This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
Boys' Night Out
Harry adjusted his shirt in the mirror of his ride-share, his strong fingers working with surprising delicacy to ensure the hem of his turquoise boxer shorts peeked out just enough above his low-rise black jeans. The calculated flash of color against the dark denim created exactly the visual impact he sought—a deliberate wardrobe malfunction that suggested casual indifference while actually being meticulously planned. He knew exactly what he was doing; every detail of his outfit, from the precisely distressed jeans that hugged his massive thighs like a second skin to the fitted black V-neck that struggled to contain his upper body, was calculated for maximum attention. The careful dishevelment of his platinum blonde hair, the subtle cologne applied to strategic pulse points, the gleaming watch that drew attention to his thick wrists—nothing was accidental in Harry Schett's presentation.
The car pulled smoothly to the curb outside The Velvet Stag, a trendy gay bar in the next town that had become something of a weekend institution among the more cosmopolitan crowd. The establishment was known for its sleek, moody lighting scheme that cast everyone in the most flattering possible glow, its neon signs that provided perfect Instagram backdrops, and its cocktails with names that made even the most seasoned drinkers raise an eyebrow in amused confusion. It wasn't really Harry's scene—he preferred places where the music didn't swallow conversation whole and where the drinks didn't require a translation guide—but Jase liked it. It was their little ritual, developed over years of friendship: Jase on the perpetual lookout for someone genuine amid the sea of superficial connections, Harry playing the supportive wingman whose very presence guaranteed they'd never lack for company.
Harry spotted Jase immediately upon exiting the car, his best friend leaning casually against the outside wall of the bar, scrolling through his phone with practiced nonchalance. Dressed in perfectly fitted grey jeans that hugged his athletic legs and a black V-neck that revealed just the right amount of his developing chest, Jase looked effortlessly cool in the way only someone completely comfortable in their skin can manage. His physique wasn't massive by any objective standard—not compared to Harry's colossal development—but he was solid, athletic, with the subtle hint of his pecs visible beneath the fabric's dip, the suggestion of definition without overwhelming mass.
"Oi, lover boy," Harry called out as he approached, his voice carrying easily over the muted thump of bass escaping whenever the bar door opened.
Jase looked up from his screen, a smirk playing across his features as he pocketed his phone in one smooth motion. "Took your time, didn't you?" he replied, his eyes performing a quick, appreciative scan of Harry's appearance. His gaze lingered momentarily on Harry's chest, straining against the fabric as always, then dropped lower, taking in the carefully exposed waistband of the turquoise boxers. Jase knew exactly why Harry dressed like this, understood the deliberate performance of it all, and played his part in their well-established dynamic without missing a beat.
Harry shrugged broad shoulders that stretched his shirt to its absolute limit, the casual gesture belying the years of dedicated work evident in every ripple of muscle. "Had to make sure I looked good enough to be your plus one," he responded with mock seriousness, as if the concept of Harry Schett not being the visual center of attention wherever he went was somehow conceivable.
With theatrical flair worthy of the West End, Jase gasped in exaggerated offense, slipping his arm through Harry's with flourish and adopting an over-the-top, camp boyfriend strut toward the entrance. "Don't worry, babe," he declared loudly enough for nearby queuers to hear, "I'll keep the vultures off you. They're all so desperate tonight." The performance was perfect in its knowing parody, simultaneously playing to and subverting expectations.
Harry laughed, a genuine sound of amusement, rolling his eyes at their familiar routine. They'd done this for years, ever since Jase had come out during their university days, this comfortable dynamic evolving naturally between them. Jase was the sarcastic, dry-humored charmer who navigated social waters with effortless wit, while Harry played the role of cocky, muscle-bound distraction, drawing attention like a lightning rod and allowing Jase to observe and select from those whose gazes eventually returned to him.
As they entered the crowded space, the reaction was immediate and predictable. Heads turned, conversations paused mid-sentence, eyes tracked their movement through the press of bodies with the instinctive attention commanded by exceptional physical presence. The effect rippled through the crowd like a wave, people nudging companions, whispering behind hands, recalibrating their postures to appear more noticeable.
It happened every time without fail.
Harry was entirely accustomed to it by now—the whispers, the stares, the double takes when people thought he wasn't looking. The weight of constant observation had been his companion for so long that its absence would have felt more uncomfortable than its presence. He didn't even need to flex or pose anymore; simply existing in a space was enough to create a gravitational pull of attention. His body did the work without conscious effort, each movement a display of controlled power that drew the eye regardless of intention.
