Nick bolted out of the classroom as if it was on fire, his clothes and trainers clutched in one hand, rucksack slung across his shoulders. He charged down the hallway, robe flapping open just enough to flash more skin than he meant, crossing paths with a couple of students who raised their brows at the sight of a 1,90m rugby player storming through like a bull on the loose. One lass did a double-take, mouth opening in surprise, but Nick ignored the looks, didn’t give a toss, his face was still burning, heart hammering, and all he could think was getting away, getting hidden, before the shame swallowed him whole.
He shoved into the nearest bathroom, the door banging shut behind him, echoing off the tiles. Empty, thank Christ. He ripped off the robe, letting it puddle on the floor, and stood there completely naked in front of the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror like it belonged to someone else. His body felt on fire, sweat trickling down his chest, carving paths through the golden hair, dripping off his abs. And his cock bloody hell, still achingly hard, throbbing like it had a mind of its own, refusing to go down even now.
Nick gripped the sink edge, knuckles white, breath coming in ragged bursts. What the fuck was wrong with him? Beto’s stare, those dark eyes raking over him like he was meat on a hook, had done this. Again. He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it stinging his skin, then cupped some and poured it over his cock, willing the icy shock to kill the erection, but it just twitched defiantly. Not enough. Not even close to being enough to end the fire burning inside him. He needed a cold shower, he needed Britain’s cold. He needed to march down to the Hockey Arena downtown and drop onto the ice rink, bury himself in it till the heat froze solid. Still, it wouldn’t be enough. The bloody South Pole wouldn’t be enough.
He hated Beto. Hated him so much.
But Nick wanted him just as much. More, maybe.
The thought hit him like a tackle from Mallory, brutal and unavoidable. How the hell had it come to this? One look from that smug git, and he was hard as a rock, standing there bollock naked in front of a class like some pervert on display. And the worst part was that he had liked it. Liked the way Beto’s eyes had burned into him, liked the power in that stare, liked how it made him feel seen in a way that twisted hate into something darker, hungrier.
It was always like this. Nick tried to pretend, to ignore, to push those thoughts, that bloody lust, way back into his mind, into the dark, forbidden corners of his self where he would never dare to get close, but it was getting more and more impossible to do it. The attraction had been there from the start, impossible to avoid, like every moment of Nick’s life had been leading up to shaking Beto’s hand that day in at Wave Brew. Nick never felt anything like that. Not even with Charlie. He loved Charlie from the moment he met him. Loved him, cherished him. Wanted to take care of him, to protect him from that wanker Ben Hope, to make him happy. But his lust for Charlie came with time, came with tentative kisses and hesitant touches, came with trust and vulnerability. The way he wanted Beto was more overwhelming, more destructive. He wanted to take him apart, spread his legs over his bed and take him deep and hard, never stopping, until there was nothing else in the world. Nick wanted to make love with Charlie, and Nick wanted to fuck Beto.
And, like it happened every time Nick let himself linger on those thoughts, really feel it, the shame crashed over him like a wave, cold and suffocating, dragging him under. He stared at his reflection, face flushed crimson, eyes wide and frantic, and loathed the bloke staring back. A traitor. A proper shit. How the fuck could he do this to Charlie? Charlie, who’d trusted him through everything, who looked at him like he hung the moon, who’d crossed an ocean with him just to build their life together. This wasn’t some harmless crush, some fleeting flirt with a punter at Roosters he’d never clap eyes on again. No, this was obsession. Passion, dark and gnawing, the sort he should only ever feel for Charlie Spring, his Char, the one who’d unravelled him back at Truham and pieced him back together stronger. Yet here he was, losing his bloody mind over Charlie’s closest mate in America, the one bloke who should’ve been off-limits forever.
The shame scorched deeper than the lust ever could, a white-hot blaze that finally doused the fire in his veins. Nick’s cock, traitor that it was, yielded at last, softening slow and reluctant, shrinking back against his thigh like it knew it had no bloody right to be there. He stood hunched over the sink, breath ragged, forcing himself through those exercises the psychiatrist at Truham had drilled into Charlie years ago. He had watched Charlie passed them on to Isaac one tear-streaked night, curled together under the duvet, whispering, “In for four, hold for four, out for four, love. Just breathe with me.” So Nick breathed. In through the nose, steady, out through the mouth, chasing emptiness. He blanked his mind the way Charlie had taught their mate, no thoughts of Beto’s smirk, no replay of that relentless stare in the studio, no visions of what he’d do if he ever gave in. Just the cool porcelain under his palms, the faint drip of a tap somewhere down the hall, the hum of the fluorescents overhead. An ocean of nothing to swim in, lungs expanding and contracting, heart slamming against his ribs until, bit by bit, it eased, thudding slower, steadier, no longer trying to punch its way out of his chest.
It felt like forever, pinned there under his own gaze, but eventually the storm quieted. Nick opened his eyes properly, blinking against the harsh light, and finally recognised the bloke in the mirror: flushed cheeks fading to pink, curls plastered damp to his forehead, but the wild panic gone from his eyes. Just Nick again. Tired, ashamed Nick. He shook his head at his reflection, proper wanker, you are, and let out a long, shuddering sigh that fogged the glass for a second. Then he bent to scoop up his clothes from the pile on the floor, the polyester of his Adidas shorts against his skin as he stepped into them. He kept his shirt off for a little while, wanting the sweat to dry off his skin first, and put his trainers on mechanically, each movement deliberate, like pulling armour back on. Anything to cover up the evidence, to shove the mess back inside where it belonged.
The bathroom door creaked open with that familiar squeal of old hinges, the sound slicing through the stale air like a knife. Nick didn’t need to turn round. He knew. Of course it was Beto. The faint waft of that tropical cologne hit him first, sun-warmed coconut and spice, curling into his nostrils like smoke from a fire he couldn’t extinguish. Nick squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders hunching as he gripped the sink harder, willing the confrontation away for just a few more seconds. The wanker would gloat, no doubt, rub salt in the wound, tease him merciless until Nick snapped. Footsteps echoed soft on the tiled floor, unhurried, effortless swagger translated into sound.
“Now that was quite a show you put on there, meu irmão,” Beto’s voice drawled from behind him, amused. “I thought you were gonna give poor Timmy a stroke.”
Nick’s jaw clenched, heat flooding his cheeks anew. He could picture the smirk without looking, those full lips curved just so, brown eyes glinting with victory. He sucked in a deep breath, the air tasting metallic with his own rage and humiliation.
“Fuck off, mate,” he growled, voice rough and low, eyes still shut tight. “I can’t deal with your bullshit right now.”
“Aw, what’s wrong, Nico?” Beto cooed, pitching his voice into that mocking baby talk, all exaggerated pout and false sympathy. He stepped closer, Nick could feel the heat radiating off him now, the shift in the air. “You did all that for me. I’m just here to say thanks.”
