It was 8:20 when Tom parked on Rue Pasteur. A white Peugeot 308 station wagon, its back cluttered with green plastic crates, pruning shears, a leaf blower, and a large burlap sack folded in four. He turned off the engine, looked at the front of the house—white shutters, a thuja hedge on both sides, a small front garden that looked well-kept. In the background, he sensed something more substantial, more dense. Work.
A grey Golf was already parked in front of him. He didn't recognize the vehicle.
The front door opened before he had time to ring. A woman in her sixties — with short white hair, a flowered apron, and thin-framed glasses — gestured for him to come in directly.
"You must be Tom. Come in, the other boy is already here."
Ms. Berthier had that tone, neither cold nor familiar, precisely calibrated. She smelled of coffee and lavender. Tom followed her into the kitchen.
A guy was standing by the window, both hands around a cup. He looked up.
Tall—six foot two, maybe six foot three. Broad shoulders, the build of someone who worked physically rather than in a room, not lean but solid. Black hair, short on the sides, longer on top, slightly tousled. A square face, a clean jawline, three days' growth of black beard. He wore almost-new raw denim jeans, a brown leather work belt, and a heather gray short-sleeved T-shirt that fit well without being too tight. Twenty-six, twenty-seven years old.
"Luca."
The accent was there, discreet — the slightly rolled r's, the Italian music on the final syllable.
"Tom."
They shook hands. Firm, direct.
Ms. Berthier had already placed a third cup. An espresso each — small, strong, in old-fashioned white cups. She sat down opposite them and unfolded a handwritten list spanning two pages.
"The thuja hedge, on both sides — it hasn't been trimmed for two years. I want us to keep it two and a half meters high, but the sides are encroaching on the neighbors' property to the left. It's starting to cause friction."
Luca had taken a small notebook from his back pocket. He was taking notes in pencil, his head slightly tilted. Tom was drinking his coffee while listening. Good coffee.
"At the back, there's a strip of land to turn over and prepare. The perennials are under the shelter — rudbeckias, yarrow, echinacea — with planting cards. Spacing indicated."
She turned the page. She explained the automatic watering system and its temperamental timer, the tool shed key on the hook near the fridge, and the bread and butter on the worktop just in case.
"I'm leaving for my sister's around 9:30. I'll be back in the late afternoon." She looked at the two boys in turn. "I trust you."
*
At nine thirty-five, his car had disappeared at the end of the street and they found themselves alone in the garden.
The sun was still low but already biting for early May — one of those mornings when you know it's going to be a hot day. Luca had both hands on his hips, looking at the hedge with the air of someone calculating.
"It's not catastrophic. Two or three centimeters on the sides, the front is more important."
"What kind of equipment do you have?"
"A battery-powered hedge trimmer and a pole. What about you?"
"Electric and manual shears."
Luca glanced at it sideways. "Electric is better for the thuja trees. Less uprooting."
Tom shrugged with a half-smile. "We agree."
They went to get the equipment from their cars. Tom noted that Luca's Golf had a small trailer attached—tools arranged by size, bags of potting soil securely fastened. Meticulous.
They started with the hedge on the left, the longest one. Tom was on the ladder, Luca below to guide them and gather the clippings. The sound of the hedge trimmer filled the garden, the small branches falling like a green shower. It smelled strong—the distinctive resinous aroma of trimmed thuja, almost medicinal.
After half an hour they had found their rhythm. Tom cut, Luca adjusted: "A little to the right — no, go back up — there, that's it." They didn't know each other but they worked together with a natural ease, the coordination that comes quickly between people who do the same job with the same seriousness.
During a break, while drinking from his water bottle, Luca asked, "Are you originally from Paris?"
"Nantes. Moved up three years ago. You?"
"Turin. I worked in landscaping in Lyon for two years and then I started my own business. Self-employed."
"You the same?"
Tom agreed. "I also work two days a week for a landscaping company. The agency is mainly for direct clients."
