Season 1, Episode 2
What The Fuck Was That?
Paul woke with a gasp. His body jerking as if from a fall. For a blissful, disoriented second, he didn't know where he was. Then the memories of the previous night flooded in, a tidal wave of heat and shame. Luke’s weight on top of him. The grinding pressure. The desperate, lonely climax that followed.
He looked down. The evidence of his release was a sticky patch on the front of his black jockstrap and a faint smear on his stomach. His skin felt clammy. And clutched in his hand, tangled in his bedsheets, were Luke’s black compression shorts. His smell still clung to the fabric.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of sleep. He could hear the slow, deep rhythm of Luke’s breathing from the other side of the room. He was still asleep. Thank god.
Moving with the stealth of a thief, Paul slid out of bed. The floor was cold against his bare feet. He quickly bundled the incriminating shorts and shoved them deep into his own laundry hamper, burying them beneath a pile of his own dirty clothes as if hiding a murder weapon. He grabbed a clean towel and practically ran to the bathroom, scrubbing his stomach raw under the hot water, trying to wash away not just the physical evidence, but the lingering feeling of what he’d done.
When he returned to the room, wrapped in a towel, Luke was stirring. He watched, frozen by the door, as Luke’s massive frame stretched, muscles flexing under his skin. Luke groaned, a low, sleepy sound that usually made Paul smile. Today, it sent a jolt of anxiety through him. Luke sat up, running a hand through his messy brown hair, his back to Paul.
The silence in the room was a physical entity. Usually, their mornings were a comfortable chaos of insults, bad jokes, and arguments over who got the shower first. Now, the quiet was louder than any argument could ever be.
“Morning.” Luke mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. He didn’t turn around.
“Morning.” Paul replied, his own voice tight.
Luke stood up and pulled on a pair of sweats. He still hadn't looked at Paul. He moved around the small space with a stiff, deliberate quality, as if he were consciously navigating a minefield. He opened his dresser drawer with more force than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
“I’m gonna… uh… hit the shower.” Luke said, grabbing his toiletries bag.
“Yeah, cool, man.” Paul said to the floor.
This was agony. Paul got dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, his back turned to the door as if that could shield him. He could feel Luke’s presence, his heat, his confusion. It radiated off him in waves.
When Luke came back from the bathroom, his hair wet and a fresh towel slung low around his hips, Paul was pretending to be engrossed in his phone. Water dripped from Luke’s hair onto his broad, tanned shoulders, tracing paths down his thick pecs and sculpted abs. Paul’s eyes flickered up for a split second, and his gut clenched with a familiar, painful ache of desire. He hated how beautiful his friend was. He hated how much he wanted him.
Luke moved to his closet, which was right next to Paul’s bed. To get past, he had to squeeze through the narrow gap. Paul didn’t move. He kept his eyes glued to his phone, his whole body tensing as Luke approached.
He felt the heat of Luke’s body before the touch. Then, it happened. The soft, damp skin of Luke’s bare arm brushed against Paul’s shoulder.
It was nothing. A fleeting, accidental contact. But it felt like a brand.
Both of them flinched as if they’d been shocked. Paul’s head snapped up, and his eyes met Luke’s for the first time that morning.
The panic was still there in Luke’s dark eyes, but underneath it was something else. A deep, resonant confusion. A flicker of the same heat from the night before. It was a silent, frantic conversation that lasted only a second. I felt that. Did you feel that? What the fuck is happening to us?
Luke looked away first, his jaw tight. He muttered a quick, “S-sorry, man.” and practically lunged for his closet, pulling out a shirt and yanking it on.
Paul’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. The brief touch had confirmed it. The electricity wasn’t just in his head. It was real, and it flowed both ways.
Luke finished dressing in a tense silence, then grabbed his backpack. “Got class.” he said to the room at large. “Catch you later.”
And then he was gone.
Paul was left alone in the suffocating quiet of their room once more. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his body slumping in relief and despair. He dropped his phone onto the bed and buried his face in his hands.
