pairing: Allen Iverson/Steve Nash
summary: Steve gets drunk, angsty and horny over the All Star Break. AI is also drunk, and perhaps horny. There are cameo appearences by: Carmelo Anthony, Dirk Nowitzki, and Eddie Najera (by phone.)
Disclaimer:This is the product of my twisted imagination. It never happened and I'm not implying that it did. I make no profit from writing this.
A/N: This takes place in the same 'verse as all of my other NBA fics. This is the same Steve from "Almost Broken", and this fic takes place at the same time as the last section of "All Stars and Crashed Cars". Someday I'll move on. Today is not that day. Many, many thanks as usual to horizon_greene for betaing this in a hurry and for generally listening to some strange shit from me lately. So, because this has Steve in it, this is dedicated to her.
Nobody notices when Steve spits vodka all over himself and the bar. Mostly because nobody’s paying attention to him, and that might be number three on the list of things he’s really pissed about. Number one being that he is now damp and sticky after being bump-mauled by a careening Carmelo Anthony. Melo just smiles and hugs him, like Steve’s one of his charity cases, and slithers back into the crowd.
“What’s number two?” Dirk asks, leaning against the bathroom wall and watching Steve wash his hands a minute later.
Steve stares at him.
“Things that you’re mad about,” Dirk prompts him, not even flinching when Steve flicks water in his direction.
“AI, probably,” Steve says, and Dirk being Dirk just nods, a little vacant from the long weekend and the alcohol.
After another two drinks, Steve feels the need to elaborate, but he’s yelling over the music and somehow can’t manage to make Dirk understand that it’s pretty much AI’s existence that pisses him off right now, but it’s the little things too, right?
Like -- he pokes Dirk to get his attention -- they were drafted at the same time, but AI was first and Steve was fifteenth. But it’s not even that. It’s that they’re -- both of them -- in their thirties now, and AI doesn’t look stiff and sore and worn out, sucked dry from the desert heat and the stress. He still looks like a kid, dancing and drinking and hanging on Melo, unconsciously physical, unaware or indifferent to the people around him, to the expectations on him. Which is so painfully unfair. Because for Steve, it’s this year or it’s never, and he can’t let himself forget.
Steve tells himself that over and over, through every ache and every pain , after every win and after every loss, and every time Shawn visibly -- humiliatingly -- chafes at living in Steve’s shadow, or Boris slips farther away from them, from the game, and into himself.
“He’s been to the finals,” Steve says, and Dirk looks thoughtful, condescending almost, because, oh yeah, so has he.
“That was a long time ago,” Dirk says. “He’s not the same as he was.”
Steve runs a hand through his hair, missing it’s length for a minute and --
“Who?” Someone asks, touching Steve's back.
Steve looks over his shoulder. At AI.
“You,” Dirk says to AI and shakes his empty glass, nodding at the bar before walking away.
Ignoring the embarrassing he’s going to hurt me thoughts, Steve looks down into big eyes and a half-smile.
AI (“Allen, man. It’s Allen.”) is all thin limbs and electricity spinning around Steve. He doesn’t say how much he heard, or if he’s insulted, or where Melo is, but starts somewhere in the middle of his own conversation.
“My first All Star Break -- goddamn. It was in Cleveland, right?”
Steve nods and follows Allen out of the club and into the casino.
“Shit, man. They hated me out there. They never stopped yelling at me, y’know? Isiah called me a thug and Chuck came down hard on me too. Like, they couldn‘t forget about when I was in jail, or forgive me for braiding my hair.” He touches his head self-consciously.
There were a couple of months in Dallas when Steve was pretty unpopular, but Steve doesn’t really think that compares, so he shrugs. “Not really.”
“I could feel it,” Allen says, stopping suddenly and waiting for Steve to come along side of him. “The hatred? Made my skin crawl.” He drags his fingertips over the skin of Steve’s shoulder and down across the ridge of his collarbone, making Steve shiver despite the heat, goose bumps rising on the damp places Allen touches.
Everything fades: the angry mutter of late night gamblers, the jangle of slot machines, and the canned music.