Luca put the cap back on his water bottle. "What did you do before that?"
"Cabinetmaking, two years of apprenticeship. And then the outdoors caught up with me."
"I played semi-professional football until I was twenty. A damaged knee, and that's it. You have to eat."
Tom looked at him — they were a perfect match, the shoulders, the bearing. A guy who had had a different possible destiny and who had turned the page cleanly. "Were you in Turin?"
"Juventus." A smile. "I'm not saying that to be annoying."
"I don't care at all. If my friend Romain had come in my place, you wouldn't have heard the end of it."
"Who does he support?"
"OM."
Luca rolled his eyes with a theatrical expression. "Fuck."
They laughed. The kind of short laugh that marks the crossing of an invisible border.
*
Around eleven o'clock, the sun had moved over the edge and was shining fully on the back of the garden where they were now working the soil. Tom returned to the broadfork, Luca sharpened the clods with a rake. Regular strokes, breathing that quickened slightly, the silence of work.
Tom began to feel the heat building up in his t-shirt—white, short-sleeved, washed too often, the cotton a little thin in places. He put down the garden fork, grabbed the bottom of the t-shirt, and pulled it over his head. He stuffed it into the back pocket of his khaki cargo pants.
Luca looked at him for half a second, then he did the same. He carefully folded his grey t-shirt and placed it on the edge of the wheelbarrow.
Tom glanced over—he couldn't help it. A broad chest, well-developed pecs, the muscle of hard work, well-defined without being sculpted. A light black fuzz on the sternum, a defined belly line. A horizontal scar on the right hip, old, bleached white—the knee, probably, the trace that had resurfaced in the body's memory. Tom turned his attention back to the garden fork.
Luca had noticed him watching. He hadn't said anything.
Tom was slimmer in the shoulders, the body of a guy who runs and works with his hands—athletic without being bulky. Dark-haired, his hair pulled back by sweat. The waistband of his white boxer shorts peeked out from under his cargo pants, the Calvin Klein logo on the elastic.
They planted the perennials starting at 11:45. Mrs. Berthier's pots were neatly labeled, the information sheets taped on with the spacing marked. Luca had praised this aloud. Tom dug the holes, his hands black with soil. He loved this moment—feeling the resistance of the soil and then the lack of resistance.
*
At 1 p.m., Luca looked at his black Casio G-Shock and said, "Pause."
They put their t-shirts back on—the cotton still slightly damp with their perspiration, a relative coolness against their skin. They went to their cars to get their sandwiches.
Tom had a ham and butter sandwich with pickles, well wrapped in kraft paper. Luca had a Tupperware container — focaccia with sundried tomatoes and rocket, homemade the day before.
Tom looked at his sandwich. "Did you make this this morning?"
"Last night. Five minutes."
A slight resignation on the part of the ham and butter sandwich.
Luca had also taken two Peroni cans out of a work bag. The cans were still cold.
"You had planned for the beers."
" Always. "
They settled under the large linden tree at the far end—an imposing tree, its leaves already dense in early May, offering ample, cool shade. Backs against the trunk, legs stretched out in the grass. The garden smelled of fresh earth, pruned thujas, and a faint scent of warm resin. The perennials stood upright in their strip of turned soil.
They were entitled to a full hour and a half. Too far to go back. They stayed.
They ate in silence for the first few minutes, the comfortable silence of people who don't need to fill the space.
"Are you single?" Luca asked, without preamble.
Tom gave a small laugh of surprise. "Yeah. You?"
"Six months."
" How are you ? "
"It's okay. She was good, but we didn't want the same things." He took a sip of Peroni. "What's your latest?"
"A year ago. An interior designer and I ended up working on the same construction site. Four months."
Luca nodded. He looked at the sky through the linden leaves. "And here?"
Tom smiled. "I'm definitely in heat, as they say."