Nick snapped his eyes open, fury igniting like a match to petrol, scorching through the lingering fog of shame. Beto was standing far too bloody close, invading his space, that tropical cologne wrapping round him thick and cloying, heat radiating off his body like a challenge. The bastard looked victorious, exactly as Nick had dreaded: lips curved in that slow, predatory smirk, dark almond eyes gleaming with triumph, like he’d scripted this whole sodding scene and Nick was playing his part to perfection. Nick scowled at him through gritted teeth, the words clawing their way out raw and venomous.
“I didn’t do shit for you, you prick,” he lied, voice a snarl that echoed off the tiles. “It was an accident. Hale even said it could happen. Natural response, yeah? Nothing more.”
Beto’s chuckle was soft, warm, infuriatingly unbothered, the sound slithering down Nick’s spine and pooling low in his gut despite everything. “I mean, sure, it happens from time to time,” he drawled. “But if I remember correctly, you were pretty soft when I got there. It was only after I got there that you... stood for attention.”
His gaze dipped deliberately, raking down Nick’s body again, slow, unapologetic, lingering on the broad chest still heaving with ragged breaths, tracing the ridges of his abs, before settling lower, on the crotch where his shorts now hung heavy, the bulge still thick and obvious even at rest. Nick felt the heat surge back into his face, his stupid big cock twitching traitorously under the scrutiny, like it hadn’t learned its lesson yet. Bloody hell, stupid fucking cock.
“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” Nick growled, “but I’m not gonna be part of it.”
He shoved off the sink, straightening to his full height, towering over Beto like he could crush him with sheer presence alone. The air between them crackled, thick with the scent of sweat and that bloody cologne, the fluorescent hum overhead the only sound besides Nick’s pounding heart.
“I’m fucking done with you, mate,” he spat, trembling with barely leashed fury. “If you keep this up, I’m telling Charlie everything. Gonna tell everyone every fucking thing. The gym, the grinding, the staring. How you’re a proper slag, going after your best mate’s bloke like it’s a laugh.”
The threat hung heavy, meant to wound, to finally wipe that smug look off Beto’s face. But if anything, the smirk only deepened, lazy, curling wider across those full lips like Nick had just handed him a gift. Beto’s eyes sparked with dark amusement, unflinching, daring.
“Sure,” he said, smooth as silk, that Brazilian lilt rolling through the word like a caress. “Go ahead. Do it. Tell Charlie everything.”
He stepped aside with deliberate grace, clearing Nick’s path to the door, one hand sweeping out in a flourish, elegant, mocking, like a matador taunting a bull.
Nick’s feet felt bolted to the tiled floor, every muscle screaming at him to move, to storm out that door, leg it across campus, find Charlie curled up in their dorm with a book or his Switch, and just blurt it all out. Spill the poison. It’d be dead easy, the simplest thing in the world. Charlie trusted him implicitly, always had, and he’d believe Nick in a heartbeat. One word from him, and Charlie would ice Beto out proper, sever that friendship like cutting a rope, and Nick would never have to clap eyes on that smug, golden face again. Peace. Relief. The torment snuffed out for good.
But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted there, chest heaving like he’d just run suicides on the pitch. The door mocked him, inviting him, freedom just metres away. And still, nothing.
The inaction burned worse than any tackle, fury surging hot and helpless, aimed square at himself and Beto in equal, blistering measure. How could he be such a coward? Love for Charlie throbbed fierce in his chest, pure and unwavering, the kind that had carried them across oceans and years. Yet here he stood, paralysed by this dark, gnawing want for the one bloke who threatened it all, shame flooding him anew, thick and choking, because deep down he knew: telling Charlie might end the torment.
An Nick wasn’t sure if he wanted that.
Beto’s smirk stretched impossibly wider.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured. “You ain’t sayin’ a word to Char, are you, Nico?”
He stepped forward again, deliberate, closing the gap. Nick retreated on instinct, one step, two, until the cold porcelain sink dug sharp into the small of his back, trapping him proper. Nowhere left to run, no escape from the scent of coconut and spice flooding his lungs, from the dark eyes pinning him in place. But Beto didn’t stop. He kept coming, slow and inevitable, until Nick could feel the warm fan of his breath ghosting across his jaw, taste it almost, mint and something sharper, dangerous. Nick towered over him by a good twenty centimetres, broad shoulders and rugby bulk that could flatten most blokes without breaking a sweat, yet in that moment they both knew the truth: Beto held the reins, effortless and cruel, turning Nick’s size into something helpless, caged.
“You wanna know why?” Beto whispered, lips barely moving, the words brushing Nick’s skin like a dare.
“Get the fuck away from me, mate,” Nick snarled, the sound ripping out raw and guttural, trembling with a fury that surged through him like wildfire, hot, and blinding, utterly foreign.
His hands shook at his sides, fists balled so tight the nails bit half-moons into his palms, every muscle coiled and quivering as if ready to snap. Rage he’d never known existed roared up from somewhere deep and ugly, twisting him into a brute, an animal snarling in a trap. It terrified him, fucking terrified him, because this wasn’t Nick. He wasn’t the lad who lost his rag, who turned violent over words or stares. He was the one who protected, who held Charlie gently through nightmares, who laughed off locker-room jabs and carried mates home pissed without a cross word. Steady. Kind. In control. But bloody Beto, fucking Beto, ignited it all, fanned the flames until Nick barely recognised the monster glaring back from the mirror’s edge.
“Because you liked it, Nico,” Beto whispered, the words slithering out like silk dragged over gravel, barely audible yet searing straight through Nick’s skin. ”You like the way I make you feel, don’t you? The way I make you burn… the way I make you hard.”
Slowly, Christ, so bloody slowly, Beto’s hand settled on Nick’s waist, the touch feather-light at first, fingertips grazing the fabric of his shorts like a question. Then it moved, deliberate and unhurried, sliding up over the ridges of his torso, tracing the hard lines of his abs, each pass igniting sparks that shot straight to Nick’s groin despite the fury roaring in his chest.
“And you know what, Nico?” Beto’s kept going, eyes locked on Nick’s like he was devouring him all over again. “I liked it too, man. So, so fucking much.” His palm pressed flatter now, heat seeping through, exploring higher. “You’re so hot, Nico… the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in my life.”
He hands kept going, hand roaming possessive, claiming territory Nick hadn’t offered. Fingers sank deep into the meaty swell of Nick’s pec, kneading the muscle like he had every right, thumb brushing over the nipple and sending a jolt that made Nick’s breath hitch traitorously.
“When I saw you today,” Beto breathed, closer still, lips almost grazing Nick’s ear, “puta que pariu, Nick. I wanted to drop to my knees right there in that studio, you know? I was fucking drooling, man. Your cock… fuck, it’s so fucking big.” His gaze dipped low again, lingering on the heavy bulge still outlined in Nick’s jeans, voice thick with raw hunger. “I mean, I knew it would be, I always see you strutting round campus with no underwear, that bulge of yours swinging so heavy, so obvious. But seeing it hard like that… it’s even bigger than I thought, irmão. Charlie’s so, so fucking lucky”
The name hit like a slap, Charlie, twisting the knife deeper. Fury surged hotter, protective and fierce, the thought of Beto even speaking Charlie’s name in this moment profane, polluting something sacred.
