The silence in Waco had become a physical presence, a heavy blanket that smothered every corner of Eric’s apartment. It had been three months since the funeral, and the last of Eric’s belongings now had a new home, whether with a colleague, the local Catholic charity, or in a box for his brother Ethan.
Doug looked around the empty room and remembered how it had been when filled with Eric’s things and his laughter. Anything and everything was a reminder of a voice that would never again fill the space. With Ethan back in his own life, miles away, the loneliness was absolute. Doug felt as if he were a ghost haunting Eric’s home, a relic of a life that was over.
He had moved through the days with a grim sense of duty, tackling the monumental task of dismantling his best friend’s existence. He had packed boxes with a methodical numbness, sorting Eric’s life into piles: charity, trash, and keep. The keep pile was small, curated for Ethan. He found the worn-out leather jacket Eric had loved, the collection of sci-fi paperbacks with their creased spines, and the silly, ceramic frog that had sat on the windowsill. These were things a brother would want, tangible pieces of a history they shared, things Doug couldn't bear to look at but couldn't bring himself to destroy.
Phone calls to Ethan were rituals of shared grief. They would start cautiously, asking how the other was doing, but it never took long for the cracks to show. A memory, a turn of phrase, and the dam would break. More often than not, they’d end up on the line together, the sound of their quiet, ragged sobs the only connection they had, two separate points of pain trying to find solace across the wires. They’d only known one another such a short time, yet they had shared a lifetime of experiences, talking while Eric rested, listening while Eric shared, holding one another and just knowing once Eric was gone.
It was during one of their calls, with the Texas sun beating down on the parched lawn outside, that Doug finally broke. "I can't do it anymore, Ethan," he whispered, his voice raw. "This city. Every place I go seems to have a memory of him. I feel like I'm drowning in it."
Ethan was quiet on the other end, letting the confession hang in the air. "What are you going to do?" he asked, his own voice strained.
"There's a position. Near Corpus Christi. A fresh start, I guess." Doug closed his eyes. How many fresh starts do I get, he wondered.
"I think you should take it, Doug," Ethan said, the words coming out with a certainty that surprised them both. "I think you need to."
So Doug did. A month later, the oppressive quiet of Waco was replaced by the constant, rhythmic shush of the Gulf of Mexico. He’d bought a condo on the third floor of a seaside building that had stood the test of several hurricanes. The salty air started to work its way into the fibers of his clothes almost immediately. His days fell into a new, gentle rhythm. Mornings were for work; his proficiency allowed him to complete a usual day’s work within a six hour work day. Evenings were for the beach.
Still, the nagging feeling of a piece of his life missing crept in to overwhelm him. At these times, the guilt of something he hadn’t mentioned to anyone would grab hold of him. Doug decided to see a grief counselor.
The first meeting surprised Doug. He’d prepared himself to talk about Eric, but the counselor, a man named Mark Browning, asked him whether he felt guilt around Eric’s passing. Doug felt as if a hand had wrapped itself around his heart and applied pressure. The tears began to flow and his nose began to run as he admitted to Mark Browning that within moments of Eric’s death, he wanted Ethan to make love to him. The desire to be physically connected to Ethan was stronger than anything he had ever known, and Doug was filled with shame and guilt over the feelings.
Mark placed his hand on Doug’s arm. “Your reaction was a normal one. At the loss of someone so dear to you, your need to connect with another human being was not out of place. Often, the stronger the bond with the person who passed, the stronger the need to connect physically. Your emotional bond with Ethan made him the perfect candidate for this need. You haven’t spoken with him about this, have you?”
“No, of course not. I was too embarrassed, too ashamed.”
“I’m wondering whether he had a similar, though possibly not identical, experience.”
“Now that I know it’s normal, I can ask him. Although, it’s going to take me a while to stop feeling guilty about it.”
Mark smiled. “That’s normal, too. Just because I tell you not to feel guilty doesn’t mean you’re going to throw a switch and those feelings will just stop.”
Doug saw the counselor three more times. On his last visit, he admitted to Mark that he was feeling a stronger inner urge to get laid. “I just want to fuck someone, and then I feel guilty as if I’m cheating on Ethan.”