Luca gave a direct, unfiltered laugh. "Damn, me too. Exactly."
There was still an hour to go. Tom looked at his watch, looked at the grass still damp from the morning.
"Do you have a deck of cards?"
Luca felt his pockets. "No."
"Truth or dare."
Luca looked at him. A second of silence, his eyebrows slightly raised — not mistrust, but curiosity.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-seven."
"And you propose truth or dare."
Tom laughed. "It's the only game you can play with just two people and nothing else."
Luca thought about it. He drank the last of his Peroni, put the can down. A sideways smile, the kind that comes from making a decision.
"Truth first. I'm nice."
*
It was Luca who started it.
"Truth. Have you ever slept with a colleague—or a girl you met at work?"
Tom thought for a second. "Almost. A third-year internship, a girl from my team. We went out for a drink one evening, two drinks, and we kissed in the elevator. And that was it. We were afraid it would cause a stir at the office."
"Regrets?"
"That's a second question."
Luca smiled. "Right."
Tom sat up. "My turn. Truth. Have you ever taken a girl from behind on the first date?"
Luca didn't hesitate. "Yes."
" Often ? "
"That's a second question."
They laughed. The game had its own logic. The rules established themselves.
The truths flowed with an ease that barely surprised them—because there was something about that shared morning, the sweat and the dirt and the beers in the grass, that had created a rapid familiarity. The kind that normally takes months to build and sometimes happens in a matter of hours.
Tom had answered honestly about the last time he'd watched porn — "this week, like everyone else" — and about a run-in with a client that had almost cost him his business. Luca had answered about his knee, the surgery he'd had at twenty, the depression that followed, though he didn't really know what to call it at the time. Things you don't usually say to someone you've known for four hours.
Then Tom said, "Action."
Luca looked ahead. There was Mrs. Berthier's tulip bed—about fifteen yellow flowers along the back wall, quite full. He smiled gradually, the kind that starts from a quiet place and ends up being quite definite.
"You're going to pee on the tulips. Without using your hands."
Tom looked at him. "Hands-free."
"It's a technical challenge." His face was perfectly serious, his eyes laughing. "And anyway, they need water."
Tom looked at the tulips. He looked at Luca. He stood up.
He turned his back—five meters from Luca, facing the flowers. He unzipped the cargo pants, took out what he needed, and started to pee without holding it—arms at his sides, slightly apart for balance. He laughed almost immediately because the first few seconds had nearly soaked his shoes. Then it stabilized. A steady arc; the tulips were getting their due.
Behind his back, Luca was trying to suppress a laugh and couldn't.
Tom came back, zipping up his fly. "I didn't wet myself."
"For the first five seconds I wasn't sure."
They laughed out loud. The kind of laughter that feels good physically.
Luca took another sip of water. "Action for me."
Tom thought about it. He looked at Luca's raw denim jeans, the brown leather belt, the white waistband of the Athena boxer shorts that peeked out slightly. He had his idea.
"Take off your boxer shorts."
Luca stopped smiling. Not out of fear — an assessment.
"Are you kidding me?"
"It's truth or dare. You've accepted the game."
Luca looked around — at the neighbors' rooftops, barely visible from the shade of the linden tree. He looked at Tom. He put down his can.
"What would you do with the boxer shorts?"
"Put it in your pocket. Spend the afternoon working without it — jeans against your skin."
Luca grimaced. "That's going to irritate me. I have work this afternoon."
"That's the principle."
A silence. Luca exhaled through his nose. He stood up.
He undid the buckle of his leather belt—the sound of metal and leather. Unbuttoned his jeans, lowered the zipper. His hands slipped inside his waistband, and he pulled the jeans and boxers down his thighs together in one swift, decisive movement. A second or two exposed in the dim light of the linden tree—thick, dark thighs, black hair, a hefty piece hanging freely between his legs, heavy, fleshy, well-endowed. The cock of a guy who had nothing to hide and knew it.