“Don’t fucking call me that,” Nick growled, trembling with the effort of holding back, holding back the punch, the shove, the desperate grab that warred inside him. His body shook, pinned between the sink and Beto’s heat, heart hammering with love for Charlie, and this dark, insatiable pull that threatened to drag him under for good.
Beto just laughed again.
“I bet you love when I call you that,” he murmured, drawing it out deliberate, teasing. “Nico. Nico. You can stop pretending you don’t want it, Nico. Look at you… so big, so strong.”
As if to prove the point, his hand slid higher, fingers wrapping round Nick’s biceps, squeezing hard, sinking into the thick, juicy muscle earned from endless hours on the pitch and in the gym. The pressure sent a jolt straight through Nick, electric and unwelcome, his arm flexing instinctively under the grip, veins popping beneath the skin. Bloody hell, it felt good, too good, the heat of Beto’s palm searing through his skin, claiming what wasn’t his to touch. Nick’s heart hammered wild, shame twisting sharper because part of him craved the praise, the possession in that squeeze, even as it tainted everything pure he had with Charlie. Charlie, who’d trace those same muscles with gentle fingers in the dark, whispering adoration like prayer.
“You could end this anytime you want,” Beto whispered. “Just punch me in the face and be done with it, Nico.”
Nick closed his eyes tight, the bathroom’s harsh fluorescents burning red against his lids, as if shutting out the light might shut out everything else, the heat of Beto’s body pressed too close, the coconut-spice scent choking the air, the tremor in his own thighs that had nothing to do with rage anymore.
“Or,” Beto murmured, voice dropping to a husky rasp that scraped along Nick’s nerves like fingernails down bare skin, “we can fuck right here, right now. Just bend me over this sink and take me, baby. No one’ll ever know. I swear on my life I won’t say a word to Charlie, will take it to my grave.” His fingers tightened on Nick’s bicep, possessive, reverent. “It’s gonna be so, so fucking good. You’ll fill me up with that big monster cock of yours till I can’t think straight. Been way too long since I took anything like you, Nico. Do it for me, huh? Fuck me with that horse cock? Por favor?”
The plea hung between them, raw and filthy, Portuguese curling soft at the edges like smoke. Nick’s breath stuttered. He pictured it, vivid, traitorous, Beto bent over the porcelain, shorts yanked down those thick golden thighs, Nick driving in deep and relentless, hips snapping, the slap of skin echoing off the tiles. No tenderness, no whispered promises, just brutal release. And Charlie, sweet, trusting Charlie, none the wiser, curled up in their dorm waiting for him with that smile that turned Nick’s knees to jelly.
“I… I can’t, man,” Nick whispered, the words cracking out pleading, desperate. “Fuck. I can’t.”
His eyes stayed squeezed shut, but he felt Beto shift closer, felt the slow drag of that hand leaving his arm, trailing fire down his side, scorching a path through skin until fingers hooked under the hem of his shorts again, tugging lightly, teasing the waistband lower, cool air kissing the V of his hips.
“Sure you can, Nico,” Beto coaxed, absolutely certain, thumb stroking the sensitive skin just above the fabric. “Hell, I bet Charlie wouldn’t even mind, you know. He knows how much you love him, how fucking devoted you are. Everyone on campus sees it, irmão. You and me, It’d just be sex. Just two guys scratching an itch ’cause it’s college and that’s what you do, fuck around, burn it off, go home to the one who matters.”
Beto rose on the balls of his feet, like some devil straight out of the pits, all golden skin and wicked promise, and started planting slow, deliberate kisses along Nick’s jaw, lips hot and wet, each one a brand searing straight to hell. Nick gasped, the sound ripping out raw and broken, echoing off the tiles like a confession in an empty church. He should shove him, needed to, Christ, he needed to hurl this temptation across the room and bolt for the door, back to Charlie, back to the light. But his body betrayed him, neck tilting traitorously to the side, baring more skin like an offering, granting the demon better access to devour. His cock, his own worst enemy, the ultimate backstabbing bastard, surged hard as forged steel against the flimsy fabric of his shorts, throbbing with the filthy urgency of a betrayal dying to happen. Beto didn’t hesitate, the cunning prick; his hand plunged straight in, devious fingers wrapping round the thick shaft like a vice gripping stolen goods, stroking with a promise of pure, dirty ruin.
Nick moaned loud, proper loud, a guttural, animal growl that would’ve shocked anyone who knew him, pleasure blasting through his veins like fireworks ripping through a storm, pure and overwhelming. He felt Beto’s lips stretch into that smug, triumphant grin against his stubbled jaw, hot breath stoking the heat higher, while that hand masturbated him torturously slow, fingers barely circling the obscene thickness, like dangling the prize just out of reach to drive him mental. Stars exploded behind Nick’s clenched eyelids, blazing streaks tearing across a wrecked night sky, each lazy stroke a fresh stab of guilt, hammering deeper into the heart of everything he held sacred with Charlie. This was the worst kind of filth, wasn’t it? Not just cheating with his body, but gutting his soul, selling out Charlie, his bright, unbreakable anchor, for this savage, forbidden rush. Love for Charlie ripped at his chest, fierce and gut-wrenching, a desperate fight against the tide, turning self-loathing into something twisted and addictive, because bloody hell, it felt like tumbling into the abyss and craving the crash.
Lost in the haze of it all, Nick’s eyes drifted down to Beto’s, and they locked again, just like that moment on the pitch when the world had narrowed to nothing but those dark almond depths pulling him in. A dazed, stupid smile tugged at Nick’s lips, slow and helpless, stretching across his face like he was pissed or half-asleep. Bloody hell, he’d never wanted to kiss anyone this badly. Beto’s hand kept moving inside his shorts, that torturous rhythm building fire in his veins, fingers slick now with the bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip, stroking him with a confidence that shredded whatever thin thread of control Nick had left. Pleasure pooled tight and vicious in his gut, overriding everything, his love for Charlie a distant, aching echo, drowned out now by this filthy surge. Nick’s gaze dropped to Beto’s lips, lush and full, parted just enough to show a flash of white teeth, the most perfect, wicked invitation he’d ever seen. He lowered his head, slow and inevitable, like the pull of gravity or the earth spinning on its axis, dragging the sun up in the east every bloody morning no matter how you fought it.
One kiss.
Just one simple, devastating kiss, and it’d be over.
Done.
Nick would be Beto’s, surrendered completely, the line crossed forever.
His breath ghosted over Beto’s mouth, hearts hammering in tandem. He teetered on the edge, heart screaming no even as cock roared yes.
Once again the door swung open with a creak, and just like that the spell shattered.