“Let’s go,” Allen says, and spins away, disappearing into the maze of craps tables.
Traffic on the Strip is at a standstill and Allen has all the windows plus the sunroof open in the limo. The weak breeze doesn’t cool Steve off, though. His shoulder burns where Allen’s wedged against him, leaning over him, so he can see out of Steve’s window. Allen wants to see the Treasure Island show, but the angle isn’t quite right from where they are, and so he’s crawling up and over Steve and half out the window, talking on his phone at the same time.
It’s hard to tell what’s worse for Steve: leaving his hands where they are, trapped in his lap between his body and Allen’s, or trying to find something else to do with them. He makes a compromise, convinced Allen’s forgotten that he’s even there, busy describing to Melo and whoever’s with Melo now, what he’s seeing on the street. It’s like a running commentary.
“Football players,” Allen’s saying. “I think. And some guy juggling fire. But that’s on the pirate ship. Man, you are so missing some seriously crazy shit out here tonight. Is JR with you?”
Steve listens, sort of, and takes one hand out from under Allen and then sits for a minute like an idiot, before the limo lurches forward a foot and knocks Allen slightly off balance. Steve puts his free hand on Allen’s back, just to steady him, and then leaves it there when Allen glances back at him and grins so quick that Steve convinces himself he didn’t see it.
The limo starts and stops again while Allen’s lazily arguing with Melo over the merits of getting a new tattoo while in Vegas (Melo thinks he should; Allen thinks he shouldn’t, dumbass,) and Steve has to catch him with both hands this time, feeling desperately awkward at the way his fingers fit between Allen’s ribs, prominent even through the thin cotton of his tank top.
“What about you?”
The conversation -- Allen -- has left Steve behind again.
“Me what?” he asks, concentrating on not getting hard.
“If we went to get new ink, would you come too?”
Laughing, Steve shakes his head no. “Not my thing.” But he feels like he has permission now to look at Allen’s skin.
“Which one was your first?” he asks, wondering if that’s okay, if it’s meaningful (hurtful?) in some way that he can’t imagine, or if it’s some place he shouldn’t be asking to see. Which is an idea he should have stayed away from. He was doing so well, too, imagining stuff like Dirk’s mouth guard and Al Harrington’s head and Shawn’s jump shot.
“Here,” Allen says, twisting, so that he can point to the shoulder closest to Steve. “That one, when I was eighteen? Nineteen?”
Hold My Own, it says and Steve touches it lightly before he can stop himself, thumb tracing the fading black lines, and need -- suppressed, forgotten -- buzzes at the base of his spine.
And oh, oh no. Steve falls so hard and so fast and it hurts for so long after that he can’t -- can’t let this happen now. The thing with Manu, that bright, ugly, drawn out disaster, finally died (a mercy killing) a year ago, and Steve hasn’t thought about dick (other than his own) in about that long.
“We should switch,” he says, inching out from under Allen. Infatuation and Allen Iverson seem like a toxic mix to Steve, and his stomach hurts even considering it.
“Mmm,” Allen says, letting him go and looking at him funny before turning back to the window.
The murmur of traffic and voices combined with the soft, wide seats of the limo help Steve to calm down and even start to drift, until his window starts to roll up, almost catching parts of him -- a hand, an elbow -- in it.
“Why?” he turns to Allen, who’s flipping his phone shut and digging in the mini-fridge for a bottle of champagne.
“Drink?” Allen says, in answer, popping the cork and laughing as he spills all over himself, the upholstery, and Steve.
“Okay.” Steve is already sticky, so he takes the glass and drinks too fast, giving himself hiccups.
“Why,” he starts again but for a different reason. “Why are you having fun? You don’t do that. Or,” he grabs the bottle and drinks straight from it. “You shouldn’t. I mean, are you happy? Did moving make you happy?”
“What are you asking, man?” Allen asks, taking the bottle back and looking up through the sunroof.
“Dunno,” Steve admits, tired now.
Allen drinks and wobbles as the limo accelerates. “Moving was good,” he says. Or maybe it’s: “ Melo’s good.” He tends to mumble and Steve’s not really listening, just letting his mind wander.
