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Klay hates it when Steph’s drunk. It's alright when they’re in public, partying with the team. They compete at the pinnacle of basketball, pushing themselves to the absolute limit, knowing that hundreds of thousands of endlessly hungry eyes are searching for more. Fans want mind-blowing plays, crazier shots, bigger dunks—their hunger is ceaseless, and feeding them only makes them yearn for more. So when players let loose, they let loose. Klay didn’t have a problem with that.
The problem was situations like now. Klay, on the wrong side of sober, and Steph, on the right side of drunk, both sprawled out on Klay’s couch playing 2k. They both suck at it, skill levels impeded proportional to the amount of alcohol they drank, but whatever advantage Klay had by being slightly less tipsy was negated by the distracting warmth of Steph’s thigh pressing against his own.
“WOO HOOO” shouted Steph as he beat Klay for the second time in a row. 121 to 103, an utter defeat that Klay would have cared about if Steph hadn’t immediately pressed himself against Klay’s side and tucked his head into the crook of Klay’s neck. Klay could feel the heat rising to his face with every warm breath Steph huffed against his skin. “I think that makes it 2-0.”
“Alright, I think you’re sufficiently drunk, man. Let's go; I’ll drive you home.” Klay was absolutely not sober enough to drive, but he’d take that risk over a drunk and handsy Steph Curry in his home. Klay was a good man; he wasn’t going to sleep with an intoxicated loving husband and father of two. He sets the controllers on the snack-dust-covered coffee table, pushing aside the empty beer cans and shot glasses.
“Aww, kicking me out already?” Whines Steph, still plastered to Klay’s side. Every word causes Steph’s stubble to scrape against Klay’s soft skin, and he has to suppress a full-body shudder. Klay hauls Steph up by his underarms, steadying him against his chest before slinging one of Steph’s arms over his shoulder and dragging him towards the door.
To Steph’s credit, he doesn’t pull Klay in for a kiss until they’re in the doorway. It was the furthest thing from chaste with far too much tongue and teeth. And between the deafening beat of his heart and the lewd noises of tongue on tongue, Klay barely even notices Steph’s hands straying south—reaching.
To Klay’s credit, he only kisses back for a moment before gently cupping Steph’s jaw and pushing him away. He slips on his slides and grabs his car keys.
“Let’s go, Steph,” he says hoarsely. Steph stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and full of incomprehensible emotions, before straightening up. There’s no verbal response, but Klay knows they’re both ready to go.
…
Steph won’t meet Klay’s eyes during practice the next day, but Klay’s okay with that. There’s nothing else to be expected. Klay knows that everything will be back to normal tomorrow because tomorrow is Sunday, and God will always be able to fix what Klay cannot.
…
They’re on Klay’s boat, floating in the middle of the bay. It’s cloudy today, and the wind blows straight through Klay’s puffer jacket, chilling him to the bone. He doesn’t mind it, though. Something about the bitter wind makes him feel more alive. He turns around at the sound of footsteps, smiling when he sees Steph walking out of the cabin, holding two steaming cups–hot chocolate no doubt. Cradling the cup gently between his half-frozen fingers, Klay takes a careful sip, skimming only from the top so as not to burn himself.
“Doesn’t matter how many years I’ve been in the bay, somehow I'm always surprised at how cold summer can be.” They don’t talk about it, but Klay thinks bringing up the weather is going too far in the other direction. It makes them sound domestic.
“I think it’s nice.”
“Of course you hate the sun.” Klay would make an affronted noise if he wasn’t weary of spilling the content of his mug.
“I like the sun. I just think the clouds are cool; they make me feel more connected to the earth. They’re like a reminder that sometimes you just need to focus on what’s within reach.”
Steph barks out a laugh, light and lingering, like the clouds overhead. “What the hell is this? Poetry hour?” Klay kicks him in the shin in mock offense.
“Come on man, you’re the one who mentioned the weather of all things.”hk０ごr８
“Cause it’s cold.” Klay lets out a laugh, but it dies out quickly.
“I feel like we’ve had this exact conversation before.” He’s almost sure of it. Them sitting on the deck of the boat with the overcast sky kicking up bone chilling winds just talking about the weather, it strikes Klay with intense deja vu. Steph just hums nonchalantly.
“We do talk to each other a lot; at some point we’re gonna run out of things to talk about.” It’s probably true; at this point, Klay could carry out whole conversations with himself just by predicting what Steph would say.
But also, “we haven’t talked about everything.” A thick stillness settles around them, even with the wild gusts of wind rolling around them. They don’t talk about it, for good reason, but Klay can’t help himself. The desperate need to know, to understand Steph, is clawing at his insides. A greedy beast hungering for more. The silence is deafening, but Klay can’t break it. Bringing up such a taboo topic on a nice day is terrible enough of him; Klay won’t force Steph to talk about it.