He pulled up his jeans without the boxers, and adjusted the waistband. He held the boxers in his hand for a second—white, Athena, the elastic waistband dangling—and stuffed them into the right back pocket of his jeans. The white fabric peeked out slightly.
He sat back down in the grass and looked at Tom.
" So. "
Tom had watched. For a second, clean, unvarnished. He laughed. "You've got guts."
"I know." Luca shifted slightly, adjusting his position in the grass—you could see from his expression that the jeans against his skin were already causing discomfort. "The denim rubs directly. It's your fault if I'm irritated tomorrow."
Tom laughed, pleased with his move. The atmosphere between them was now clearly warmer, more playful, but still just friends. They continued the game for a few minutes, with some truths still a bit raw. Then Tom looked at Luca with a sly smile, the look of someone planning something good.
"Action for me."
Luca shrugged, relaxed.
"Go ahead, spill the beans."
Tom took his time, his eyes shining with mischief. He lowered his voice slightly:
"Earlier, you challenged me to pee on the tulips without using my hands. So now I still have a few drops left on the tip of my dick. I want you to come and take one. With your tongue. Just one drop, nothing more."
Luca's smile faded. He looked at Tom, his brows furrowed.
"What? Are you serious? I'm not going to lick your dick, damn it. What's with this nonsense?"
Tom raised his hands, calm but firm, with a smile that wouldn't leave him.
"Relax, it's not licking. You don't touch anything with your hands. You just come very close, open your mouth, stick out your tongue, and I'll shake it once to get rid of the drop. That's all. It's a game, man. You made me pee in front of you, now it's your turn. We're just friends, let's have some fun."
Luca exhaled through his nose, clearly hesitant. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uneasy, while looking around them. The garden was still completely closed, no one in sight.
"Damn... you're serious. Are we really doing this? You peed less than twenty minutes ago."
Tom chuckled softly.
"Exactly. And thanks to your challenge, I still have a drop left over. Come on, you have no choice, it's action. We're guys, we take responsibility. It's just a drop, not the end of the world."
Luca hesitated for several more seconds, his face a mixture of disgust and amusement. He shook his head.
"You're a real nutcase... Okay, fine. But just a drop, okay? And do it quickly. If you spray me, I'll kill you."
They got up and went to find a little more shelter behind the thick trunk of the large linden tree, their backs to the house. Tom quickly unzipped his khaki cargo pants and pulled them down just enough, revealing his white Calvin Klein boxers. He took out his large, heavy-hanging cock, still slightly damp from the previous urination. It was thick, uncircumcised, the foreskin covering the glans completely.
Luca made a nasty face, but approached anyway. He knelt down in the grass in front of Tom, his face about thirty centimeters from the penis, looking half-disgusted, half-resigned.
"Come on, hurry up," he snorted. "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue. And don't be an idiot."
Tom took his penis in one hand, gently pulled back the foreskin to expose the pink glans. A small, clear, warm drop appeared at the tip. He shook it once, firmly.
The drop fell directly onto Luca's stretched, flat tongue.
Luca immediately made a horrible face, his eyes narrowed, and reflexively spat to the side while grunting in a hoarse voice:
"Holy shit! It's salty and lukewarm... Yuck! You're a real bastard, Tom!"
Tom burst out laughing, his tail still hanging out, as he quickly pulled up his boxer shorts and cargo pants.
"Did you see? You did it! You took the plunge like a champ!"
Luca got up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, still disgusted but also laughing.
"I hate you. Honestly, I hate you. The next time you do something like this, I'm going to make you pay dearly, you dirty bastard."
They went back to sit under the linden tree, both laughing hysterically, the atmosphere even more electric and intimate than before. Luca shook his head, a big smile despite himself.
"Damn... we're both really crazy."