Jase, still clinging to Harry's massive arm in their practiced charade, gave an exaggerated sigh of put-upon suffering. "Ugh, babe, they're staring at us again," he lamented with perfect comic timing. "We're just trying to have a quiet night!" The complaint was delivered with such conviction that a nearby patron actually looked momentarily embarrassed at being caught watching them.
Harry grinned, the expression lighting up his classically handsome features, making him appear momentarily boyish despite his imposing physique. "Can't help it," he responded with practiced humility that fooled no one. "Must be your bubble butt. Told you those jeans were too tight." The teasing was comfortable, familiar, the back-and-forth of two people who knew each other well enough to play at the edges of potentially sensitive topics without causing actual offense.
Jase released his grip with a playful shove that would have sent a smaller man stumbling, laughing as he regained his own personal space. "You're insufferable," he declared without heat, already scanning the bar area with the practiced eye of someone who knew exactly how to navigate these waters. "First round's on you for that comment." Without waiting for a response, he headed toward the crowded bar, knowing Harry would follow, knowing the sea of bodies would part to let them through simply because of the physical presence Harry projected without conscious effort.
They found a corner booth eventually, after collecting their drinks and navigating through the packed dance floor where hands seemed to find reasons to brush against Harry's arms, chest, and lower body with suspicious frequency. Harry took up far more space than was reasonable in the curved seating, his broad frame filling what was designed as a spot for two average-sized people. His massive thighs spread naturally wide, taking up territory like a physical manifestation of confidence, while his upper body created a landscape of curves and planes beneath his stretched shirt that drew glances from passing patrons regardless of their usual preferences.
Jase slid into the booth opposite him with considerably less spatial impact, setting down their drinks on the small table between them—a simple beer for Harry, who maintained the fiction that his physique was built on nothing but clean living, and something colorful and complicated for himself that came with both a garnish and a story from the bartender who had made it with particular attentiveness.
"So," Jase said, leaning back against the cushioned seat and taking a sip of his elaborate concoction, "How's life in the glamorous world of pizza?" The question referred to Harry's current employment—a stop-gap job at an upscale pizzeria that somehow managed to be both beneath his qualifications and perfectly suited to his natural charm.
Harry groaned dramatically, rubbing a hand over his face in a gesture of genuine exasperation that seemed at odds with his usual confident demeanor. "Mate, I swear if I hear 'where's my extra pepperoni?' one more time, I'm gonna start launching pizzas at customers like frisbees." The complaint held the weight of real frustration, a rare glimpse of Harry's life beyond the carefully curated image he typically projected.
Jase snorted into his drink, nearly causing a minor cocktail disaster. "At least you've got a future in competitive pizza tossing," he countered with the easy humor of someone who truly enjoyed his friend's company. "Not sure I can say the same for this whole building-site thing." His own job—recently secured at a construction company that was slowly but steadily utilizing his engineering degree—was still new enough to be mentioned with a certain tentative pride.
"You enjoying it?" Harry asked, genuine interest breaking through his usual facade of casual indifference. For all his self-absorption, he paid attention to the things that mattered to those he cared about.
Jase shrugged, but the gesture couldn't quite hide the satisfaction in his expression. "Yeah, actually," he admitted, taking another sip of his drink. "Finally doing something with that degree, unlike someone I know." The gentle dig carried no real criticism, just the familiar teasing of their long-established friendship.
Harry smirked, flexing one massive arm in an exaggerated display that made the seams of his shirt protest audibly. "Listen, mate, I took one for the team," he declared with mock solemnity. "Couldn't have both of us being boring engineers. Someone had to maintain the entertainment value in this friendship." The joke landed as intended, playing on their different life choices without judgment.
They caught up properly then, the conversation flowing easily between them as it always did, covering the familiar territory of their intersecting lives. Jase was still casually seeing some lad from Grindr, though nothing serious had developed—"Great in bed, bit dim otherwise," was his succinct assessment. Harry, as usual, had nothing substantial to report on the romance front beyond the countless admirers who seemed to materialize wherever he went, none of whom had managed to hold his interest beyond the initial flattery of their attention.
Then, as the evening progressed and their drinks emptied and were replaced by fresh ones, the conversation shifted into the gossipy territory that often emerged after the preliminary updates were complete. Harry, finishing his second pint with a satisfied exhale, leaned forward across the small table with the air of someone about to share particularly juicy information, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, you'll love this," he promised, his voice dropping slightly though still audible over the pulsing music. "So the other day, I was out with my dad, right? We're at The Chapel, having our usual Thursday thing, and this kid behind the bar—Ethan, some nervous student who's covering shifts—just completely loses his composure."