He had thought his biggest fear was that Luke hadn’t felt anything. He was wrong. His biggest fear was that Luke had. And judging by the look of sheer, panicked turmoil on his best friend’s face, he had felt every single volt.
The cafeteria at lunchtime was a theater of social warfare, and Paul felt like he’d been cast in a tragedy. He sat at their usual table, a fortress of jocks and their admirers, but felt completely isolated. He was pushing mashed potatoes around his plate with a fork, the food tasteless in his mouth.
Luke was holding court, but it was different today. There was a frantic, manic energy to him, a desperate need to be the loudest, funniest guy at the table. He was performing and the lead role was "Perfectly Normal Straight Jock Who Definitely Did Not Have a Confusingly Homoerotic Moment With His Best Friend."
And Pamela was his co-star.
She was pressed against Luke’s side and he had his arm draped around her and his hand possessively on her shoulder. But it wasn't their usual comfortable affection. It was a display. Every gesture was amplified, every touch a statement. He laughed too loudly at her jokes, kissed her temple with exaggerated tenderness, and called her "babe" in every sentence. It was a public service announcement of his heterosexuality.
Paul felt each gesture like a physical blow. He kept his eyes down, focusing on the lumpy potatoes, but he could feel the performance unfolding beside him. He could feel the eyes of their friends glancing between him and Luke, sensing the strange, discordant energy that had replaced their usual seamless harmony.
“So, I was thinking…” Pamela said, her voice bright and clear, cutting through the general chatter. “After the game Saturday, the team is throwing that massive party at the Sigma Nu house, right?”
“Biggest party of the semester!” one of the linebackers boomed. “It’s gonna be epic!”
“Well...” Pamela continued, looking up at Luke with a dazzling smile. “I was thinking we could have a little pre-party celebration. Just us. Back in your room.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough for Paul to hear clearly. “I bought something new. Something pink… and see-through.”
A chorus of hoots and catcalls erupted from the guys at the table. “Damn, Luke, you lucky bastard!” someone shouted.
Luke forced a cocky grin. “What can I say? The lady knows how to treat her MVP.” He leaned down and gave Pamela a long, deep kiss, right there in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. It wasn’t a sweet peck: it was a hungry, open-mouthed claim. His hand sliding from her shoulder down to the small of her back, pulling her flush against his massive chest.
The table cheered them on. And Paul felt like he was going to be sick.
When the kiss finally broke, Luke was breathing heavily. He looked flushed and triumphant, but when his eyes met Paul’s over Pamela’s blonde head, the mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Paul saw it again, that flicker of raw panic, a silent, desperate plea. ‘See? See how straight I am? This is me. This is normal.’
Paul couldn't take it anymore. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The conversation at the table faltered.
“Where you going, Paul?” a teammate asked.
“Library!” Paul lied, his voice flat. “Got a paper to finish.” He didn’t look at Luke. He couldn't. “Catch you guys later.”
He grabbed his tray and walked away. Most of all, he felt Luke’s gaze, a burning, intense heat that followed him all the way to the tray return.
He dumped his uneaten food into the trash with a clatter and practically fled the cafeteria, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't go to the library. He walked aimlessly across the quad, the cool autumn air doing nothing to quell the fire in his gut.
The performance had been a masterpiece of denial. But Paul knew the truth. You don't try that hard to prove something unless you're terrified it isn't true. And the harder Luke performed, the more painfully obvious it became that the tackle on the bed had broken something inside him, too.
The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the campus and painting their room in hues of orange and deep purple. The tense energy from lunch had dissipated, leaving behind a hollow, lonely ache in Paul’s chest. He was at his desk, staring at his chessboard, but the pieces were just meaningless shapes of wood and plastic. He couldn't focus. He couldn't strategize. His king was exposed, and he had no idea how to protect it.
He heard the key in the lock and his entire body tensed, bracing for another round of suffocating silence or forced nonchalance. The door opened and Luke entered, but not with his usual explosive energy. He was quiet. He closed the door softly behind him and leaned against it for a moment, his head down. He was favoring his right leg, putting as little weight on it as possible.