“No pressure?” Steve asks, squinting across the seat in the dark, the tint on the windows filtering out the neon daylight of the Strip. His noses itches from drying champagne.
“Less,” Allen nods. “Less … attention.” He’s closer to Steve again, sprawling in the seat. “Hate people looking at me.”
Steve scrunches his eyes shut, which is a silly, drunken thing, but, “I can’t see you now,” he says. “Not looking.”
“Good,” Allen tells him, inches away now, breathing on Steve’s cheek. “We should,” he starts, shuffling around, muffled for second. “Get out and walk.”
Blinking his eyes open, Steve watches Allen finish pulling his shirt over his head and then use it to mop champagne off of his arms.
“Get. Out,” Allen repeats, now doing the same to Steve’s face before leaning over him and opening the door.
They fall out onto the street in a tangled heap, scraping bare skin on hard asphalt.
The crush of people on the street leaves Steve annoyed and breathless and lost. He and Allen keep bumping into each other and every time they touch it leaves him more frustrated. Allen moves fast and it's hard to keep up with him, even in the lobby of the Bellagio where he darts in between people on his way towards the banks of elevators, dashing inside one that’s filled almost to capacity, holding the door impatiently for Steve.
Steve melts towards the back, pulling Allen with him, trying to avoid being recognized or worse, not being recognized and having the elevator full of rich, sleepy, white gamblers freak right out over the half-dressed black man standing in the middle of them.
“Back,” he says, quietly, smiling, tugging on Allen, pleased that he moves with him, conscious all the while of his stained shirt and blood-shot eyes, torn pants, and the raw, red patches of skin on his palms and forearms where he caught himself falling out of the limo.
Out of sight, out of mind, and the mumbled conversation returns to normal when he and Allen are pressed against each other and the back wall. Steve slumps with relief, head on Allen’s shoulder and wonders if he can get away with licking the spider web on Allen’s neck -- if Allen will even notice, as wired and twitchy as he is.
Steve isn’t a risk taker, usually, but he not usually here, with damp, bare male skin so close to his mouth.
Allen tastes like salt and fruit from the champagne, and it makes Steve’s back ache when his muscles tense in his lower body with expectation. He wants to push away a little, or pull closer, or a least adjust himself but he can’t and he feels a little crazy with it, settling for sliding his legs apart slightly instead.
Allen does nothing for a second, and then he tilts his head. And then he leans back.
Four floors left, and Steve closes his teeth over the spider web and prays. He knows there are things he’s wanted more in his life than this, but he can’t remember them.
There are people in Allen’s suite. All over. Sleeping, drinking, fucking. And no one’s is paying any attention to Allen and Steve, and the bedroom is empty. Allen’s still moving quickly, collecting a beer from the bar, locking them in, and then ending up on the balcony, pinning Steve between him and the railing.
“This,” Steve says, wiggling a little to relieve the pressure on his spine. “It’s?”
“Nothing,” Allen, says, unbuttoning Steve’s shirt. He looks at Steve critically for a second and then backs up a step and picks up his beer. Another step and he’s back in the room, sitting on the bed, expectant, hand resting between his legs.
“Nash,” he says, and Steve holds his breath. “C’mere.”
Steve stumbles as he walks and is already falling when Allen says, “Down.”
Loose pants, old, supple belt, sticky zipper and then hot, slick skin. Steve’s knees are already starting to hurt, but it’s okay because he never does this; his body will last. He can’t help the noises he makes either, when he starts to suck, the little, wet grunts and hard breaths, and Allen seems surprised.
“You like it?” he asks, running a hand through Steve’s hair, more gentle than Steve thought he would be, or thinks he should be. Part of the thrill is who this is and what Steve imagines he’s done (can do), which is hugely inappropriate, but so is the whole situation, so Steve’s okay with indulging himself.
He hums back at Allen, nodding a little and drooling, working his free hand down his pants because he doesn’t know how far Allen goes and --
Allen’s hand tightens in his hair and Steve goes a little limp.
“Uh huh,” Allen says. “Get up.”
