; a weekend in Vegas, he figures, may not fix anything in his life, but could at the very least make it more interesting. Even if, at the moment, it's not doing much to put the series out of his mind.

Kevin's safe, though. The Kings (Sactown's Finest, he thinks, before pushing that thought away) didn't even go to the playoffs this year, so Kevin's not going to fuck with him about it. He wouldn't anyway, Devin knows, and it's a good thought - that not every non-teammate is an enemy, that a rivalry can be friendly. Because, even though Devin might not be as twisted up and broken inside as Dirk, or Jason, he needs all the comforting thoughts he can find. Besides, it's good to have a friend.

But now he's sitting with Mini K-Mart and his friends in the banquet hall, listening to Nas-not-Pras, and feeling restless. Maybe even a little bit bored, now that it's obvious being in Vegas isn't going to make him feel any better. He excuses himself, not that Kevin can hear him over the flash and noise of the show, and decides to find a bar.

Devin's never been much of a drinker, but, as he wanders through the casino, he amuses himself with the thought of becoming one. Drink all my troubles away. Cry into my beer, forget everything...yeah, that sounds about right..

He didn't think anything could feel worse than last summer. Than losing in the Finals, than the guilt he felt at not being able to stop Wade. But this is the second miserable summer he's spent in a row, and it's definitely worse the second time around.

He puts it out of his mind, though, because he's finally found a bar, a quiet one next to a restaurant. It's dark, small, and surprisingly not crowded. He doesn't recognize anyone as he walks in and through, and that's a relief.

"Can I have a gin and tonic, please?"

The bartender stops wiping the bar and gives him an appraising look. "Are you twenty-one?"

The question confuses him at first, then irritates him. "Of course I'm twenty-one. I'm twenty-four. Can I just get my drink?"

The bartender shakes his head. "Sorry, going to have to see ID. The law. You know."

Devin is seriously annoyed now, but before he can say anything a voice comes from beside and behind him - "He's twenty-one." Devin turns to find that, yeah, he thought right, and Barnes is looming over his left shoulder, like he came straight out of Devin's bad memories.

But to the matter at hand, Barnes is clearly a grown man, and very tall (where Devin is only quite tall), and the bartender is visibly considering. "I'd like a screwdriver," Barnes says, and the bartender starts making it - "And make his a sloe gin fizz. And put a umbrella in it." The bartender smirks and doesn't say anything else about carding him.

If Devin was irritated before, it's nothing next to how he feels now. "What, are you buying me a drink?"

Barnes glances at him for the first time since this whole episode began. "Fuck no. You're paying for this one."

Devin blinks, and opens and shuts his mouth, and remembers just how much he hates Barnes. Then he's distracted because the drinks arrive, and his is frothy and girly and has an umbrella in it, and he hates him even more.

"I'm not paying for yours," he says, and moves down the bar to sit down. Barnes grabs his screwdriver and sits next to him - intentionally trying to bother him, he's sure. Devin refuses to talk and hopes he'll go away, but no such luck.

"You are legal, right?" Barnes says, after a minute. "I wasn't sure."

"'Course I am," Devin snaps. So much for the silent treatment. "And this drink is disgusting." He drops the little umbrella, aggravated.

"Damn. I knew I should have got you a strawberry daiquiri. Or a appletini."

Devin ignores him. Barnes reaches a heavily tattooed arm - more so than before, it looks like - into his line of sight to take the fizzy drink, and calls to the bartender, "Can I get a beer, please?" The bartender fills a glass from the tap and puts it in front of him, and he slides it to Devin.

Devin glares at it unwillingly, before giving in and taking a sip. They drink in silence for a while, and all Devin has to distract himself are his thoughts - memories, mostly, that are at the moment overwhelmingly negative.