It lasted less than a heartbeat: some poor lad, backpack half-slung, took one stunned glance at the tableau: shirtless Nick pinned to the sink, Beto’s hand buried deep in his shorts, the slow, unmistakable roll of wrist and fingers screaming what they’d been seconds from doing, and the lad’s eyes went saucer-wide. “Holy shit, sorry!” he yelped, voice cracking, before he bolted back into the corridor like the hounds of hell were on his heels, door banging shut behind him. But that single second was enough. Reality slammed into Nick like a freight train derailing at full tilt, metal screeching, carriages buckling, everything he loved crumpling in the wreckage. The enormity of it, what he’d been about to do, what he’d nearly let happen, hit with a violence that left him reeling, stomach lurching, bile burning the back of his throat. He felt suddenly dizzy, the fluorescent lights swimming overhead, the sour taste of self-revulsion so thick he gagged.
He shoved Beto with everything he had, every ounce of rugby muscle, every scrap of panic and guilt, and the smaller bloke flew backwards like a prop blasted off a scrum, shoulders and head cracking hard against the opposite tiled wall. A sharp cry tore out of him, Portuguese spilling in a hiss: “Ai, Nick, porra!”
Nick didn’t wait to see if he was all right. Didn’t care. He was already moving, snatching his discarded shirt from the floor in one frantic grab. Shirtless, heart jackhammering, he barrelled out the bathroom door and into the corridor, past their involuntary witness frozen halfway down the hall, past the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through high windows, running like his life depended on it. Because it did. Running from Beto, from the bathroom, from the man he’d almost become in there, from the irreversible line he’d teetered on the edge of crossing.
He burst out the arts building doors into the late afternoon sun, the California light harsh and unforgiving, palm shadows stretching long across the path. The hot air only made the heat under his skin stronger: rage, that bloody lingering ache low in his gut. His hands shook as he raked them through his curls, tugging hard like the pain might snap him out of it.
What the fuck had he almost done?
He veered off the main path, cutting across a patch of grass toward a quiet corner near the Lift District, somewhere with fewer eyes. His legs carried him on autopilot, trainers pounding the ground, but his mind was a storm, replaying it all in vicious loops. Beto’s hand on his cock, that slow stroke, the whisper of “por favor,” the way Nick had leaned in, lips inches from doing something he could never undo. He’d been seconds away. Seconds from kissing him, from bending Beto over the sink, from fucking him right there like some animal. Charlie’s face flashed in his head, soft smile, trusting eyes, the way he’d looked at Nick just that morning over coffee, curls messy from sleep, saying “Have a good day, love.” Nick’s stomach lurched, bile rising sharp in his throat. He stopped by a tree, bracing one hand against the trunk, bending over as he sucked in air, trying not to be sick.
He was a bastard. An absolute wanker. Charlie deserved better than this, better than a boyfriend who got hard from one stare, who almost shagged his mate in a public bathroom because some prick knew exactly how to push his buttons.
Nick straightened, eyes stinging like he’d got dust in them. He hated Beto, hated that smirk, that voice, that body, but he hated himself more. Because even now, running away, the memory of Beto’s touch lingered, his cock giving a traitorous twitch at the thought. He needed to get home. Needed Charlie, his Charlie, to hold him and make it right. But how the fuck could he face him like this, with Beto’s scent still on his skin, the guilt choking him like smoke? Nick started walking again, fast, head down, the campus blurring around him. He’d shower. Scrub it all away. Pretend it never happened, but he already knew that it wouldn’t work, terrified that it would be too late.
Distantly, Nick realized people were staring: a couple of lasses on the grass did double-takes, one bloke on a bike nearly swerved into a palm tree, and a group of freshers outside the union gawked openly, whispering behind their hands like he was a lunatic escaped from somewhere. Nick didn’t give a toss what they thought but he knew he couldn’t go to Charlie like this. Not a chance. One look at him, flushed, wild-eyed, shaking, and Charlie would know something was wrong. His boy was too perceptive, too tuned to Nick’s moods after all these years. Nick couldn’t face those soft blue eyes asking “What’s up, love?” when all he’d see in his own reflection was a lying, wanting bastard who’d almost thrown everything away for a quick shag in a bathroom.
He needed to let off steam, needed to burn it out before it poisoned him completely. The gym flashed in his mind first, Lift District, pile on plates till his muscles screamed and his head went blank, but no. Not that. A better idea hit him then, sharp and welcome. Harp. The lad was a veteran in kickboxing, competed back in secondary, and he’d been showing Nick some moves on the side, proper sparring in the Alpha Gamma Rho basement. Punching something, someone, till his knuckles split and his lungs burned would be way better than pumping iron. Cathartic. Real. An there was even a twisted part of him that knew Harp would land a few good ones, give him a proper hiding, maybe a bruised jaw or bloody nose, something to match the ache inside. He deserved it. Deserved worse, really, for what he’d almost done. For still wanting it, even now.
Nick fished his phone from his pocket, thumbs flying over the screen.
You free? Need to spar. Hard.
He hit send before he could overthink it, turning toward Greek Row, the promise of pain pulling him forward like a lifeline. Soon enough, the academic buildings and dorms gave way to the manors that housed the frat houses, big, sprawling places that looked like they’d been dropped from some American film set, each with its own personality screaming from the outside. There was Sigma Chi first, all grand white columns and manicured lawns like a proper Southern plantation gone wild, Greek letters bolted huge above the door. Next door was Phi Delta Theta, a sleeker modern build with glass walls and a rooftop deck stacked with sun loungers, the kind where you could hear bass thumping from parties that never seemed to end, fairy lights strung year-round like they were allergic to darkness.
Nick was almost at Alpha Gamma Rho when his phone buzzed with Harp’s answer: “Always up to kick your ass on the mat, baby. Meet me in the basement.”
Alpha Gamma Rho was a grand two-storey colonial-style manor, crisp white columns flanking the entrance, red brick facade polished to a shine with ivy climbing thick up the walls like it had been there for decades. A bloody small stone fountain bubbled in the center of the manicured front lawn, water trickling over a classic tiered design, and the Greek letters were engraved on a polished brass plaque above the door, subtle and old-money. A few lads were out front tossing a football, shirts off and tanned golden, laughing loud as the ball sailed between them, and they all waved and said hi to Nick when he passed through them on the way to the door, one even calling out “Looking rough, Nelson. What’d you do, lose your teapot?”
Nick forced a grin and flipped him off good-naturedly, the banter barely registering as he climbed the steps and rang the bell. The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Brody, one of the frat’s newest members, all square jaw and polo shirt, hair gelled like he was heading to a yacht club.
“Hey Nelson. Harp’s waiting for you in the basement,” he said, stepping aside with an easy grin.
Inside, the house was pure preppy elegance with a lived-in edge, polished hardwood floors gleaming under the chandelier in the foyer, walls lined with framed composite photos of past pledge classes and trophy cases stuffed with old (American) football cups and surf competition plaques. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and last night’s beer, music thumping low from somewhere deeper in. A couple of lads were cleaning up in the main living room, vacuuming spilled crisps off the massive leather sectional, grumbling good-naturedly about “whoever let the freshmen near the keg again.” Down the hall, the TV room door was open, shouts and controller clicks spilling out as a group of bros battled it out on FIFA, one yelling “That’s offside, you asshole!” while another howled in victory.