Paul’s internal turmoil was instantly replaced by a sharp, overriding wave of concern. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice cutting through the quiet room.
Luke looked up, startled, as if he hadn't realized Paul was there. “It’s nothing.” he said, his voice strained. He tried to walk normally toward his bed, but the limp was pronounced, and a wince of pain flashed across his face. “I Just tweaked it in the weight room.”
“Bullshit!” Paul said, standing up and walking over to him. The awkwardness of the morning was forgotten, replaced by the familiar, instinctual need to take care of his friend. “Let me see.”
“Paul, I’m fine!” Luke insisted, but there was no force behind his words. He looked exhausted, his broad shoulders slumped in defeat.
Paul ignored him. “Sit down.” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Luke hesitated for a second, then sighed and collapsed onto the edge of his bed, the mattress groaning under his weight. Paul knelt on the floor in front of him, his movements sure and practiced. This was familiar territory: minor sprains, bruises, the general wear and tear of two athletic bodies. But this time, it felt different. Kneeling before Luke, the position felt strangely intimate, an act of supplication.
He gently took Luke’s right foot in his hands. The skin was warm. He carefully pushed up the leg of Luke’s sweatpants. The ankle was already puffy and discolored, an angry purple-blue blooming just below the bone.
“Jesus, Luke...” Paul breathed, his fingers prodding softly around the swollen area. “This isn’t a ‘tweak.’ You rolled it bad.”
Luke hissed in pain as Paul’s thumb found a particularly tender spot. He instinctively reached out and put a hand on Paul’s shoulder to steady himself, his fingers gripping the fabric of Paul’s hoodie. The contact was firm, necessary. Grounding.
“I know.” Luke admitted, his voice quiet and rough. He was looking down at the top of Paul’s head, at his curly brown hair. “Pushed it too hard today. On the leg press. Just… trying to… I don’t know. Blow off steam.”
Paul stopped prodding, his hands resting gently on Luke’s ankle and calf. He didn't need to ask what Luke was trying to blow off. He knew. The frantic energy, the performance at lunch, the reckless workout… it was all a reaction. A desperate attempt to exorcise the demon that had been unleashed between them on this very bed.
Looking at his friend now (vulnerable, hurting, the cocky armor stripped away to reveal the confused man underneath) Paul’s anger and jealousy melted away, replaced by a wave of profound empathy. He was in this too.
He looked up, his blue eyes meeting Luke’s dark, troubled ones. The space between them was no longer a minefield. It was just the few feet that separated two people who knew each other better than anyone else in the world.
“We’re okay, you know...” Paul said softly.
The words hung in the air. He meant the ankle. But he also meant them. He meant ‘I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out.’
Luke understood. A flicker of relief, so powerful it was almost heartbreaking, passed over his face. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his grip on Paul’s shoulder softened from a desperate clutch to a simple, resting touch.
“Yeah?” Luke asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah!” Paul confirmed, giving his ankle a soft, reassuring squeeze. “But you’re an idiot. You need to ice this. Now.”
A ghost of a smile touched Luke’s lips, the first genuine one Paul had seen all day. The old comfort, their easy rhythm, began to seep back into the room, filling the cracks in the silence.
“Yes, sir.” Luke murmured.
Paul stood up and went to their mini-fridge, pulling out the ice pack they kept for exactly these occasions. As he wrapped it in a thin towel, he felt Luke’s eyes on him, watching his every move. When he turned around, Luke was still looking at him with an expression of raw, unguarded emotion. The silence had returned, but it was a different kind now. It wasn't empty or awkward. It was full. It was the quiet of two people who had just navigated back from the brink, who had found a moment of truce in the middle of a war they didn't know how to fight.
Paul knelt again and carefully wrapped the ice pack around Luke’s swollen ankle. Their hands brushed. Their eyes met again. The heat, the charge, the undeniable pull—it was still there, a low hum beneath the surface of the quiet care. But it wasn't panicked anymore. It was just… a fact.