The truths resurfaced, more frank than ever. Luca asked if Tom had ever tasted his own semen out of curiosity. Tom answered yes, once, "out of curiosity, exactly, and I stopped there." Tom asked if Luca had ever licked a girl's ass. Luca answered yes, twice, with brief but precise details. The kind of questions you ask and receive when the filters have fallen away one by one without you even realizing it, and you're no longer indifferent.
Then Luca said, "Action."
Tom was waiting.
"Bare-chested. Both of you. And you come lick my armpit."
Tom looked at him. Luca's face was calm, a little too calm — the face of someone waiting to see if the other will back down.
Tom took off his t-shirt. Luca did the same, carefully folding his onto his knees. They were there, in the shade of the linden tree, shirtless in the grass. The light filtered through the leaves, casting short shadows on their shoulders.
Tom stood up. He approached. Luca raised his left arm and placed it behind his neck, offered, without irony. Tom bent down, put his tongue in the hollow of his armpit—warm, salty, the acrid, living scent of the entire morning—and withdrew it. A clear second.
He got up. He said nothing.
Luca put his arm down. "You didn't complain."
"I wasn't going to back down over an armpit."
Something had shifted in the atmosphere—not excitement per se, but a keen awareness that there was no longer much left unsaid between them, and that this was okay. That they had become something that didn't really have a name but was solid nonetheless.
Luca thought for a moment. He stared into space at the back of the garden. Then he said calmly:
"Action. You slide your hand into my crack and rub."
Tom sighed slowly. “You're crazy, man!”
Luca looked at him. "Your turn, man, I'm not wearing boxers underneath. Your hand goes between your jeans and your buttocks."
Tom looked at Luca's jeans — the dark blue denim, the leather belt. He knew what was underneath, he had just seen it. He stood up.
"You unbutton it a little."
Luca undid the first two buttons of his jeans, pulled the fabric apart slightly. He knelt in the grass, bent forward, both hands flat in the grass — arching slightly to offer what needed to be offered.
Tom slipped his hand over the waistband, down his back, between the denim and his skin. The jeans were warm, almost burning hot. And beyond the fabric—Luca's buttocks, soft, slightly damp from the day, the skin smooth and warm. He slid deeper, his fingers sliding down between his buttocks, the denim tightening slightly around his forearm. He felt the heat increase, the narrowing of the cleft, and at the very end of the crack—the dense, tight heat, the entrance, barely touched.
"Scrub well," said Luca.
Tom rubbed. Three, four strokes back and forth. The skin of her buttocks, soft and warm. The smell of the day, of sweat and work, rising up.
Luca had never experienced anything like it; no girl had ever touched that place, not even him. But in that unique moment with a stranger, the desire to experiment and share such raw intimacy was strong. He didn't feel immediate pleasure, but a profound surrender.
Tom withdrew his hand. He said nothing. Neither did Luca. Smiling glances.
Luca straightened up and buttoned his jeans. They looked at each other for a second. Two guys who have nothing left to hide and they know it.
"Wait... last action."
Tom raised an eyebrow.
"Let's finish the game properly. One last action for two. The tool shed. We'll unload our cocks on the wall. Simultaneous masturbation, without touching each other. Just to finish the game like guys."
Tom felt a jolt in his stomach. He looked at the small wooden shed at the bottom of the garden, then at Luca. He nodded slowly, a nervous smile on his lips.
"Damn... are you serious?"
"We've gone too far to turn back now, haven't we?" Luca replied with a low, raspy laugh. "This is the last one. After this, we pack up and leave."
They entered the dark, narrow storage room, filled with tools, stacked flowerpots, and the smell of damp earth. Luca closed the door behind them. Light filtered dimly through the small, dusty window. It was hot, the air heavy.
Without another word, they pulled their trousers down to their ankles in unison. Luca's raw denim jeans and Tom's khaki cargo pants ended up crumpled over their work boots. They remained shirtless, as they had been for much of the day. Their bodies, still warm and slightly sticky with sweat after hours of work, stood side by side facing the white wall.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, but without their torsos touching. Standing with their legs slightly apart, they each took their penis in their right hand. Luca began to stroke himself slowly, then more frankly. Tom imitated him. Their penises were already stiff, hot, and veiny.
