My sincerest apologies for the delay. This chapter took a lot longer to bring to life than I had envisioned. Thank you for sticking with me and the story.
Disclaimer: This story contains graphic depictions of sex between males over the age of majority. All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to real people is coincidental. While I've aimed to avoid referencing real-life events or groups, please contact me if you believe I've missed something. This is copyrighted material that may not be copied or distributed without permission.
LEGO Ideas Red London Telephone Box
Back in our hotel room, I change into the bright red Front Range LUG shirt, pulling it over my head. The fabric sticks to my body for a second before I smooth it down. It isn’t exactly flattering, but compared to the CU Buffs shirt I’ve been living in, it feels like a costume change, like I’m officially part of something beyond collegiate.
Across the room, Peyton has already slipped into his new Nike gym shorts, the mint-green ones he picked out at the mall. They look even better on his slim legs than they did on the rack. He stretches his arms over his head like he’s loosening up before a baseball game, and for a moment, I forget I’m supposed to be latching the buckle on the belt of my cargo pants.
“You know,” he says, grinning as his eyes flick over me, “for someone who claims he barely leaves his dorm, you’ve actually got a decent build.”
My face heats instantly. Compliments aren’t something I know what to do with, especially not from Peyton. I just mutter a thank you and sit down at the desk, pretending to fuss with the Singapore set box as if it needs my urgent attention.
Peyton doesn’t let me hide behind the box for long. “Well? Let’s see what beginner’s luck bought you.” He leans on the table beside me and opens the tabs with one clean push.
“Hey, careful! I was going to save the box, those Architecture ones are worth something!” I protest.
“Relax, it’s not a collectible, it’s a build,” he shoots back with a smirk, already upending the first polybag onto the table. Tiny pieces clatter across the dark wood surface, some bouncing dangerously close to the edge before I catch them.
“Fine,” I sigh, flipping open the instructions. “But if we lose a part behind the dresser, that’s on you.”
“Guess I’ll just have to guard your pieces then,” Peyton says, sorting the pile into neat little clusters. He picks up a 1x2 black plate, holds it between his fingers, and slides it my way like he’s dealing cards. “Parts Runner. Every Master Builder needs one.”
I roll my eyes, but a grin forms anyway. “Parts Runner, huh? You’re hired. Unpaid internship, though.”
“Figures,” Peyton chuckles, already tearing into the next bag. For the next 45 minutes, we fall into an easy rhythm. He slides each part my way like a blackjack dealer, and I click them into place. It feels smooth, almost rehearsed, like we’ve been building together for years instead of just a day.
That’s when I notice the problem. “Wait a second,” I say, holding the instruction booklet closer and flipping to the inventory. “This page shows six black ray guns for the Marina Bay Sands towers. We’ve only got five.”
Peyton frowns and counts the buildings I’ve already placed. “You sure?”
I nod, checking the table, then the chair, then the polybag scraps. “One’s missing.”
“Guess that’s on me,” he mutters, already pushing the chair back. “Probably hit the carpet when I opened the bag.”
We both drop to our knees, raking our hands across the dark hotel carpet. It feels hopeless; the dark pattern hides stains along with anything black that’s dropped on it. Peyton stretches forward, crawling under the desk to check.
I should be helping, but my attention keeps drifting. The way his new mint-green gym shorts cling to him leaves little to the imagination, the soft fabric hugging tight over the curve of his butt every time he shifts. My face flushes, and I force myself to look back at the table, pretending to shuffle through polybags again on my knees.
“Nothing,” Peyton grunts from under the desk. “Either it’s gone for good or this carpet’s hiding it.”
I try running my hand along the bottom of the dresser, but my eyes keep drifting back to the way the mint green fabric stretches across his cheeks.
“Find it yet?” Peyton twists to glance at me, and I jerk my gaze away, heart pounding.
I clear my throat, still warm. “Nope… probably gone.”
He sits back on his heels and gives me an easy shrug. “Not the end of the world. Still looks good to me. We’ll just contact Customer Service for the piece when you get home.”
I sigh, but his support makes it easier to let it go. “Yeah. I guess the last tower can stay up without one ray gun for now.”
“Exactly,” he says, nudging the instruction booklet toward me. “C’mon, let’s finish this skyline before we starve.”
We complete it twenty minutes later, the Singapore skyline gleaming on the desk, one facade slightly loose, but still proud enough for display. Peyton snaps a photo on his phone, leaning in so I’m in the frame too. “Proof of our teamwork,” he says.
By the time we grab dinner at the Qdoba across the street, I’m too hungry to care that I’m wolfing down a burrito bowl while Peyton makes a mess of his quesadilla. It’s easy, almost normal, like we’re just two guys grabbing food at the UMC back on campus.
When we get back to the convention hall, the Friends and Family crowd has already started to fill in. I straighten the badge on my red LUG shirt, nerves building in my stomach. My parents and Hailey are waiting near the historical section; my mom is already craning her neck to find me.
“There he is!” she says, waving like I’ve just come home from a deployment instead of not seeing her for just one day. Dad gives a quieter nod, and Hailey raises one eyebrow like she’s caught me doing something suspicious just by existing.