“But you and Ethan have no arrangement, correct?”
“No, but it’s still the way I feel,” said Doug.
“And your options are?” asked Mark.
“To go out and fuck someone or to talk to Ethan about it.”
Mark smiled.
Doug walked out to his car. “I’m not ready to talk to Ethan,” he muttered. He sat behind the wheel. “I’ll just go to the bar and pick someone up or do one of those gay apps. The stress of the whole thing will be over and I will be able to think more clearly.” Doug looked into the rearview mirror and caught a view of himself. His mind flashed back.
The final click of the keyboard echoed in the cavernous silence of the 27th-floor office. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city of Chicago bled into a bruised twilight, a sprawling galaxy of sodium-orange and cold-white lights. The sun had long since surrendered, leaving behind a sky the color of a deep, painful bruise. Inside, the only light came from Doug’s monitor, casting a sterile, blue-white glow over his face and the cluttered surface of his desk. The air conditioning, a constant, low hum during the day, had cycled off, leaving the air thick and still, smelling of old coffee, the faint, gritty scent of toner, and the trace, lingering perfumes of a hundred bodies that had recently departed.
Doug was an intern, a term that felt both a promise and a cage. For three months, this world of sharp suits, sharper ambition, and the clinking of ice in crystal glasses had been his. He was a visitor, a ghost in the machine, and he knew it. He was tall, with a lean, runner’s build that his off-the-rack suits couldn't quite hide, and a quiet intensity that often made people underestimate him. He was a watcher. And he had been watching Brian Hill all summer.
Brian was everything the company seemed to value: effortlessly charismatic, with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He was a junior analyst, a few years older than Doug, and moved through the office with a predatory grace. He was slightly shorter than Doug, but compact and powerful, with dark, straight black hair that fell across his forehead and a pair of eyes so startlingly green they seemed to hold their own light. He was a vortex of energy in the drab corporate landscape, and Doug had been caught in his orbit from day one.
It had started small. A lingering glance across the bullpen. A "Nice work, kid," delivered with a smirk as Doug fumbled with a spreadsheet. Then, the comments became more pointed, more personal. "That tie really brings out your eyes," Brian had whispered one afternoon, his breath hot against Doug’s ear as he leaned over his desk to point at a screen. "You smell good, man. New cologne?" another time, a simple question loaded with an intimacy that made Doug’s stomach clench. Doug had developed a routine: a tight, noncommittal smile, a slight nod, a retreat back into the safety of his numbers and charts. He told himself it was just Brian’s way, a form of workplace hazing, a game. But his body knew better. His body knew it was a challenge.
Now, the office was a mausoleum. The last of the stragglers had left an hour ago, their cheerful goodbyes fading down the corridor to the elevators. Doug was alone, or so he thought, trying to finish a report that was due in the morning. The silence was so profound he could hear the faint, rhythmic ticking of the battery-powered clock on the far wall.
The sound of a shoe sole scuffing the carpet made him jump. He looked up. Brian was standing by the entrance to the cubicle farm, leaning against a filing cabinet, arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't made a sound approaching. He was just… there.
"Working late, intern?" Brian’s voice was a low, lazy drawl that cut through the silence.
"Just finishing up," Doug said, his voice tighter than he intended. He turned back to his screen, feigning focus.
Brian pushed off the cabinet and walked slowly toward Doug’s desk. His steps were deliberate, silent on the industrial carpeting. He stopped beside Doug, close enough that Doug could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint, clean scent of his laundry detergent mixed with something muskier, something that was uniquely Brian.
"You've been staring at me all day," Brian said. It wasn't an accusation; it was a statement of fact, delivered with the same casual confidence as a comment about the weather.
Doug’s fingers froze over the keyboard. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Brian chuckled, a soft, dismissive sound. "Don't play dumb. It's not a good look on you. You’ve been undressing me with your eyes since nine AM." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "It's okay. I get it. A lot of people do."
Doug felt a flush of heat creep up his neck. He wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, but the lie would have been obvious. He was trapped.
"You're not bad yourself, you know," Brian continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. He leaned closer, his elbow resting on the partition of Doug's cubicle. "For a quiet guy. There's… something there. But I haven't made up my mind if I'm going to let you have what I’ve got."