He doesn't want to remember most of it. Not the noise of the Oracle, or the silence in Dallas. Not Barnes shoving him around when the refs couldn't see, or the things he'd hiss when the refs couldn't hear. Not that feeling of losing, and failure, and stunned-shock embarrassment-pain that all got tied into Barnes, somehow. He especially doesn't want to remember the moment in game six when he knew it was over - when he and his teammates were talking with the ref about another bad call and only Barnes behind him, holding him by the forearms while he talked over his head, was keeping him upright. That last particularly irritates him, because he definitely doesn't want to remember how he felt just then - like all he wanted to do was close his eyes, and lean back, and let Barnes hold him up.

That same Barnes, the one that dunked on him and hacked him and knocked him down and trash-talked him, is sitting beside him, drinking companionably like there's nothing weird about it, and it's hard to wrap his mind around that.

"Not the friendliest guy, are you?" Barnes asks.

Devin finishes his beer and signals for another. "I'm friendly."

He can feel Barnes laugh at him, as the silence lengthens. "Obviously." Then, "Well, there's a hell of a party going on in there. What's the point of being in Vegas if you're just going to drink alone?"

That stings, a bit. "I got bored."

"What, you didn't want to see the warm-up to the opening act to Nas?"

A distraction. "Thought that was Nas."

"Can't tell those Negroes apart, huh?"

Devin's never been good with his liquor, so he doesn't try to figure what that's implying. Instead he just gets another drink, and decides he doesn't care that he's amusing Barnes.

"Really, what got you so pissed off?" says Barnes, talking again, because he just can never, ever stay shut up.

"Jesus Christ," Devin mutters vehemently.

"He ain't got nothing to do with it." A pause. "You don't seem the type to drown your sorrows, is all."

"We are not friends," Devin snaps, and wheels around to face Barnes, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Barnes is a lot closer than he thought he was with his equilibrium off, and he really does just look curious, and those inquiring dark eyes are really just too close so Devin turns back away and ignores the blood rushing to his face.

"What - Oh. The playoffs?" says Barnes, like it isn't the most obvious thing in the world ever, and drinks the last of his screwdriver. "Shit, baby, twenty-nine teams lose. You ain't special."

Before Devin can really process that, Barnes is slapping him on the back, then standing up and grabbing him by the arm. "Come on. Let's go somewhere." Devin, busy trying to think of witty retorts, lets him pull him off the barstool and towards the doorway. Before they get there, though, Barnes takes out his wallet and hands a few bills to the bartender.

"The fuck?"

"Never let it be said I don't know how to treat a lady," Barnes replies, looking down at Devin, and did his nose always crinkle like that when he grinned? "Especially not one I just got drunk."

Devin doesn't even know what to say - he knows it shouldn't be pleasant - so he settles for a sullen, "I would have got drunk anyway," as he wanders out of the bar.

"Aw, you're cute when you're mad. Cheer up, kid," Barnes says, and then they're going through the casino and wouldn't be able to hear each other even if Devin could think of a damned thing to say.

*

It's quiet on the street, though, way too quiet for Devin - especially when he thought they were going back to the banquet. But no, he's just barely keeping up down the crowded sidewalk as Barnes flags a cab, the big SUV kind, and pulls Devin into the furthest back seat. Devin lets him - he's been doing a lot of that lately, just letting things happen - and sprawls next to the window, looking out and admiring the way all the neon gets a little soft around the edges, wondering how late it is. He's concentrating hard on not thinking, which is okay. He's been doing a lot of that lately too.

But it's quiet now, and he's alone (or close to it) with Barnes, and it makes him feel even less steady and makes it hard not to think.

On the other side of the plush bench seat, Barnes is getting worried, he can tell. "Hey. Hey, Harris," and he pokes him in the leg with his foot. Devin shuts his eyes, makes a mumbling noise in response to his name. "Devin. Damn, you only had, what. Three beers?" Another mumble. "I feel like I'm taking advantage of you. Or something."

"No," Devin says. " ...Yes. What?"

"Long as we understand each other, then," and Barnes leans back, apparently satisfied.