“Hey,” I say, trying to play it cool. “Uh, this is Peyton. My roommate for the con.”
Peyton steps forward, extending his hand with the easy confidence he always seems to have. “Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Riddel.”
Mom’s handshake lingers maybe a second too long, and then she laughs in that way that always makes me nervous. “Chris must be hard to room with, always taking those long showers. I swear, the water bill doubles when he’s home.”
Warmth rushes to my face. I want to crawl under the table with my MOC. Peyton just smiles politely, but I can tell from the gleam in his eyes that he’ll be teasing me about that later.
Dad gives my diorama an approving once-over, leaning closer to the Tiger tank detail. “This is the one you’ve been working on for the past month?”
“Yeah,” I say, glad for the subject change. “It’s… uh, it’s based on Villers-Bocage. The Tiger versus the Firefly.”
Hailey folds her arms. “You weren’t kidding when you said you built a war scene.” She glances at Peyton, pretending to have just met him. “Guess you’re into this too?”
“More trucks and Technic stuff,” Peyton says smoothly, pointing back toward his section. “But Chris here? He’s got an eye for history. This thing’s incredible.”
For the first time all evening, my chest loosens. Hearing Peyton back me up in front of my family, like he’s already on my side, means more than I can explain.
To diffuse the awkwardness Mom left in the air, I suggest a personal tour around the show floor. “You guys want to see some of the big builds? There’s a Capitol model someone’s been working on for two years.”
They agree, so I lead the way, Peyton falling in beside me. The exhibition hall feels bigger than ever with impressed families filtering through, pointing, and taking photos.
We stop first at a sprawling castle diorama: turrets, drawbridges, even a tiny dragon tucked in a cave. Hailey crouches for a closer look, actually impressed for once. “Okay, that’s pretty cool.”
“Wait till you see the Capitol,” I say, steering us down the aisle.
The model of the Colorado State Capitol dominates its section. It’s massive, with a gold-domed roof glinting under the convention lights, and staircases lined with tiny minifigs posed like protesters. My dad gives a low whistle. “They built this out of LEGO?”
“About a hundred thousand pieces,” I explain, rattling off what Adam told me earlier about making up piece counts. “Even the dome’s plated with metallic gold bricks. It’s probably the biggest build at Brickspo.”
Mom snaps a picture of the dome while Hailey pretends not to be impressed, though she keeps pointing out little details like the minifigure of Governor Jared Polis holding up a Pride Flag. Peyton leans close and whispers, “Still think your Tiger diorama holds up.” I nearly melt right there.
Eventually, I lead them over to the Technic section where Peyton’s Tacoma sits lit up like a toy commercial, headlights glowing bright against the black draped table.
“Wow,” Dad says, bending down to examine the suspension. “That’s yours?”
Peyton nods proudly. “Yeah, I modeled it after my own back home.”
Dad gives a little snort. “Huh. And here I thought you were a Ford guy, Chris said you liked his Maverick.”
I freeze, waiting for Peyton’s reaction. He grins instead. “I like trucks, period. But my first ride was a hand-me-down Tacoma from my uncle. Still runs, so I figured I’d honor it in bricks.”
That seems to win Dad over. He claps Peyton on the shoulder. “Well, can’t argue with that. Reliability counts for something, even if it’s not a Ford.”
Mom laughs. Hailey mutters something about “truck talk” under her breath, but I catch the little smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
I guide them back toward a sprawling medieval market, a pirate ship battle, and then I stop us at the other end of the Technic table at a display I know my dad would genuinely love. It isn’t the biggest MOC, but it is a masterpiece of Technic functionality.
“Okay, this one’s for you,” I said, nodding toward a complex model of a black-and-yellow material handler. Its multiple arms frozen in mid-operation, and a control panel with tiny levers sits beside it.
“Whoa,” Dad says, leaning in. “Now that’s engineering.”
“It’s a Liebherr LH 30 M,” I say, the specs rolling off my tongue. “The boom can extend out to thirty meters. The guy who built it replicated the hydraulic system with pneumatic cylinders and a custom compressor hidden in the base. It’s basically a senior thesis in mechanical engineering.”
I catch Peyton staring at me, a slow grin spreading across his face. He isn’t looking at the model anymore.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he snorts, his voice half pretending. “Just didn’t know you knew about these big machines.” The way he says it feels like a compliment tucked inside a secret, and it sends a warm flush up my neck.
Hailey groans, “He doesn’t. He just memorizes the placards.”
“I’m a Mech E student, it’s basically my job to nerd out about this stuff,” I shoot back, my ears burning. I had, in fact, read the placard yesterday and been so fascinated I’d committed the details to memory. The new, appreciative look in Peyton’s eyes, like he’d just found another hidden layer, said he understood the difference. After a few more minutes of small talk, Mom announces they should look around on their own. “We don’t want to hover and embarrass you in front of your LEGO friends,” she teases, squeezing my arm.
“Thanks for showing us around, Chris,” Dad adds. He gives one last approving nod at the Liebherr before steering Mom and Hailey toward the mosaic section. Hailey glances back just long enough to give me a look I can’t quite read: half teasing, half curious, then disappears with them into the crowd.