“You know I’m not–” Steph trails off. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I mean, it’s fine if you are.” Steph’s hazel eyes are focused somewhere over Klay’s left shoulder, and there’s an awkward, slightly confrontational edge to his voice. “But I’m not.”
Klay’s heart beats faster and faster in an attempt to tear itself apart. It would hurt less, he thinks. His voice is strained and dry when he finally speaks. “You can say gay, Steph.” He doesn’t mention that it’s not a sin. Steph doesn’t need to hear it from him, doesn’t deserve to hear it from him.
“Ok”
“Ok”
It’s the last time Klay ever mentions it again.
…
They annihilate the Hornets on Monday. At the after-party, hosted at some bar somewhere, Steph’s high on victory, and Klay’s high on something more, so Klay really shouldn’t be surprised to find himself sitting in the passenger's seat of Steph's car, on their way to his house. Klay’s house, that is. At some point between Iggy bringing over a tray of the most rancid liquor known to man and Jordan ordering a massive radioactive blue cocktail, Klay had lost his joint. He considers himself lucky that the shiny salty skin of Steph’s neck is an apt substitute.
Steph lets out a whine, “Come on Klay.” Klay bites hard, sliding further down Steph’s neck. Steph weaves his right hand through Klay’s short curls, clutching the steering wheel with his left. “Klay, I got to drive.” Klay didn’t think he was that distracting; he told Steph as such.
“5 minutes.” Klay stops for a moment, pressing his head up against Steph’s neck in a movement just shy of a headbutt. “We’re almost there,” replies Steph reassuringly.
Steph pulls into the driveway, slotting his car between the overgrown orange tree and the sidewall of the house with practiced ease.
The minute Klay spends trying to slide his key into the front door is surprisingly sobering—or maybe it was the fact that he had been using the wrong key the whole time. Regardless, by the time he has Steph in his bed, clawing aggressively at his shorts, Klay has remembered that Steph was a married man. The realization jolts through him like a bucket of ice water.
By God, Klay is going to go to hell.
Klay looks down at Steph—eyes wide and face flushed—and he can’t do it. Klay is going to hell, that much he can live with. Hell, he’s been living with it for the past half-decade. But there’s no way Klay is going to take Steph with him.
“We gotta stop. Steph,” Klay speaks so softly he nearly chokes on the first syllable. “You know we can’t do this.”
For an impossible moment, everything is still, and then Steph nods. It’s just a short jerk of his head, but Klay can feel himself unwinding. They’ve never gone further than this, and Klay’s keeping it that way.
…
Ayesha Curry has presence. When she dances and spins, the world follows suit; The locker room sways and nods to her eternal gleeful laughter. Bursts of champagne fly in scattered streams, leaving bubbling streaks on the camera lens. Even without the audio, Klay can make out the “I love you” Steph is whispering into Ayesha’s mouth.
Right before Steph walks back in, the screensaver switches to a picture of Klay standing knee-deep in the bay, giving Steph an unenthusiastic thumbs up. The water was bone chilling as per usual, but Steph had insisted on a beach day.
“Alright, so what are we watching?”
Klay probably needs to make it clear that Ayesha knows. Or at least Ayesha knows as much as Klay does, because she’s seen Steph drunk around him, and that in of itself is telling. He wonders what it's like—to be married to Steph Curry. He wonders if Steph’s a thoughtful lover, a brash lover, or a passionate lover. He wonders if Ayesha ever really knew.
“Whatever you want.”
…
“I divorced Ayesha.”
Klay’s mug releases a screeching cry as it slams into his brick patio.
“What?”
Klay feels faint. He feels dizzy. He feels like he woke up on the wrong side of the universe, like there was some great cosmic reboot that he never got notice of. There’s a pool of dread growing in his stomach, and Steph’s standing there—wide-eyed and pink-lipped in the soft glow of Klay’s home lights—looking like pure sin.
“I said. I divorced Ayesha.” Steph’s voice is firm, resolute. The faint feeling ringing through Klay’s body increases till his heart is beating like a war drum. Dun. Dun. Dun.
“Why?” It’s all Klay can bring himself to ask. Why why why why why? How could Steph leave it all behind: his wife, his children, his family? What could have possibly been worth it to give up everything? Klay’s not sure what answer he expected, but he can’t say he’s unsurprised by Steph’s lips on his. The kiss is soft, sweet, and short; Steph bites just quick enough to make Klay’s mouth tingle before drawing back.