The rest of the ride is silent. Devin zones out a little bit, and Barnes broods, or whatever it is he does with his time. Devin's okay with Barnes getting the wrong impression. Okay with him not knowing that it's not just the beer, that he's fucked up in other ways, and from other things; it's better, safer, for him not to know. Devin needs that - some consolation, some semblance of privacy, or whatever, to keep him adrift and thus alright.

He's not thinking, because he has some idea of where this is headed; he knows because he remembers all of it, everything from the series, no matter how much he doesn't want to. There was the basketball, and the pain and the losing, and that was one thing. There was Barnes, and that was that too, but also something else entirely.

A lot can happen in six games. Even though he'd never particularly played Barnes before that, even though he started against Baron and Barnes came off the bench and they didn't guard each other every possession, there was still enough in six games for them to develop a deep and hearty dislike for each other. Or, at least, for Devin to realize that Barnes disliked him, and to decide that the feeling was mutual. But a lot did happen, and a lot can change in two weeks.

So there was the dislike that two players on rival teams have for each other, and some personal dislike from some ambiguous reason; and there was also the tension in the space between them that almost suffocated him, and the heat in Barnes' eyes that made it hard to for him to concentrate. That heat, that hate and the something else there with it, threw off his game - made him want to give in or do something stupid, or do anything about the static electricity that burned him every time he and Barnes touched (every time they hit each other, more like), and made him want to fight and hurt and do something stupid, a different kind of stupid, at the same time. By the end of that two weeks and the last of those six games, the one feeling and impulse had nearly outstripped the other; maybe not coincidentally, by then he was playing like shit and his team was playing like they weren't getting paid for it. By the end of game six it was all over, and now Devin can admit to himself that it wasn't just basketball - any of it.

He doesn't know what Barnes is thinking, and, at the moment, he doesn't care. He's letting him run the show; it would be too much to care about him too.

*

Nothing's really changed, though, when they get to where they're going. Barnes' hotel is nice, and the elevator ride is short - but not short enough, and Devin's decided that this is really, really not a good idea by the time they get to his room. Slumped against the hallway wall, watching Barnes search his pockets, it finally, truly sinks in.

"No," he says out loud, breaking the silence of the refrigerated hotel air. Barnes looks up from sliding his keycard. "Fuck you. No. What the fuck are we doing? Fuck, what the fuck am I doing? What do you think I am? I don't even like you. I hate you." Devin pushes himself off the wall towards him, angry now.

"You want to fight, you mind not doing it in the hallway?" Barnes pushes the door open and waits, tense, the dark look - loathing, want - back in his eyes.

Devin wants to leave. Knows he can and knows he should, knows he should never have let it get this far in the first place. But that look, and the tension that's been there so long, and the promise that was probably meant as a threat, won't let him. He stands as though hypnotized - staring at Barnes, too close, challenging him. He couldn't get away if he tried.

There's a sense of inevitability to it, when Barnes kisses him. The tension isn't just broken, it's shattered, and Devin knows - as he grabs frantically at Barnes, as Barnes pulls them into the dark room and slams the door - that he's going to bleed, if that's not already his own blood he tastes. He wants to fuck and he wants to hurt, and he's pretty sure Barnes feels the same way.

The back of his knees hit the bed and he falls, and Barnes falls with him, on him. He digs his fingers into arms, runs them over cloth- covered shoulder blades, and he can't really breathe but he doesn't really mind. Barnes' mouth is all teeth, his hipbones hard and sharp digging into Devin's thighs, and all Devin wants is less clothing between them.

Barnes bites Devin's bottom lip, hard, and pushes his knee between his legs, and he would come in his pants if it wouldn't give Barnes the satisfaction. He writhes under the hard, narrow body, trying to push more of himself up and against it, but now Barnes is moving to the edge of the bed and shoving him, hands on his shoulders, to the floor.