The words were a lit match dropped on gasoline. The condescension, the casual power play, the assumption of control. It ignited a fuse in Doug that had been smoldering for weeks. All the ignored comments, all the stolen glances, all the suppressed frustration coalesced into a single, white-hot point of rage and desire. He was tired of being a spectator.
Slowly, deliberately, Doug pushed his chair back. The rollers made a loud, clattering sound on the plastic mat. He stood to his full height, a good three inches taller than Brian, and closed the small distance between them until their bodies were almost touching. He looked down into those insufferably confident green eyes.
"I'm not someone to fuck around with," Doug said, his voice low and steady, a dangerous calm in his tone. "So, don't fuck around with me."
For a split second, a flicker of surprise crossed Brian’s face, a crack in the facade. Then it was gone, replaced by a slow, mocking grin. He let out a short, sharp laugh. "You don't have the balls to do anything about it."
That was it. The line was crossed.
In a motion that was as much instinct as it was decision, Doug’s hand shot out. He didn't punch him. He didn't shove him. He grabbed him, his palm pressing firmly between Brian’s legs, cupping the heat and weight of him through the thin fabric of his dress slacks. At the same time, he lunged forward and crushed his mouth against Brian's.
It wasn't a kiss of passion or romance. It was an act of possession, a violent, claiming act. Doug’s lips were hard, his teeth scraping against Brian’s. He felt Brian’s body go rigid with shock, a muffled "Mmph!" vibrating against his mouth. But then, something transitioned. Brian didn't push back. He didn't fight. A low groan rumbled in his chest and his lips parted, his body yielding to the sudden, overwhelming force.
Doug’s other hand went to Brian's belt, fumbling with the cheap metal buckle for a second before it came free. He yanked, and the sound of a zipper being ripped down was obscenely loud in the silent office. He pushed the fine wool trousers down over Brian’s hips, letting them pool around his ankles.
Brian’s smile was back, but it was different now—breathless, dazed. "Doug," he started, but Doug was already moving.
He grabbed Brian by the shoulders and spun him around, forcing him to face the large, dark window that reflected their distorted shapes back at them like ghosts.
"What the fuck?" Brian’s voice was sharp with confusion, his hands bracing against the cool glass to steady himself.
Doug didn't answer. He spat into his own palm, the wet sound crude and raw. He didn't wait, didn't ask for permission. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Brian’s briefs and pulled them down, exposing the pale, firm curve of his ass. He pressed his slick fingers against Brian's tight hole, feeling the muscle clench in surprise.
"Easy, man," Brian breathed, his forehead pressed against the glass.
Doug ignored him. He worked his fingers inside, a rough, unceremonious preparation that was more about dominance than comfort. It had been less than a minute since he’d stood up. Thirty seconds, as he would later remember it. He freed his own cock, already rock-hard and leaking with pre-cum. He lined himself up, the head pressing against the slick, puckered entrance.
"Wait—" Brian started, but it was too late.
Doug thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful, unrelenting stroke. A sharp, guttural cry tore from Brian’s throat, a sound of pain and shock that was instantly swallowed by the vast emptiness of the office. Doug didn't stop. He didn't give him time to adjust. He gripped Brian’s hips, his fingers digging into the flesh, and began to fuck him with a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust was hard, deep, a statement of ownership. The sound of his hips slapping against Brian’s ass was a steady, percussive beat in the tomb-like silence.
Brian turned his head, his cheek pressed against the cool glass, his eyes wide and dark in the window's reflection. Doug leaned in, capturing his mouth again. This time the kiss was different. It was messy, open-mouthed, their tongues tangling in a desperate, primal dance as Doug continued to drive into him. He could taste the mint of Brian’s gum, the faint bitterness of coffee. He could feel Brian’s body, initially tense with resistance, beginning to move with him, to push back, a silent surrender to the overwhelming sensation.