Nick almost pledged to Alpha Gamma Rho. When he and Charlie first arrived at Westbridge, wide-eyed and jet-lagged, Nick had been dead set on joining a fraternity, convinced it was the quintessential American college experience, all red cups and tailgates and mates for life like in the films. Charlie wanted nothing to do with it, rolling his eyes at the very idea of Greek life, but he’d encouraged Nick all the same, saying it might be fun for him to branch out. Nick, secretly thinking it could at least prove to their parents they weren’t isolating themselves in some loved-up bubble, agreed to give it a go.
He’d been surprised how many frat houses seemed interested in him. Charlie had teased him mercilessly, saying of course they would, Nick was the perfect golden boy ever since Truham, but Nick insisted it was just the accent; they thought it’d be fancy having a posh British lad in their ranks. He’d been bombarded with invitations, barbecues, beach bonfires, one memorable luau at Sigma Chi where they’d roasted a whole pig in the backyard and someone ended up crowd-surfing on a blow-up palm tree, from not only Alpha Gamma Rho but Kappa Sigma, Phi Delta Theta, and even the posh lot at Sigma Nu who kept banging on about their “legacy alumni network.” Rush Week had been an insane blur of days he barely remembered, the sheer amount of alcohol he’d ingested turning nights into hazy snapshots: shotgunning beers on porches, flip-cup tournaments that lasted till dawn, frat bros dragging him into a keg stand while chanting “Nick! Nick! Nick”.
In the end, he’d turned them all down. The parties were cracking fun, yeah, but something about the whole thing felt off. He wasn’t very fond of the hierarchy inside the frats, with presidents lording it over everyone, big brothers bossing the pledges around like servants, and all that structured bollocks that felt more like a cult than mateship. Plus, he’d already joined the Westbridge Rugby team, and the Sharks gave him all the sense of brotherhood and camaraderie he needed. With them, they were all equal, from Captain Torres right down to the lowest water boy, only Coach Hendricks standing supreme above the lot. And Charlie had looked so relieved when Nick told him he wasn’t pledging that Nick knew he’d made the right call.
Nick pushed through the propped basement door, the familiar creak echoing as he descended the narrow stairs into Alpha Gamma Rho’s private gym, a proper bro cave if there ever was one. The place screamed fratty excess: eaming hardwood floors under recessed lighting, walls lined with framed vintage rowing prints and polished brass plaques commemorating alumni achievements, a sleek glass-fronted fridge stocked with premium electrolyte drinks and artisanal protein bars. Top-of-the-line equipment gleamed everywhere, chrome-plated free weights on custom racks, a pristine leather-wrapped bench press with adjustable hydraulic settings, heavy bags in supple leather hanging from reinforced chains, and full-length mirrors with ornate frames reflecting it all back in crisp detail. The air carried the faint scent of eucalyptus from the adjacent sauna and high-quality leather cleaner, a far cry from the usual locker-room funk.
A couple of other lads were already in, making the most of the space. In one corner, a tall, lean bloke with neatly side-parted hair was repping out curls with perfect form, Hermés Bouncing trainers planted firm on the ground, earbuds in and a focused frown like he was prepping for a regatta rather than a pump. Near the cable machine a broad-shouldered bloke with a fresh fade was pulling lat pulldowns, chatting low to his mate spotting him, both of them laughing about some yacht club story from springbreak. In the far corner was the sparring mat, pristine navy with crisp white markings, and, as promised, Harp was already there, protective gear on, shadowboxing in front of a heavy bag, shirtless, his usual grin flashing as he landed a quick combo.
Nick knew that the only reason Harp had joined Alpha Gamma Rho was because his dad, some big-shot Los Angeles investment banker, was a legacy. Harp’s spot in the fraternity had been locked in since before he could walk. Nick didn’t think it would fit: Harp was way too much of a surfer dude for all the preppiness of Alpha Gamma Rho, but he wasn’t really surprised that he’d made it work. Harp was the kind of guy it was impossible to dislike: easy charm, quick laugh, the sort who could talk his way into or out of anything and leave you smiling about it.
“Thought you’d chickened out, Nick” Harp called out, wiping sweat from his brow. “Ready to get your ass handed to you?”
Nick forced a grin and dripped his rucksack by the wall with a thud and kicking off his trainers. “Dream on, mate. I’m here to use your face as a speed bag.”
Harp barked a laugh, bouncing on his toes, gloves up. “Big talk. Gloves on, pretty boy. Let’s see if that accent holds up when you’re eating mat.”
They wrapped hands quick, Nick’s knuckles still tingling from clenching them in the bathroom, and stepped onto the mat. Harp tossed him headgear and gloves, that cocky grin never fading. “You look like you wanna kill someone. Bad day?”
Nick didn’t answer, just banged his gloves together and raised them, stance low. “Shut up and hit me.”
For all his bravado, Nick knew he didn’t stand a chance against Harp, not really. He was bigger and stronger, but the lad had been fighting since he was a kid, apparently starting as a way for a hyperactive little surfer to burn off energy, and he’d never stopped. Nick knew he’d even won a few championships back in high school, proper belts and trophies gathering dust in his room upstairs. Still, Nick gave his best. They circled, light on their feet at first, testing jabs and footwork. Nick’s headgear felt tight, the mouthguard muffling his breath. He lunged first, hard and fast, no holding back, jab, cross, hook, putting his weight behind every punch like Harp had taught him, the mats creaking under his feet. Harp blocked most, dodged with that quick agility, countering with sharp body shots that thudded into Nick’s ribs, stealing his wind just enough to sting.
“Easy, man,” Harp laughed, voice muffled through his guard. “You trying to kill me or what?”
Nick didn’t answer, just pressed harder, sweat flying, breath ragged, every swing a release for the fury boiling inside him. He caught Harp with a glancing hook to the shoulder, then a solid body shot that made the lad grunt and step back, grinning through it.
“Damn” Harp wheezed, circling again. “You’re swinging like you’ve got a personal vendetta. What’s up, bad tacos or something?”
Nick dropped his guard for a second, chest heaving, the burn in his muscles finally cutting through the noise in his head. “Not tacos.”
Harp’s eyes narrowed, reading him like the good friend he was, but he didn’t push. Not yet. He just bounced on his toes, gloves up, grin fading into something more focused. “Alright, then. Let’s go.”
Nick lunged again, harder this time, fury fueling every swing, jab snapping out, cross following heavy, hook aiming for Harp’s ribs. But Harp was quick, always quick, slipping the jab, blocking the cross, and countering with a sharp hook to Nick’s body that thudded deep, stealing his wind. Nick grunted, welcoming the sting, the bloom of pain sharp and real. He pressed forward, throwing another combination, but Harp danced back, landing a quick one-two to Nick’s guard, then a body shot that sank in low and hard.