Jase raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh?" he prompted, always ready for stories that involved Harry's equally impressive father, a man who featured prominently in many of their conversations despite being kept at arm's length from their actual socializing.
Harry grinned, warming to his story. "Mate, he's flustered as hell from the moment we walk in, overfills the pint, spills beer everywhere, can barely string a sentence together without stuttering. And then later, when we're eating, he pours an entire jug of cheese sauce down my dad's shirt." He recounted the incident with relish, his hands gesturing expressively to illustrate the magnitude of the disaster.
Jase burst out laughing, the mental image striking him as particularly hilarious. "Jesus Christ," he managed between chuckles. "The poor kid must have wanted to disappear on the spot."
"Yeah, and my dad just sits there with this sauce all over him, sighs like he's contemplating the meaning of life, and is like, 'I can't get on the bus home like this,'" Harry continued, doing a passable impression of his father's deeper voice and resigned expression. "So deadpan, like having dairy products spilled on him is just another Thursday inconvenience."
Jase wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye, his laughter subsiding into occasional chuckles. "Poor kid. I mean, to be fair, I wouldn't say no to your dad." The comment slipped out with the casual honesty of someone slightly buzzed and very comfortable with the person they were speaking to.
Harry's face froze mid-laugh, his expression shifting into a comical cringe. "Oh, mate. No. Shut up." The reaction was visceral, the natural recoil of someone confronted with the concept of their parent as a sexual being.
Jase smirked, taking a deliberate sip of his drink with zero shame for his comment, his eyes twinkling with the satisfaction of having provoked exactly the response he'd been aiming for. The moment passed, conversation drifting to other topics, but the seed had been planted for later developments.
Several rounds later, the atmosphere between them had shifted subtly, altered by the alcohol in their systems and the late hour. The bar had grown more crowded, the music louder, the lighting somehow more intimate. Jase was leaning back in his seat, drink in hand, his eyes half-lidded from the pleasant buzz of good cocktails and easy company. His usual sharp wit had softened around the edges, his posture more relaxed, his filter less vigilant.
The playful banter that characterized their friendship had taken a predictable turn—Jase flirting with Harry after one too many drinks, the behavior so routine that neither of them questioned it anymore. Harry, for his part, had fallen into his usual response pattern, flexing 'accidentally' at strategic moments, stretching in ways that showcased the impressive musculature of his arms and chest, playing along with the game that always remained safely in the territory of joke rather than genuine proposition.
Harry smirked, catching Jase staring a moment too long at his chest after a particularly deliberate stretch. "Mate, you've got to stop falling in love with my muscles," he teased, the familiar line delivered with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how attractive they were without being entirely obnoxious about it.
Jase, more affected by the drinks than he might have admitted, waved a dismissive hand that made a slightly wobbly trajectory through the air. "Don't flatter yourself," he retorted with the indignation of someone protesting too much. Then, after a pause during which some internal debate seemed to conclude, he confidently added, "But I wasn't joking about your dad earlier." His finger extended to probe Harry's thick pec as he spoke, the physical contact landing somewhere between friendly and something more charged.
Harry raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by the persistence of this particular topic. "Seriously?!" he asked, his tone hovering between amusement and mild horror at the direction of Jase's thoughts.
Jase leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table between them, his eyes holding Harry's with unusual intensity. "Dead serious," he confirmed without a hint of teasing. "I mean, look at him. The man's basically you but with more...gravitas." The description was unexpectedly thoughtful coming from someone who'd had as much to drink as Jase had.
Harry, deciding to play with this unexpected development rather than shut it down, adopted an expression of mock offense, laying a hand dramatically over his heart. "Wow. So you'd pick my dad over me? I'm hurt. Devastated, actually." The performance was deliberately over-the-top, a clear signal that he was treating this as an extension of their usual banter rather than a genuine proposition.
Jase, not realizing that Harry was winding him up rather than seriously questioning his preferences, nodded with drunken solemnity and zero hesitation. "Mate, I'd do anything you asked if it meant I could have a go on that," he declared with unexpected candor, his finger returning to prod Harry's massive pec with deliberate pressure, lingering longer than strictly necessary for emphasis. The touch carried a weight of intention that their usual playful interactions typically avoided.
Harry tilted his head slightly, genuinely intrigued by this new dynamic between them. Jase had flirted before, certainly, but always with the implied understanding that it was performance rather than genuine interest. This felt different—more direct, more honest in its intoxicated candor. Curious to see just how far this might go, Harry shifted slightly in his seat, his massive thighs spreading wider in the booth, filling the space with an even more imposing physical presence. "Maybe it's me who likes being told what to do," he suggested, watching Jase's reaction closely, testing the boundaries of their usual interactions with deliberate provocation.