Luca placed his left hand on his own chest. He rolled his nipple between his fingers, then squeezed his pec. Tom did the same on his side, his palm sliding across his chest, pinching his hardened nipple.
"Damn... that feels good," Luca groaned, his voice already hoarse. "Look at us... two guys jerking off like crazy in some old lady's shed."
Tom let out a breathless laugh as he accelerated the movement on his tail.
"You're right... we're completely crazy. But it's so good."
They were now masturbating harder, faster. The rhythmic, dry sound of skin sliding filled the small space. Their free hands continued to knead their own torsos, pinch their nipples, and roll the muscles beneath their palms. Sweat beaded again on their chests and trickled between their abs.
Luca was breathing through his mouth, his eyes fixed on the wall.
"Go ahead... let's do this right. I want the best possible explosion on this wall."
"Me too," Tom breathed, concentrating. "Come on... together."
They accelerated even more, their fists rising and falling rapidly, their testicles slapping lightly against their thighs. Luca gritted his teeth. His abs contracted violently.
He came first: a long, powerful jet that slapped against the wall, followed by several thick, white, heavy spurts that streaked the plaster in clearly visible trails. The semen began to flow slowly, in thick, glistening rivulets.
Tom groaned deeply immediately afterward. He exploded in turn: even more abundant, powerful jets that joined and covered Luca's in long, creamy trails. The wall was now covered with their mingled semen, which dripped slowly in thick drops that slid toward the floor.
Silence fell again, broken only by their heavy, ragged breathing.
They stood there for a moment, their penises still half-hard, twitching in their hands, the wall in front of them covered with their juice, which flowed in slow, viscous streams.
Luca looked at the result, then at Tom, and a big, knowing smile appeared on his face.
"Damn... look at that. We really loaded the wall."
Tom laughed, still out of breath.
"Yeah... mine's thicker than yours, isn't it?"
"You're an idiot," Luca laughed. "Mine is whiter."
Without another word, Luca opened his arms. Tom pressed himself against him immediately. Their bare torsos met completely: pecs against pecs, skin warm and sticky with sweat, hearts still pounding. They held each other in a long, firm, manly embrace, their hands on each other's backs. The air was thick with the smell of ass, sweat, cock, and cum, but it was beautiful. Two guys who had just completely let go and felt closer than ever.
They stayed like that for a good ten seconds, then they separated gently, still out of breath, with a nervous little laugh.
They quickly pulled up their jeans, tucked their still-sensitive penises into their boxers, and adjusted their belts. They put their dirty t-shirts back on, still damp with sweat. Luca ran a hand through his curly black hair to smooth it down. Tom wiped some sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
They went back out into the garden as if nothing had happened, the shed closed behind them.
The garden was immaculate. Mrs. Berthier never knew that her little shed still smelled a little of sperm, penis and the complicity of two handsome gardeners who had let loose like never before.
In the street, in front of their cars parked one behind the other, they silently loaded the equipment. The sun was setting, the shadows of the houses lengthened on the asphalt.
Tom closed the tailgate. Luca was securing his tools on the other side of the trailer.
"Do you have a phone?"
Luca took out a black Android phone. They exchanged numbers casually.
Luca put the phone back in his pocket. He looked at Tom — the same look as in the morning, direct, without any particular subtext, just present.
"Next time the agency finds something annoying for you, you call me."
Tom smiled. "Same here."
They shook hands. The same grip as in the morning — firm, direct. But different nonetheless.
The Golf started first, disappeared around the corner.
Tom took one last look through the windshield at Mrs. Berthier's garden—the neat hedge, the upright perennials in their fresh soil, the tulips along the wall. A job well done. He turned on the ignition.
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