Nick took it all, barely blocking half, letting the blows land, thud to the ribs, crack to the shoulder, a glancing jab that split his lip just enough to taste copper. Each hit was a release, the fury leaking out with every impact, replaced slow by the burn of used muscle and the raw ache of Harp’s fists. He didn’t dodge like he should’ve, didn’t counter clean. He just absorbed it, the pain grounding him, pulling him out of his head and into his body where things made sense. Harp landed a solid uppercut that snapped Nick’s head back, stars flashing brief behind his eyes, but Nick just grinned through the blood, tasting the hurt like medicine.
“Fuck, man,” Harp panted, circling again, sweat flying off him. “You’re taking those like you want ’em.”
Nick didn’t answer, just raised his gloves and lunged once more, slower now, the rage ebbing with every bruise blooming under his skin. The fury was leaving him, bit by bit, replaced by the clean burn of exhaustion and the steady throb of pain that felt like punishment he deserved.
And for the first time since the bathroom, Nick could breathe.
He kept swinging. A sharp jab grazed Nick’s cheek, a body shot thudded into his ribs again, and Nick grunted through it. He pressed forward, throwing heavy hooks that whistled past Harp’s guard, one finally clipping his shoulder and making the lad laugh.
“Is this you flirting with me, Nick?” Harp yelped, but his grin widened, eyes sparkling with that surfer mischief.
The banter broke the edge, the intensity easing as Nick huffed a laugh despite himself. “Flirting with your mum, maybe.”
Harp barked a laugh, dropping his guard for a playful shove. “Oh, low blow, Nelson. Now you’re gonna get it.”
The fight shifted then to something less brutal and more playful, the kind of sparring they’d fallen into before. Harp danced around, throwing light taps and feints, trash-talking nonstop: “Come on, rugby boy, all that muscle and you swing like a grandma!” Nick rolled his eyes, landing a gentle hook to Harp’s guard that pushed him back a step, retorting with “Least I don’t fight like you” They circled each other, laughing through the hits now, Nick catching Harp with a body shot that made him “oof” dramatically, Harp countering with quick jabs that popped Nick’s guard and earned a “Oi, cheat!” The basement echoed with their grunts and chuckles, the rage bleeding out of Nick bit by bit, replaced by the familiar burn of a good session.
But Harp, being Harp, couldn’t resist breaking the rules. He feinted high, ducked low, and shot in for a takedown, pureb wrestling move, no kickboxing allowed, wrapping arms round Nick’s waist and driving him back toward the mat. Nick’s legs buckled, surprise flashing as they crashed down, Harp scrambling quick to mount, grinning like a bastard from on top.
“Gotcha, baby!” Harp crowed, locking in a loose armbar, more show than pain.
Nick growled, but there was a laugh in it now, the fury gone, just the play left. “You cheating wanker”
He didn’t tap. Instead, he used his brute force, all rugby power, bridging hard with his hips, bucking like a bull to throw Harp off balance. One massive shove with his legs, core flexing, and he reversed it, rolling on top and pinning Harp’s arms with his weight, knees digging into the mat either side.
“Off,” Harp wheezed, laughing breathless. “You win, you big oaf, get off!”
Nick held it a second longer, grinning down despite everything, then rolled off and flopped onto his back beside him, both of them panting and chuckling at the ceiling.
The pain in his muscles felt good now, clean, earned. The fire in his head had dulled to embers.
For a minute, it was enough.
They stayed like that for a while, bodies sprawled over the mat, chests heaving as they got their breaths in order. Nick lay there, staring up at the basement ceiling, the ache in his muscles finally drowning out the noise in his head, the shame, the fury, the bloody echo of Beto’s hand and that almost-kiss. For the first time since the bathroom, he felt a bit more like himself: grounded, the rage burned down to embers, the guilt still there but dulled by the clean exhaustion of a good scrap. His ribs throbbed where Harp had landed a few solid ones, his knuckles raw under the wraps, but it was a good hurt, earned and real, not the twisted mess inside him.
Then Harp smacked him on the shoulder, the hit light and playful. “Let’s hit the sauna, sweat it off,” he said, pushing himself up with a grunt and offering a hand down to Nick.
Nick accepted, letting Harp haul him to his feet, the pull straining his sore arms but in a way that felt right. On the way there, Harp detoured to the glass-fronted fridge, grabbing two expensive bottles of water, some fancy electrolyte brand with Himalayan salt or whatever bollocks they put in to jack up the price and tossed one to Nick. “Hydrate or die, Nelson.”
Nick caught it, twisting the cap off as they made their way to the attached locker room, a sleek tiled space with brass lockers, marble benches, and a row of open showers gleaming under soft lighting. They stripped off in the locker room quick as you like, gear tossed into lockers with the casual ease of blokes who’d done it a hundred times. They hopped into the showers side by side, the tiled space echoing with the hiss of water. Nick cranked his to freezing cold, the icy spray hitting his skin like needles, shocking the lingering heat from his muscles and, more importantly, dousing any trace of the day’s mess. Harp went for steaming hot, clouds of vapor billowing up around, humming some tuneless surfer song under his breath.
Nick let the cold rinse the sweat from his body, water sluicing down his chest, abs, and thighs, his cock hanging heavy between his legs. They toweled off rough and fast, then headed into the sauna proper, no toffing about with wraps, just starkers like the lads they were. The heat hit Nick immediate, thick and enveloping, eucalyptus-scent steam wrapping round him as he stepped onto the hot wooden benches.
There were three Alpha Gamma Rho members already in there, muscular lads fresh from their own workout, probably with the same idea of steaming out the knots. Nick knew them, Tyler, the broad-shouldered swimmer with the buzz cut, wrapped in a white towel low on his hips; Jake the lacrosse player with the sleeve tattoo, lounging naked and unbothered, legs spread wide; and Connor, the wrestler built like a brick wall, also bollock naked, leaning back with eyes closed. Nick knew that, technically, he wasn’t supposed to be there as the fancy sauna was a privilege exclusive to the bother. The fraternity’s president, Eliott “EJ” Jameson, however, had decreed ages ago that Nick Nelson had unlimited access to all frat facilities ad infinitum, motivated, according to Harp’s piss-taking whispers, by the fact EJ was very much gay and didn’t mind catching glimpses of Nick starkers in the aforementioned spots. Nick didn’t give a toss; access was access.
In fact, the lads glanced up as they entered, and Nick didn’t miss the way Connor and Tyler’s eyes dipped quick, taking an eyeful of his big cock, bigger than theirs or Harp’s, hanging heavy in front of him, before locking eyes and nodding in welcome. They congratulated Nick on the Sharks’ win at the semifinals with slaps on the back and nods of respect, the kind of easy camaraderie that came natural in a place like this.