Luke’s hand was still resting on his shoulder. It felt heavy, warm, and right.
“Thanks, Paulie.” Luke said, his voice low and sincere.
And in those two words, Paul heard everything: an apology, a truce and a quiet acknowledgment that no matter how complicated things got, their bond was the one thing that was still solid.
At least, for now.
His phone vibrated, and he immediately turned his full attention to whatever was on the screen. Paul could tell something wasn't good, as his relaxed face completely transformed into anger.
“I can’t fucking settle down, man!” Luke said suddenly, throwing his phone onto his comforter with a sigh of frustration. “My dad is flying in tomorrow morning. All he’s been talking about for weeks is this game.”
“He’s just proud of you.” Paul said, swiveling in his chair to face him. “You’re his hero.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a lot of pressure, being someone’s hero.” Luke muttered. He pushed himself up. “I need something to take the edge off. You want a beer?”
Paul hesitated. Alcohol felt like a dangerous variable to introduce into their volatile equation. But he saw the raw stress etched on Luke’s face, the desperate need for a release, and his own role as Luke's anchor kicked in. “Yeah, sounds good.”
Luke limped to the mini-fridge and pulled out two ice-cold beers, tossing one to Paul. The familiar hiss as they opened the cans was a comforting, normal sound in the tense quiet. They drank in silence for a few minutes, the cold, bitter liquid a welcome distraction.
The first beer worked its magic, sanding the sharp edges off their anxiety. They started talking strategy, Paul breaking down the Ravens’ defensive patterns he’d noticed, Luke mapping out plays with his hands in the air. It felt like old times. It felt safe.
By the time they were halfway through their second beer, the conversation had drifted back into more personal territory. The alcohol had lowered Luke’s defenses, and the vulnerability from earlier returned, amplified.
“It’s just… sometimes I feel like I’m playing a part, you know?” Luke said, his voice low and thoughtful. He stared at his beer can, tracing the condensation with his thumb. “The big, tough football star. The guy who has it all figured out. But most of the time… I’m just faking it. Waiting for someone to call me out.”
Paul’s chest tightened. “No one’s gonna call you out, Luke. Because it’s not a part. It’s who you are. You’re the most driven, loyal guy I know.”
Luke finally looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Paul’s. The playful affection was gone, replaced by an unnerving, soul-deep intensity. The beer had made his gaze heavy, unguarded.
“Am I?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. He took a long swallow of beer, his throat working.
“You know...” Luke began, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a conspiratorial rumble that made the hair on Paul’s arms stand up. “The other night…”
Paul’s heart stopped. He froze, his beer can halfway to his lips. Every muscle in his body went rigid. ‘Don’t. Please don’t.’
Luke faltered, looking away for a second before his gaze snapped back to Paul’s, resolute. He was going there. “When we were… on your bed…” he said, the words careful, deliberate. “‘The wrestling’.”
Paul couldn’t breathe. This was it. The moment he had been dreading and, on some dark, secret level, craving.
Luke leaned forward slightly, his massive frame seeming to suck all the air out of the room. His eyes were wide, searching, and filled with a profound, desperate confusion.
“What… what the fuck was that, man?”
The question was a detonation. It wasn't an accusation. It wasn't a joke. It was a raw, honest plea for an explanation, for an answer he couldn't find himself. He was laying the truth at Paul’s feet, naked and terrifying, and asking him to name it. In that moment, he was trusting Paul with the most fragile part of himself.
Paul’s mind raced, a thousand possible answers colliding in his head. He could lie, laugh it off, pretend he didn’t know what Luke was talking about. Or he could tell the truth. He could say: ‘It was me wanting you so badly I couldn’t breathe. It was you getting hard against me. It was us.’ The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue, a matchstick ready to ignite their entire world.
He opened his mouth to speak, to say… something.
And the terror crashed down on Luke.
The reality of what he’d just asked, the implications of any possible answer, hit him like a physical blow. He saw the look on Paul’s face (the shock, the fear, the dawning, terrible honesty) and he panicked.