He tries to clear his head - rubs his face against Barnes' jeans, feeling the rasp of new, stiff denim on his cheek, on the dry skin of his lips. He wants so much, he's paralyzed with it, almost. But the big hand on the back of his head reminds him, and he slides forward and fumbles with Barnes' fly.

No underwear, and that's alright. He's not trying to fool himself anymore. He can feel Barnes shifting around, taking off his shirt, maybe? as he does what he's there to do - even if it's just a lot of licking, mostly, just trying not to use his teeth. He's not particularly good at this (it's not like he's done it much) but he doesn't particularly care. He likes it so much, being exactly where he is - on the floor, between Barnes' knees - that it kind of worries him. Scares him, a little. So he goes back to not thinking, and just enjoys himself while he can. Which, he judges by Barnes' reactions, might not be long.

The light's dim in the room, spilling in from the open bathroom door and the window, but Devin's eyes are adjusting. Enough to see Barnes' hands as well as feel them, on his jaw, on his shoulder, on his own cock and in Devin's mouth a little, and then he's standing up and pulling Devin up with him.

They're not kissing, exactly. Kissing implies some kind of feeling, some sweetness, and it's more like Barnes is trying to consume him - pressing his mouth against his skin like he wants to memorize the taste, and Devin feels exactly the same.

He scrapes his nails across the newest tattoo, an outline of California still raw and swollen under his fingers, and gets a vicious bite on the collarbone in return. He presses against Barnes, trying to get friction, but Barnes has a vice grip on his hip and won't let him move.

He's getting tired, finally, of being manhandled. Barnes may have forgotten the fact, but Devin is strong - as strong as Barnes, at the very least. So Devin takes advantage, throwing his weight at him and knocking him, clearly surprised, down onto the bed.

There's a pause. Devin catches his breath and Barnes arranges himself to lounge on the bed and watch him, apparently comfortable with his jeans half off his hips and an audience. A mutual audience, and Devin finds himself uncomfortable as he pulls his shirt off and kicks off his shoes. He feels like somebody should say something, but Barnes doesn't seem like he's going to so he gives up and crawls onto him instead. He nuzzles up to his neck, resisting the urge to bite the Believe beneath his lips, and wonders what the hell is wrong with him that he would ever do this.

Barnes is still - surprised, or just waiting, Devin doesn't know. He's just resting his hands on Devin's sides, letting him do what he wants, which is what matters. So he doesn't worry about it. It's all slowed down now; Devin slowed it down, or Barnes let him, which he thinks is pretty exciting. He just - feels, lets his hands run across the long muscles in Barnes' arms, feels stubble sting his lips and scrape his tongue. He rubs up against Barnes, feeling the hardness against his legs, and moves out of the way a little to let Barnes get his pants off.

Just when he's starting to enjoy the silence, Barnes starts talking. "I'm going to fuck you," he hisses, almost gently, into Devin's ear. "You know that, right?"

Devin is suddenly, embarrassingly, achingly hard. Even more so than he was before, somehow. But he says, as evenly as he can, "We'll see about that, asshole."

Barnes laughs and, using Devin's weight and position against him, flips him back onto the bed and straddles him. "Yeah," he says, as he wraps his fingers around Devin's wrists and then, before he can think to fight back, pins them above his head. "Guess we will."

"Fuck," Devin moans - he can't help it - and he can feel Barnes's laugh vibrate through his body.

Barnes' cock is pressing against his, through his jeans, and he just wants to get the fuck on with it already. But the only way he can fight back is to push up against Barnes and that doesn't help his, uh, situation. So he waits - rests his head against Barnes' arm, and tries not to make any embarrassing noises.

"Pants," he gets out. Barnes cocks an eyebrow at him. "My jeans," he clarifies, moving his hips in illustration.

"Oh hell. Like I was going to forget that." Barnes shifts to hold both his wrists in one hand, and unbuttons his jeans with the other. Devin bites his lip and tries tries tries not to give in, even when Barnes is getting a hand in his boxers and on his cock and making what he thinks are supposed to be soothing noises.