And Steve starts to sink. He doesn’t mean to and he doesn’t really want to, but everything starts to fall away anyway and he relaxes as he stands, not bothering to swipe a hand over his mouth. Allen shakes his head and runs a finger over Steve’s lips and down onto his chin.
“This is you?” he asks, moving back so Steve can get on the bed.
Steve unzips his pants, pulls them off and rolls onto his stomach. “Yeah.”
There’s lips at the top of his spine, teeth, scraping down, down over his hips and then licking and sucking on the bone before biting, making Steve jump and rub himself into the blanket.
Allen drops a condom and lube down near Steve’s head and Steve’s wonders for a second about the lube and then figures that with the orgy in the front rooms, anything’s possible.
“So you,” Allen lays on Steve, hard and sharp, “get fucked,” he says, turning Steve’s head so he can kiss him lightly, “a lot?”
Which is a shitty thing to say and such a fucking cliché, and Steve tries to roll out from under Allen because it isn’t even true. But he can’t move, because Allen’s stronger than he is, and pinning his arms now, and that’s a little scary. Which is so alright with Steve that he has to hold himself still or he might come on the blanket.
“Don’t,” Allen says, lazy, drawling. “Stay put.”
“If I move?” Steve asks, arching up and back and clawing at the blanket.
“Mmm,” Allen says, moving, sitting up and bracing a knee in the middle of Steve’s back, right where it hurts, making Steve sob out loud and then bite his tongue to keep quiet.
He tastes blood and pain in the back of his throat and he lets the fear creep out of his belly and into his chest and down into his legs.
This is what he wants. How he wants it.
Who he wants. No, never mind. Steve shuts down and pretends this is casual. Pretends it doesn’t matter.
He hears the condom wrapper tear and then feels hands on the back of his thighs -- the knee is gone but he still can’t breathe and it feels like a rib is bruised. It’s hard to concentrate on the softer touches and the less intense sensations, now. Allen’s fingers trailing up, and then in. Two without warning, twisting and curling.
And that’s all he gets. After all this time, being a good husband and a good father and denying, denying, denying himself gets him --
Pulled back and up and onto to Allen’s cock, and Allen’s hand slapped hard over his mouth to stop him (is that him?) from wailing and swearing and snapping. Which is just wrong, because Steve used to have an iron fucking control that only Manu could crack, but even then he didn’t lose it like he is now -- skidding so close to the edge, slamming himself back onto Allen -- that he’s terrified that he can’t come back. That he won’t be able to pull himself back together and stitch up the cuts and be Steve Nash again for his family and his team.
Allen moves suddenly, breaking rhythm, thrusting one minute and then pushing Steve away the next. Steve falls face first into the blanket and then Allen manhandles him onto his back. Then he’s inside him that way, sitting up and pulling Steve’s legs over his thighs so Steve’s bowed back, uncomfortable and exposed. Allen’s looking down at him and so Steve can’t see his expression, but he imagines it’s like when he’s playing and everything’s clicking and no one’s telling him he has to give up the ball and no one’s telling him that he’s getting old -- wide eyed and intent.
“Melo,” Steve says, out of malice, trying to save himself (don’t look at me like that, he thinks) and sacrificing someone easy along the way, and Allen’s eyes snap up.
“Year ago,” Steve says, and runs one hand down his chest and stomach, stopping just short of his dick.
“Do it,” Allen says, bending forward a little and leaning on one arm. Then, smiling and dismissive, “Did Melo when he was still a kid.”
There’s no reason to believe Allen’s lying and Steve gives up and grabs himself, shutting his eyes before he can see Allen smile at him again.
It doesn’t surprise Steve at all that Allen pulls out and takes the condom off so that he can come on Steve’s chest. Steve comes in his hand a minute or two later, feeling hot and filthy and tired.
What does surprise Steve is that there’s a second time.
They shower separately; Allen goes first, leaving Steve to sit and dry in the frigid air coming out the vents now that Allen's bothered to turn the temperature down. But when Steve’s done and trying to get dressed, Allen stops him and turns him against the wall.
It’s slow this time, and Allen spends a lot of time touching Steve’s hips and stomach and thighs, digging fingers gently into sore, shaky muscles. He licks and bites softly at the flesh of Steve’s shoulders, leaving tiny, purple bruises behind.