The effect on Jase was immediate and unmistakable. His eyes widened perceptibly, pupils dilating in the dim light, and for the first time that night—perhaps for the first time in their entire friendship—he looked genuinely flustered rather than coolly composed. "Uh—" he began, then seemed to lose his train of thought entirely, reaching for his glass with unusual haste. "Right. I need another round."
Without waiting for a response, he downed the last of his cocktail in one determined swallow and practically bolted for the bar, weaving through the crowd with the single-minded focus of someone fleeing an uncomfortable revelation.
Harry remained seated, grinning to himself as he watched Jase's hasty retreat. Something had shifted between them tonight—something small but significant, a recalibration of their dynamic that might fade with sobriety or might develop into something neither of them had anticipated. Either way, Harry found himself unusually curious about where this might lead, a novel sensation for someone generally content to be admired without deeper engagement.
The night air bit with unexpected chill as they finally emerged from the warmth of the bar, the temperature having dropped significantly during their hours inside. Jase, now fully drunk after several more rounds that seemed calculated to avoid further meaningful conversation, pushed himself under Harry's huge arm for warmth, his body seeking heat with the unself-conscious directness of the thoroughly intoxicated.
"Fuckin' freezing," he muttered, his words slightly slurred as he huddled closer, seemingly unbothered by the way this pressed him against the solid wall of Harry's side.
Harry accepted this development with easy accommodation, draping one massive arm around Jase's shoulders in casual protection. It wasn't unusual for them to be physically close—their friendship had never maintained rigid boundaries about personal space—but tonight carried a different energy, a charged awareness that made even familiar contact feel somehow new.
As they waited for their ride home, standing beneath the neon glow of The Velvet Stag's elaborate signage, Jase's hands began to wander with the uninhibited curiosity of someone too intoxicated to maintain normal social restraint. His fingers dragged slowly over Harry's torso, tracing the impressive contours visible even through his shirt, before settling on his lower back in a touch that lingered just at the boundary of casual contact.
Then, voice thick with the combined effects of alcohol and something that might have been desire, Jase murmured, "Mate, I'd love to worship your physique." The word choice was unexpected, carrying connotations beyond simple admiration.
Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "Worship?" he repeated, the term unfamiliar in this context despite his extensive experience with being admired.
Not wanting to appear clueless or unsophisticated, especially when Jase seemed to be operating with knowledge Harry lacked, he covered his confusion with a confident smirk. "You're welcome to," he offered with the casual generosity of someone accustomed to being the object of attention.
Jase didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess the permission he'd been granted. His hands moved with surprising purpose given his intoxicated state, sliding lower to grasp more substantial territory. His fingers spread wide to appreciate the full extent of what they encountered, massaging, squeezing—gripping with an intensity that suggested reverence rather than casual appreciation, as though handling something truly precious.
Harry stood motionless, uncharacteristically thrown off balance by this development. For all his confidence, for all his comfort with being admired and touched, this felt different—more intentional, more meaningful than the casual appreciative contact he typically encountered. He experienced a rare moment of awkwardness, unsure how to respond to this level of focused attention from someone whose opinion actually mattered to him.
The moment stretched between them, suspended in the cold night air, before the headlights of their approaching cab broke the spell. The vehicle pulled to the curb with impeccable timing, its arrival providing a natural conclusion to a situation that had veered into unfamiliar territory.
Jase released his grip reluctantly, swaying slightly as they moved toward the waiting car. By the time they settled into the back seat, the alcohol had caught up with him completely. He passed out within seconds of the car pulling away from the curb, his head falling heavily onto Harry's massive chest as consciousness deserted him entirely.
Harry sighed, shaking his head with fond exasperation at his friend's state, before draping a protective arm around Jase's shoulders. The simple gesture felt charged with new significance after the evening's developments, though Harry couldn't have articulated exactly what had changed between them.
As the cab navigated the quiet streets toward home, Harry found himself unusually contemplative, his thoughts circling around the concept Jase had introduced. Worship. Such a loaded word, carrying connotations of devotion, of reverence, of power dynamics he'd never consciously explored despite benefiting from them in countless casual encounters.
The steady rhythm of Jase's breathing against his chest provided a counterpoint to these thoughts as Harry gradually surrendered to his own fatigue, drifting into a drunken sleep filled with fragments of the evening's conversations and the lingering sensation of hands appreciating him with unprecedented intensity. Tomorrow would bring sobriety and probably awkward avoidance of the subject, but for now, suspended in the liminal space between consciousness and dreams, Harry allowed himself to wonder what it might mean to be truly worshipped rather than merely admired.