As Tyler excused himself with a tap to Nick’s shoulder, heading out with the towel slung low, the remaining three ganged up on Nick in one of those inevitable Rugby vs American Football debates he always got dragged into whenever he stepped foot in the frat house. Despite being outnumbered three to one, with Harp betraying him without a flicker to defend the homeland’s national sport, arguing pads and helmets made it more brutal while Nick fired back that rugby was real, no helmets, no bullshit. They all ended up laughing through the steam, the jabs flying light and good-natured. Nick had fun, proper fun for the first time that day, the scalding heat working wonders, releasing every knot and tension in his muscles, the steam wrapping round him like a balm, easing the ache in his ribs and the deeper burn in his chest until, for a moment, the world felt almost right again.
Not for a second did Nick think about the fact that the four of them were completely naked, even though Jake and Connor kept sneaking quick peeks at Nick’s cock that he pretended not to see. He was kind of used to it by now. He knew he had a big one down there, bigger than anyone he’d ever met, both the Cocks at Roosters and the Sharks on the pitch included, and, as they said, no harm in looking. His cock, though, remained completely dead to the world the entire time. Both Jake and Connor were objectively hot blokes: Jake with meaty pecs that were good enough to bite, firm and rounded from all those lacrosse sessions; Connor with thick thighs that surely would surely feel amazing wrapped around him, powerful wrestler’s legs built for pinning opponents to the mat. Yet, nothing. Nick, and his cock didn’t give a toss about them. It was ridiculous that he could have two handsome lads sprawled naked in front of him and have no reaction to it, while a simple glance from Beto Montenegro was enough to send his cock to the skies like a rocket.
It was only after Jake and Connor left, grabbing their towels with quick nods and “Catch you later, Nelson” from Jake, that Nick finally had the opportunity to open up to Harp about what had really left him in that state of distress. He knew his mate was a gossip at heart, the sort who’d spread a rumour like wildfire but only among the lads who wouldn’t twist it into something nasty. So, the second the two Alpha Gamma Rho brothers left them alone in the sauna, Harp, sitting by Nick’s side on the hot wooden bench, turned to him with a drawn-out “Sooooo,” full of expectancy, eyebrows waggling like he was waiting for juicy details on a bad date.
Nick could only shake his head and laugh, steam curling round them thick as fog. The heat was doing its job, loosening the knots in his muscles, but it couldn’t touch the twist in his gut. “You’re like a bloody old woman, Harp. Worse than my nan at Christmas.”
It wasn’t that Nick didn’t trust Harp, not at all. He knew that, whatever he said to him, it would never leave the confines of the sauna. He and Harp had been mates since Rush Week when Nick was still considering joining a frat. They met in the most dumb way possible: they were wearing the same shirt during a party at Delta Tau Phi, which was enough for an already tipsy Harp to declare they should be best friends for life. For some reason, he was right. Despite Nick giving up becoming a frat bro, he and Harp’s friendship only got tighter with time.
Nick was ashamed of what had happened. He knew it could have been worse, so much worse, but what did happen was already bad enough. He still couldn’t forget the way Beto had jerked him off while his lips burned kisses along Nick’s jaw. If he knew someone had done that exact same thing to Charlie… he didn’t even know what he’d do. Heartbroken wouldn’t be enough to cover it. Maybe Nick was already giving himself too much grace. Maybe what happened in the bathroom was already cheating, and Nick was terribly ashamed of letting things get that far, and even more ashamed of how much he had enjoyed it. Nick had wanted it. Craved it. His body had betrayed him yet again, as it always seemed poised to do whenever Beto Montenegro was involved.
Harp, definitely sensing Nick’s reluctance, added: “You don’t have to tell me shit if you don’t want. But if you do… well, it’s not like I’m gonna judge you, Nick.”
“You should,” answered Nick, clipped.
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
Nick closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, he sighed, the hot steam swirling thick around them, curling like smoke in the dim light. At least he’d have the steam to hide a bit. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the wooden slats between his feet. Harp waited, patient for once, no jokes, no pushing, just the quiet drip of water on the rocks and the low hiss of steam.
Nick swallowed. “It’s Beto,” he said finally, voice low enough the steam almost swallowed it. “Charlie ‘s mate. You know him, right? The Brazilian lad.”
Harp nodded. “Sure, everyone knows Beto. What’d he do?”
Nick rubbed a hand over his face, perhaps trying to hide it from the world, and just let everything out.
He started with their encounter at the Lift District, how Beto had shamelessly rubbed himself against Nick during squats, the movement that lasted only seconds but ignited a fire inside Nick that months hadn’t been able to kill. He told Harp how that single moment had lodged in him like a splinter, impossible to ignore, how the desire for Beto had only grown bigger, stronger, no matter how much Nick tried to hate the guy with everything he had. How every time he saw Beto, on campus, in Charlie’s stories, in passing glances, the pull tightened, dark and insistent, twisting into something he couldn’t name without feeling sick. Then told Harp about the figure drawing class just that morning, how he’d stood bollock naked on the platform and Beto had locked on him like a predator spotting prey. How Beto had stared, unapologetic, raking over every inch of him until Nick’s cock had betrayed him completely, hardening right there in front of the whole class. How the humiliation had burned, but worse than that, how he’d felt seen, wanted, in a way that made his skin crawl and his pulse race at the same time.
And then, finally, the bathroom. The way Beto had followed him in, pushed him against the sink, hand sliding down his shorts, stroking him slow and filthy while whispering promises no one would ever know. How Nick had almost kissed him, almost let it happen, before someone walked in and snapped him back to reality. He told Harp about the shove, the fury, the way he’d run like a coward, still hard, still aching, still hating himself more than he’d ever hated anything.
Nick watched Harp’s face grow from a forehead furrowed in confusion to eyebrows raised in surprise to mouth open in absolute shock. The sauna was completely quiet, like he and Harp had stepped into their own secluded dimension, the steam thick and heavy, muffling everything outside the two of them. Nick returned his eyes to the floor, feeling raw, like he’d peeled off a layer of skin along with the words. Harp stayed silent for a long beat, staring at the same spot on the wood. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.
“Damn, Nick. That’s… heavy.”
Nick nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
Harp exhaled slow, running a hand through his damp hair. “First off, avoid the guy like the plague. Just stay the fuck away from him. He’s bad news.”
Nick let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been trying, for months, but he’s everywhere. He’s Charlie’s best mate here in America. He already thinks it’s weird that I don’t like Beto.”
“Maybe you’re gonna have to tell Charlie the truth, then, man,”
Nick closed his eyes again, the heat pressing in like it was trying to squeeze the words out of him. “I’ve thought about it one hundred times. Maybe I should, right? If the bloke’s willing to stab him in the back like that, then he should know.” He swallowed, throat tight. “But that’s not the worst part.”
“It’s that you want Beto too”, Harp said, almost as if he was afraid of saying.
The sauna went dead quiet, like the steam itself had stopped moving. Saying it out loud felt so much worse, filthy, like he’d spat on something sacred. Nick’s chest ached, shame flooding hot and thick, mixing with the eucalyptus scent until he could barely breathe.