Disoriented, upset, Steve just leaves his hands flat on the wall and listens to Allen talk between bites, mumbling about Melo and Denver and how his wife wants to go back to Virginia. Steve makes noises of agreement and tries to follow along as Allen flips backward to a party he was at last night and a pair of twins he met there, then to a nightclub he was at once in Miami (in DC, in Boston, in Hampton, in Philly) where someone got shot, but it wasn’t his fault, seriously.
“I think recycling is important,” Steve says, interrupting Allen’s flow, done with it now, mad at Allen again for being the guy he’s always been compared to (unspoken, implied, he’s the new image; the white image), and falls short of, in pure talent.
Mad because that shouldn’t excite him like it does, under the anger; and mad because he could get used to this (get used to Allen and his anger and his half-smile and his child’s eyes and his pure, volatile, energy), and that’s a lesson he’s learned the hard way over and over, with better men than Allen Iverson.
Laughing softly into Steve’s neck, Allen doesn’t move faster, just deeper and Steve folds his arms over so he can rest his head on them and groans.
Allen comes in him this time (after Steve, when Steve’s loose and drifting), flush with Steve’s body, pushing him into the wall.
Steve opens all the windows and the sunroof in the limo, spreading out on the seat so he can look up at the false dawn over the Strip. He smells alright now; a little like sex and a little like Allen’s cologne, but the breeze is off, heavy with chlorine (from all the fountains and the stupid pool with the stupid pirate ship) and decades of spilled booze, vomit and sweat. He’s hungry for crap food -- IHOP or Denny’s pancakes -- and so tired that his eyes burn when he blinks.
Underneath it all, though, is that spiky, itchy feeling he gets when he’s fucked up.
He flips open his phone (the battery’s almost dead) and scrolls through numbers until he finds one he wants and hits send.
Eddie answers on the second ring.
“Been drinking?” he asks, crunching on something.
It’s mild, but Steve can hear the tension.
“Briefly. Hasn’t he called?” He thinks about the standing invitation he has to get a tattoo tomorrow with Allen and Melo. “Or something pierced,” Allen had said, with the half-smile.
“Had phone sex last night,” Eddie says. “Kind of.”
Steve wonders about that for a minute and then says, “So. Uh -- “ he rubs at his left eye and switches ears. “How do you like, y’know, playing with AI?”
Eddie snorts and then chokes on whatever he’s eating, coughing loudly into Steve’s ear for a minute before saying, “Dunno. How do you like fucking around with him?”
Steve considers throwing up out of the limo window and then dismisses the idea. “What makes you think --”
“I know you,” Eddie says. “And I know him, a little. Enough.”
Silence. Melo, Steve thinks, and then tells the limo driver to circle the Strip again before taking him back to his hotel.
“How was it?” Eddie asks. “Hot?”
“Like,” Steve says. “Yeah. That.”
“It was a stupid thing to do.”
“Probably,” Eddie says, and Steve hears water running. “You’ll get over it though.”
“Mmm,” Steve nods to himself, noticing that Eddie didn’t say, “You’ll get over him.”
“I can see,” Eddie starts and then stops. “For you? I can see how he would be difficult.”
Why? Steve thinks. He’s been fucked by guys that were better looking. Maybe. And guys that were better in bed, definitely. But, okay, never -- not when he was a kid and not since he’s been the Model Athlete -- has he known someone with that kind of arrogance and rebelliousness on top of such deadly energy.
Steve flinches. “Something like that.”
“Think you’re in love?” Eddie’s definitely smirking.
“No.” Not exactly.
“Yeah. Don’t let it get to you,” Eddie says. “Or whatever. Look, I have to go. But don’t --” a car door slams. “Don’t see him again.”
“I won’t,” Steve says, and hopes that he’s not lying.
Dawn finally breaks on an ugly, smoggy Vegas morning and Steve drags himself out of the limo and up into the Wynn. He flips his phone open in the lobby and scrolls through the A’s, pausing on Allen before deleting it and then moving up one to Alejandra.
The battery dies before the call goes through.