The hall suddenly feels lighter without them in earshot. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding back. Peyton nudges me with his shoulder. “See? Not so bad. Your dad even let me off the hook for driving a Toyota.”
“Barely,” I mutter, but the corners of my mouth betray me with a smile.
As we’re laughing, Adam’s voice booms over the PA system: “Attention attendees, our Premier Speed Build will be starting in fifteen minutes in the Game Room! Competitors, please check in now!”
“That’s me,” Peyton says, straightening with a little spark in his eye. “You coming to cheer me on?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say, falling in step beside him as we head toward the Game Room. The buzz of the exhibition hall trails behind us, replaced by the rising chatter of spectators gathering to see who will add the champion brick to their badge.
The Game Room has been cleared and reset with two neat rows of tables, sixteen in all. At each spot: a sealed box of 21347 LEGO Ideas Red London Telephone Box and a name card for each contestant.
“Premier Speed Build,” Adam announces over the PA, clipboard in hand. “Remember: accuracy matters. Misplaced parts, skipped steps, or sloppy stickers? Every mistake is a time deduction. Build fast, but build clean. Judges will be meticulous.”
The competitors look laser-focused as they take their seats. Some wear matching LUG shirts, others just lean back with their arms crossed, their faces as expressionless as that minifigure head with a neutral smile. A few I recognize from the meet and greet, guys who admitted they’ve practiced for this at home until they can build it from memory, no instructions needed.
Peyton slides into his chair, stretching his fingers like an athlete warming up. He looks over once and catches my eye in the audience, flashing me the cockiest grin I’ve ever seen. I sit up straighter, pulse racing.
At the signal, the room erupts in the tearing of cardboard and plastic. Peyton slices open the box with a fingernail, dumps his first polybag onto the table, and cracks the instructions, but not everyone does. Two competitors down the row toss the booklet aside, already building from memory, their hands blurring as they stack red bricks into the familiar booth shape.
I bite my lip. Peyton has speed, but these guys are on another level.
Still, he works clean. Every part is snapped with precision, every bag ripped open and dumped carefully on the table just enough to keep the chaos contained. He isn’t the fastest, but he isn’t falling behind either. I find myself leaning forward with the crowd, holding my breath as his booth walls climb taller.
My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs and I find myself not just watching Peyton, but studying the other builders, my own nerves fraying on his behalf. The guy two tables down, Oliver from one of the Utah LUGs, works like a machine. His hands a blur, building entire wall sections without a single glance at the instructions. My stomach tightens. How could anyone compete with that?
But then I look back at Peyton. His focus is absolute. Methodical. Where Oliver is a hurricane of motion, Peyton is a steady, relentless tide. He’d scan a page, his eyes flicking down to the sorted parts, and his hands would move with an efficient certainty.
A judge pauses behind Oliver, making a note on his clipboard. Too fast sometimes meant messy. Peyton, meanwhile, snaps a clear windshield into place with a satisfying click that I can almost hear over the noise. He doesn’t look up, but his shoulders are set with a confidence that slowly seeps into me, calming my own frantic pulse. He isn’t just building a phone booth; he was building his way, and it was a thing of beauty to watch.
By the time stickers come out, the tension in the room is palpable. One competitor slaps a panel decal down crooked and immediately tries to peel it off, only to tear it in half. A judge descends instantly, marking a deduction on a note stuck to his table. Groans ripple through the audience.
Peyton, steady as ever, presses each sticker carefully, lining them up against the printed edges. His tongue pokes out just a little as he focuses, and I laugh silently to myself. This is my Peyton, taking it seriously, but still himself.
The final stretch comes down to three competitors, landscaping nearly complete in front of them. One builder slams the street lamp down first, arms raised in victory, albeit too soon. Judges swarm and point out he’s mixed up the leaf colors on the plant, adding multiple thirty-second deductions for each instance.
Peyton places his hanging basket with a clean snap, checks the booklet, then drops his hands and sits back just behind the leader. Seconds later, the third finisher completes his build.
The judges huddle for a few minutes, cross-checking the results. Adam returns to the mic when they appear to be ready.
“In first place, with a flawless run… Oliver from Happy Valley LUG.” Cheers erupt.
“In second place, just seconds behind, but with minor sticker penalties, Josh from Sin City Brick Collective!”
“And in third place, representing SEATAC LUG with a clean and accurate build… Peyton!”
The room cheers, and I’m on my feet before I realize it, clapping until my palms sting. Peyton gives a small bow before collecting the commemorative 3rd place brick to snap onto his badge. When he spots me, he lifts it in salute, grinning widely.
I can’t stop myself. I push through the edge of the crowd and pull Peyton into a hug. His shirt is damp with sweat from the build, but I don’t care. “You killed it,” I mutter against his shoulder.
“Third place,” he says with a laugh, squeezing me back. “Not bad for no Technic.”
My ears tingle, Peyton, of course, just grins even wider, like the hug has been the real prize all along.
For a moment, the noise of the Game Room fades. It’s just me and him, the warmth of his arms still clinging to me, and I know I’ll never look at Brickspo or him the same way again.
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