“So fucking much, mate,” he whispered. “It’s not just a crush, you know? It’s this… this chemistry, Harp, this fucking pull. It’s eating me alive, man. And sometimes… sometimes, there’s this part of me that doesn’t want it to stop.”
Neither of them said anything for a long moment. The benches creaked faintly under their weight, the only sound besides the occasional hiss from the rocks and the low thud of Nick’s heart in his ears, pounding like it wanted to escape the confession he’d just spilled. He stared at the floor, at the dark knots in the wood, willing the heat to burn it out of him, to melt the want for Beto into nothing, but it only seemed to stoke it higher, that dark pull twisting tighter in his gut. Nick’s mind raced anyway, replaying the gym, the class, the bathroom, Beto’s hand, that almost-kiss, and the terror that Charlie might find out, that this poison inside him might spill over and ruin everything good they’d built. He felt exposed, more than just naked, stripped bare in a way the art class never managed, every secret laid out under the harsh light of saying it aloud to his mate. The steam rolled on, and Nick wondered if he’d ever feel clean again.
“Maybe don’t fight it so bad, Nick.”
Nick raised his eyes from the floor to look at him. Harp looked uneasy, as if the words had slipped out without his permission. Nick frowned, the tone in his own voice darkening. “What you mean?”
Harp cringed a bit. “You’re not gonna like it, man.”
“Just say it, mate,” Nick said, already annoyed.
Harp still hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes flicking away like he was wrestling with himself, trying to decide whether to say what was on his mind or keep it shut in his head. One side must have won, because he exhaled hard and shrugged.
“You know how I feel about monogamy, right? You know I don’t think it’s… normal.”
“Huh. And?”
“I don’t know, Nick,” Harp said, still with that apologetic tone, but the words spilled out of him easier this time. “I think what you and Charlie have with each other is great, man, I really do. But I don’t know… when your body’s telling you something that strongly, maybe you should listen to it.”
Nick stared at him.
“You’re saying I should shag Beto,” Nick said flatly, voice low and dangerous.
Harp raised his hands quick. “I’m not saying you should. I’m just saying… college is the time for this shit. You’re young, away from home, figuring yourself out. Maybe it’s not the end of the world if you explore a bit, you know? Get it out of your system. Charlie’s chill. He loves you. One hookup doesn’t have to blow everything up.”
“Fuck you, Harp,” Nick snapped, the heat making his temper flare hotter. “I’m not gonna hurt Charlie like that. You mad?”
“You don’t have to, man,” Harp said, biting his lip like he was willing himself to shut up, but the fact that Nick hadn’t decked him yet must have encouraged him, because he kept going. “You can just talk to him, work out some arrangement, I don’t know. Lots of couples do it, you know?”
Nick groaned out loud, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. What the hell did everyone want to talk about that suddenly? He recalled the other night with Charlie on the beach, under the moonlight, when Charlie had brought the subject up all casual-like, and Nick had reacted like Charlie had suggested a threesome with his nan. It only made Nick feel like an even bigger scumbag hypocrite now, shutting it down then, but here he was, contemplating the possibility just because he wanted to fuck other bloke.
“We have,” he grumbled, reluctant.
“And?”
“And it’s not for us, ok?” Nick said, voice tight, the words tasting bitter. “It’s not for me.” Only the thought of some other man putting his hands on Charlie was enough to make him want to puke. “And I’m not cheating on Charlie. That’s out of the question.”
Harp nodded slow, but that thoughtful look didn’t fade, and Nick knew he wasn’t quite done poking the bear. He was right.
“Look, I just think you don’t have to look at hooking up with someone else as something inherently bad, you know?” Harp said, slowly, like he was explaining to a particularly thick child that the sky was blue. “You make it sound like the worst sin in the world… but it’s just sex, man. Just bodies. It doesn’t have to mean anything about you or the love you have for Charlie. Just, you know… scratch an itch and then come back to the one you love. End of it.”
The way Harp said it, so calmly, so rationally, as if it was simple logic, the most perfectly natural thing in the world and Nick was actually kind of thick for not seeing it sooner, made Nick pause. Just for a second. His mind flickered, treacherous and quick: what if Harp was right? Nick loved Charlie with all he had, passionately, desperately… but maybe… maybe he could just do it? Not even with Beto, someone else, some nameless bloke he’d never have to see again, someone who could never come close to ruining what he and Charlie had. A quick shag, bodies only, no feelings, no threat. Scratch the itch, like Harp said, and walk away clean. Back to Charlie, back to home, the guilt gone, the want burned out.
The thought lingered, hot and tempting in the steam, wrapping round him like the heat itself. Nick’s breath caught, his cock giving a traitorous twitch between his legs just imagining it: faceless hands, rough and quick, taking the edge off without touching what mattered.
But then the shame crashed back, colder than any shower, drowning the temptation in ice. Charlie’s face flashed in his mind. No. Fucking no. It wasn’t just sex. Not for him. Not when it meant lying, hiding, risking the one person who’d seen him at his lowest and loved him anyway.
Nick stood up sharp, the sauna suddenly stifling, too close, the steam thick enough to choke on. “You’re wrong,” he snarled, furious. Not at Harp, but at himself, because to his own ears it sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “It’s not just sex. Not for me.”
He stormed out, the door banging hard behind him, steam parting like it couldn’t hold him anymore as he slammed into the cooler locker room air. The chill hit his damp skin like a slap, raising goosebumps along his arms and chest. He could hear Harp following, footsteps soft on the tile, but neither of them said a word, the silence heavy as it rarely was between them, loaded.
Harp headed for the showers again, cranking the water on with a hiss, but Nick marched straight to the lockers, yanking his clothes out with rough, jerky movements. Fuck showering. He needed to get away from this, from Harp’s calm, rational bollocks, from the way those words had burrowed in like a splinter he couldn’t dig out. He pulled on his shorts and tank fast, trainers shoved on without bothering to tie the laces proper, rucksack slung over one shoulder. Harp watched him the whole time from the shower doorway, water running down his back, opening his mouth a couple of times like he wanted to say something more but changing his mind at the last second, jaw working silent.
When Nick was clothed again, he passed Harp with a quick punch to the shoulder, light, mate-like, but hard enough to say drop it, and muttered a clipped “Later, mate,” before pushing out the locker room door, up the basement stairs, and out of Alpha Gamma Rho’s house altogether. He didn’t look back, didn’t slow down, the gravel crunching under his feet as he hit Greek Row and kept walking, the late afternoon sun low and golden but doing nothing to warm the cold knot in his chest.
Harp’s words echoed anyway, calm and persistent, refusing to fade.
And Nick hated how much part of him was listening.
Well. That was a lot, wasn’t it. If you’ve made it this far and you’re already dreading having to wait for the next chapter, good news: becoming a paid subscriber is exactly how you make sure it keeps coming. It’s also the single most effective way to tell me you want to see how this whole Beto situation plays out… and trust me, it’s going to play out. Thank you so much for reading! GO SHARKS! 💙🤍
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