He whispers one word into the narrow space between them, and then he’s gone, dragging Klay by the wrist up the twisting staircase and into his bedroom. Steph shoves Klay onto the bed before straddling him, and Klay can’t think. All he feels is want, deep and carnal
Steph gently presses his lips against Klay’s, and Klay breaks. “I can’t, Steph.” The tremor in his voice spreads until his whole body’s shaking. “I don’t know.” Above him, Steph’s eyes furrow in understanding, and Klay wants to push him and throw him so he can find out what they are, what he is. Klay needs to understand what the hell has been playing out between them for the past years, what the hell he’s been chasing. Klay doesn’t understand why, when Steph’s on top of him splayed open and endless like clear skies, he can’t touch him. He can’t even look at him.
Klay can’t free his hands from Steph's waist even as his heart crumples like a can being kicked down the road. “Please,” Klay pulls Steph into his trembling arms. “Please just stay.”
Steph doesn’t say anything back, just presses himself up against Klay’s bare chest, breathing softly in the moonlit room.
For the longest time, Klay thought he was Adam, trapped in the garden of Eden, finger curled around ripe red fruit that wasn’t his to touch—wasn’t his to taste. But lying here, next to God’s perfect creation, he feels like the serpent: a creature born of evil, destined for decite. It’s a chilling realization. Klay never thought he was good, but now he knows it for certain.
…
The sheets around him are cold when he wakes up. He can’t bring himself to care. Instead, Klay curls himself around the whirlpool of emotions churning in his chest and closes his eyes. In the meager shelter of darkness provided by his eyelids, Klay Thompson only exists in the warmth of his blankets; he is untouchable. He wonders if this is how Steph feels when he confides in God. As if he’s anchored in a world so clearly defined he doesn’t even need to see it—there’s no fear that when he closes his eyes, it will all disappear.
Oh, right, it’s Sunday, so Steph’s probably at church right now. The idea eases something in Klay’s heart. Being abandoned for the big man himself makes the hard pill of loneliness easier to swallow because at least Klay can pretend that it wasn’t personal. It’s foolish, but it allows him the strength to get out of bed. The wood floors are ice cold on chilly winter mornings, even in the bay, and Klay shivers slightly as he makes his way to the kitchen. He was pondering the concept of an Irish coffee to kickstart his miserable morning when he caught sight of an apronned figure–undeniably Steph–whisking eggs over his counter.
“Steph?” The Irish coffee wasn’t going to be necessary. Klay was already seeing things. “Don’t you have church right now? It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”
Steph raises his head to look at Klay. His eyes are glistening, red rimmed as if he’d been crying. “Couldn’t just leave you here alone.” There's a guilty waiver to his voice: Steph knows the irony of his statement.
“But-” Klay can’t believe it. “You go to God after,” he trails off. Steph laughs, bittersweet and self deprecating as if he was confessing to something he himself couldn’t believe he’d done.
“I wasn’t following God, Klay.” Steph’s voice curls around the syllable with desperation. “I was running away from you.” Klay is well and truly lost now.
“What the fuck does that mean,” Steph gives his pancake batter a long hard stare before answering.
“It means that I was a fool who didn’t know how to take what was right in front of him.” Klay wants to scream, or cry, or maybe both.
“What is this, Steph?” They don’t talk about it. Until now, that is. “Why’d you divorce Ayesha? You’re suppose–you’re supposed–you–you had it, everything.” Klay’s voice is cracking, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Why?” Klay knows the answer, but he needs to hear it; he needs to know if he’s dragged Steph down with him or if—dare he hope— he was never destined for hell in the first place. Steph’s brow furrows at the accusation before softening.
“Oh, Klay. It wasn’t everything because it didn’t have you.” Steph’s words are cheesy—the kind of thing Klay would make fun of him for—and Klay doesn’t understand how Steph can bear to pour his whole heart into his words. “I know I haven’t been good at acknowledging it, and we never tal–I never wanted to talk about it, but–”
“What are we, Steph?” Klay knows what Steph is to him, knew the moment the media dubbed them the splash brothers. The nickname wasn’t special, and dynamic duos weren’t special, but it marked Klay and Steph as Klay and Steph. On the court, Klay was one of five, but Steph made him infinite; Steph was everything. And off the court? Standing in Klay’s kitchen, deep blue apron wrapped loosely around his waist and bowl of clumpy neglected batter in his hands, Steph looks like he belongs .
“I love you.” Steph doesn’t whisper. He speaks bold and daring words as if admitting it to himself as much as Klay. “I’ve loved you for a long time, even though I didn’t know it then. There’s probably a lot we need to talk about, but yeah,
It’s too much. The confession, the confirmation, the strangling relief of reciprocation. Klay’s head’s a mess, but somehow, his heart manages to seize control of his mouth just long enough to spit out a choked up “I love you too.”
And really, there wasn’t anything else to say.