"Fuck. Fuck," he says, because alcohol and blue balls make him uncreative, and gasps as his overheated skin finally, finally gets some attention. Barnes strokes his cock a few times, just enough to make him shake, and then moves his hand underneath, to his balls, and stops. His expression shifts into one of irritation.

"Hey."

"Huh?" Devin moves against Barnes' hand, trying to get more contact.

"You got a condom in your wallet?"

Shit. The answer must read on his face. "Stay," Barnes says, and gets off him and off the bed. Devin struggles to his elbows and watches Barnes, naked, rummage through a bag on the floor. It'd be almost funny if he wasn't so turned on, and that reminds him to wiggle out of his jeans and underwear.

Barnes gets back on the bed with a tube and the condom, and kneels over him, and Devin holds his breath as he watches him put it on.

Barnes lays down on him and presses first his cock and then his fingers, wet now, between Devin's legs. "Are you going to fight me anymore?" he asks through gritted teeth, his forehead against Devin's and his fingers inside.

Devin can't think. He can barely remember to breathe, but he gathers himself enough to say, "That...depends."

"On what?" Barnes sounds like he's having trouble paying attention too.

"On how good you are at it."

"Oh," Barnes says. "I'm good." He takes his fingers away and pushes into him without warning, and Devin makes a strangled noise and bites into Barnes' shoulder as hard as he can.

If Devin could admit anything right now, he'd hate to admit that Barnes was right. It's been so long - the whole night and all the weeks before that - that neither of them are going to last long. And Barnes is good, hitting him inside in a way that he thinks is going to drive him insane if he's not already, and when Barnes starts stroking his cock at the same time he feels like he's going to explode.

But Barnes slows down. Slows, and then stops, because apparently pissing off Devin is the theme of the evening. Devin moans, but this time it's out of frustration, mostly.

"Shh." Barnes leans on one arm above him, grinning down at him through the sweat. "I want to hear you say it."

Devin tries to work that through his brain. "What. Fuck. Fuck...fuck me."

"Say please."

Devin didn't know it was possible to hate one person as much as he hates Barnes right now. "Fuck!"

Barnes starts moving his hand again, slowly. "Say it, Devin."

Devin bares his teeth up at him, furious and on the edge. "Please. Fuck me. Matt."

Barnes laughs and complies, and it only takes a few thrusts to get Devin off, and only a few after that for Barnes. For a few blessed seconds he doesn't feel anything, doesn't see anything, doesn't think anything, and then he's back with Barnes' full weight on him and his skin sticking to polyester and sweat- and come-covered skin.

Barnes pulls out and clambers off him, and goes into the bathroom, leaving Devin to pull himself together on the bed. It's quite a job and, as he slowly wipes the come off his stomach with Barnes' bedspread, he's not sure if he's going to really be able to do it. He can't just not think about it for the rest of his life, he knows, but right now he just doesn't want to try.

Barnes comes back out of the bathroom and Devin, glad for the chance to get out of the room, takes his place. He takes his time, cleaning up, rinsing his mouth, and when he comes back into the bedroom Barnes is sprawled on the bedsheet, apparently passed out.

Devin gets dressed and hesitates, wondering whether he should just leave. "Hey," he says, and clears his throat. He taps Barnes on the giant black panther on his shoulder. "Hey. I'm out of here, alright?"

Barnes catches his hand, "Devin. I'll see you again," he says, raising his head to look up at him.

Devin laughs a little. "Yeah, man. Like, first week of the season, probably." He tries to pull away, but Barnes tightens his grip.

"Nah. I'll see you again," he repeats, and lets him go.

Devin thinks he should probably make some reply to that, some not if I see you first thing, but he doesn't. He just leaves.

But the worst part, he thinks, as he stands in the bright sterile hallway trying to remembers his hotel's name, is that he's probably right.

TBC