The world shrank to this single, feral act. The city lights outside blurred into meaningless streaks of color. The expensive desks and leather chairs became just props in a primal drama. There was only the heat of Brian’s body against his, the tight, slick clench of his ass around Doug’s cock, and the desperate, hungry meeting of their mouths. Doug was no longer an intern, a ghost, a watcher. He was the center of this moment, the architect of this raw, brutal intimacy. Every suppressed urge, every condescending smirk, every moment of feeling small and invisible was being hammered out, thrust by thrust, into the willing body in front of him.
He could feel his orgasm building, a tight coil of heat low in his belly. The need was absolute, a biological imperative. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting between Brian’s shoulder blades. He could feel the frantic beat of Brian’s heart through his back, could hear his ragged, shallow pants. With a final, deep groan that felt like it was being torn from his soul, Doug slammed into him one last time and held himself there, buried as deep as he could possibly go. His cock pulsed, his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself into Brian, a hot, thick flood of release that felt like it was draining every last ounce of tension from his body. He was breeding him, marking him, making him his in the most visceral way possible.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, leaning against the window, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing the only sound in the vast, quiet room. The city twinkled below, indifferent. Slowly, Doug pulled out, the sensation leaving him feeling suddenly hollow. He took a shaky step back, tucking himself back into his pants. A single, pearly drop of cum clung to the tip of his softening dick before he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
Brian pushed himself upright, his movements stiff. He reached down and slowly, methodically, pulled up his trousers. He turned around, his face unreadable in the dim light from the monitor. His green eyes, once so full of mocking confidence, were now clouded, inscrutable. He ran a hand through his dark, sweat-damp hair, smoothing it back into place.
He looked Doug up and down, a slow, assessing gaze. Then, a ghost of his old smirk returned to his lips.
"Well, not the best, but better than average," Brian said, his voice surprisingly steady, almost conversational. "I didn't think you had it in you."
The words were like a slap. They weren't a compliment. They were a final, casual dismissal, a reassertion of the power dynamic that Doug had just so violently tried to shatter. He hadn't won. He had just provided a momentary distraction.
Without another word, Brian turned and walked away. His steps were sure, his back straight. He didn't look back. He rounded the corner of the cubicle and was gone, leaving Doug standing alone in the aftermath.
The silence that returned was heavier than before. It was no longer empty; it was filled with the echoes of what had just happened. The scent of sex and sweat hung in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile office smells. Doug could still feel the phantom pressure of Brian’s body against his, the taste of his mouth, the sound of his choked cry. He looked at the window, at the faint smudge of a hand-print Brian had left on the glass.
He was alone. The report on his screen was forgotten. The city outside was just a collection of distant lights. He had crossed a line, he had taken what he wanted, he had unleashed a part of himself he hadn't known existed. And he had never felt more used. Brian had taken his aggression, his desperation, his raw, unbridled passion, and had simply walked away from it, leaving him with nothing but the sticky residue on his skin and a profound, aching emptiness.
The next day, and every day after for the remaining three weeks of the internship, Brian acted as if nothing had happened. He would nod at Doug in the hallway, a polite, professional nod reserved for junior colleagues. He would ask him to pass a file in a meeting, his tone all business. The flirtatious comments were gone. The knowing glances were gone. The heat was gone. It was as if their encounter had been a dream, a figment of Doug’s overheated imagination.
But it wasn't. Doug would catch a glimpse of Brian laughing with his coworkers, that easy, charismatic charm on full display, and he would feel a cold knot form in his stomach. He had been a game, a curiosity, a box to be ticked. He had given Brian a story to tell, a wild anecdote about the quiet intern who turned out to be a tiger in the sack. And that's all he was. A story.
He finished his internship, received a polite "thank you for your contributions" from his manager, and packed his box. On his last day, he walked through the quiet bullpen, and for a moment, he allowed himself to stand by the window, looking out at the city. He remembered the heat of the glass against Brian’s forehead, the reflection of their entwined bodies. He remembered the feeling of absolute power, followed by the crushing weight of absolute loneliness. He had given in to his urges, and in doing so, had lost a piece of himself in the empty, silent office, a piece he knew he would never get back.
Doug leaned back in the seat of his car. He’d almost forgotten the level of emptiness that the episode had left him with. Plus the loss of confidence. He needed to talk to Ethan; he just had to.
If you enjoyed this story, consider visiting the author's website.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