A harsh, ugly laugh burst from Luke’s lips, a sound completely alien to his usual warm chuckle. “Fuck, man, forget it!” he said, shaking his head and standing up abruptly, nearly stumbling on his bad ankle. He started pacing the small space, a caged animal. “The beer’s making me talk shit. I’m just stressed about the game. It was nothing. Just stupid roughhousing, that’s all.”
He wouldn’t look at Paul. He was talking to the walls, to the floor, to himself.
“It was nothing!” he repeated, more forcefully this time, as if saying it would make it true.
But the door had been opened. The question had been asked. And his frantic, desperate denial was more damning than any confession could ever be.
Luke finally stopped pacing and grabbed his jacket. “I gotta get out of here.” he said, his voice strained. “I’m gonna go find Pamela.”
He limped out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving Paul alone in the deafening silence, the half-spoken truth echoing in his ears.
Paul didn’t move for a long time after the door slammed shut. He sat in the pool of light from his desk lamp, the rest of the room shrouded in shadow, and felt the silence press in on him. It wasn’t empty anymore. It was filled with the ghost of Luke’s question: ‘What the fuck was that?’
The lie, “It was nothing”, echoed in the quiet. It was the most dishonest thing Luke had ever said to him, and it hurt more than any physical blow. Paul took a long, slow swallow of his now-warm beer, the taste bitter on his tongue. He felt a cold, hard knot of anger forming in his chest, displacing the hurt and confusion. Fine. If Luke wanted to pretend it was nothing, then Paul could play that game too.
An hour later, the door burst open again. This time, Luke wasn't alone.
He filled the doorway, Pamela tucked under his arm. He was a different person from the man who had fled the room. His face was flushed, his eyes overly bright. He smelled of beer and a desperate, forced joviality. He’d clearly gone straight to an early party or a bar and started drinking, hard. He was wearing his game face, the impenetrable mask of the party-loving jock.
“Paulie!” he boomed, his voice too loud for the small room. “There you are, you hermit! We’re heading to the Sig Nu house! The whole campus is gonna be there. It’s a fucking warzone of victory! You coming?”
He was looking at Paul, but his eyes kept darting away, unable to hold his gaze. He was performing again.
Pamela, looking radiant and oblivious in a tight black dress, beamed at him. “You have to come, Paul! We can’t celebrate the win without Luke’s other half!”
The innocent words were like a knife twisting in Paul’s gut. Other half. He looked at them, standing there together: the perfect college couple, the king and queen of the campus. Luke’s arm was wrapped so tightly around her waist it was almost a clench, holding on to her like a life raft.
This was a test. A challenge. Luke was daring him. Come watch me be straight. Come watch me be normal. Prove to me that what almost happened between us was nothing.
The old Paul might have made an excuse. He might have stayed behind, nursed his wounded pride, and let them go. But the Paul sitting here now, the one who had heard the truth in Luke’s panicked question and the lie in his denial, was done hiding.
He gave them a slow, cool smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He stood up from his chair, grabbing his own jacket.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, buddy.” he said.
The tone of his voice, sharp and laced with a dangerous edge, cut through Luke’s boisterous facade. He smile faltered for a split second. Their eyes finally met across the room, over the top of Pamela’s head. In that look, a thousand things were said. It was a declaration of war. A promise of chaos. A mutual agreement to walk into the fire together.
Paul walked toward them, the knot of anger in his chest morphing into a reckless, thrilling sense of abandon. The rules were gone. The lines were erased. He was done being careful.
He clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder as he passed them, his grip firm. “Lead the way, MVP.” he said, his voice low and steady.
Luke flinched almost imperceptibly at the touch.
The three of them stepped out of the quiet sanctuary of room 3B and into the loud, pulsing night, leaving the almost-spoken truth behind them like an unexploded bomb, its timer ticking down to zero. They were heading into the heart of the party, toward the noise, the drugs, the booze and the inevitable detonation.
There was no turning back now.
