The rest of the weekend passed in a strangely normal blur. Ryan came home late on Saturday morning, hungover and smug about his conquest, none the wiser about what had happened in Jake’s bedroom the night before. The three of them fell back into old rhythms: endless FIFA sessions on the PlayStation, greasy takeaway pizza devoured on the sofa, a couple of action films blaring on the TV while they heckled the plot holes. Tom acted completely natural around Ryan–bro hugs, trash talk, the usual–but every so often his eyes would flick to Jake, a quick, private smile or a subtle wink that made Jake’s stomach flip. Jake kept waiting for the awkwardness, but it never came. Tom was effortless, treating him exactly like always… except for the occasional brush of a hand on Jake’s lower back when Ryan wasn’t looking, or the way he’d mouth “you okay?” across the room. By the time Tom and Ryan packed their bags on Sunday evening and headed back to uni, Jake felt a confusing mix of relief and aching emptiness.
Two weeks crawled by.
Jake threw himself into school, running club, and the gym, trying not to stare at his phone every five minutes. Finally, one quiet Thursday evening, he opened the message thread with Tom and typed:
Jake: Hey, you alright? Just checking in
The reply came within minutes.
Tom: All good mate, you? How’s the little bro holding up?
And just like that, they started chatting. At first it was harmless–safe territory.
Jake: Did you watch the Six Nations game last weekend? Tom: Yeah, gutted we lost. You catch it? Jake: Course, was screaming at the telly Tom: Haha classic. How’s college going? Jake: Boring as hell. You killing it at the gym still? Tom: Trying to. Legs day nearly ended me yesterday.
They added each other on Snapchat a few days later. Early snaps were innocent: Jake sent a selfie in his school hoodie after a run, Tom replied with a goofy one pulling a face in the uni library. Then Tom started posting gym mirror shots—sweaty, pumped, vest clinging to his chest. Jake saved every single one without thinking, then felt guilty about it.
The tone shifted gradually.
One night Tom sent a post-shower snap: hair wet, towel low on his hips, that golden tan glowing under the bathroom light, caption “finally clean.” Jake’s heart hammered as he typed back a weak “looking good mate ”.
A week later came the one that really tested Jake: Tom in bed, sheet pulled up to his waist, a cushion strategically placed over his crotch, abs and pecs on full display, caption “so horny it’s painful, send help ”. Jake stared at it for a full five minutes, thumb hovering, pulse racing. He replied with a laughing emoji and “poor you ”, playing it safe.
He didn’t dare send anything risky back. What if he’d misread everything? What if Tom was just messing around, being his usual flirty-with-everyone self?
But the need built. One evening after a workout, Jake stood in front of his mirror in nothing but a brand-new pair of red Calvin Klein briefs–the same shade as the jockstrap he’d worn that night. They hugged his toned legs and framed his ass perfectly. He snapped a mirror pic from behind, arching his back just a little, caption: “got new pants ”.
He hit send before the nerves could stop him.
Seen.
No reply.
Jake’s stomach dropped. He checked obsessively the rest of the night–nothing. The next day–nothing. By Tuesday evening he was spiralling, convinced he’d ruined whatever fragile thing they’d had.
Then on Wednesday his phone rang–Ryan.
“Oi, little bro! Fancy coming down this weekend? We’ll have a proper sesh–beers, club, the works. Get absolutely fucked up.”
Jake’s heart was already pounding. “Yeah, sounds good. Thanks for thinking of me.”
Ryan laughed down the line. “Mate, I’d love to take the credit, but it was actually Tom’s idea. He was like ‘we should get Jake down, he’s been stuck at home too long.’ So pack your bag, yeah? Train Friday after college?”
Jake grinned so wide his cheeks hurt, a rush of warmth flooding through him.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Definitely. Can’t wait.”
He hung up and stared at his phone, butterflies rioting in his stomach.
Tom had asked for him.
This weekend was going to be interesting. Jake really, really hoped he’d get fucked up–in every sense of the phrase.
If you enjoyed this story, consider supporting the author on Patreon.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
