Barry's thumb found the joystick of his controller before his brain caught up with what his eyes were seeing. The plastic was warm from two hours of his palms, and he gripped it like a lifeline, his knuckles going pale against the worn rubber. The door had swung open on its hinge, and he stood half in the hallway, half in the room, the weight of his backpack still dragging at one shoulder.
The room smelled like stale pizza and damp towels. The air was thick and close, the window cracked only a finger's width, and the single desk lamp cast a low, yellow pool across the carpet. In the shadows beyond that pool lay a pile of jeans and a discarded bra, tangled together like they'd been kicked off in a hurry. Barry's eyes registered all of it in a half-second — the mess, the lamp, the bra — and then they landed on the bed.
Jake was sprawled across his mattress like he owned the entire building. His bare chest rose and fell in the flickering light of the TV, a fine dusting of blonde hair catching the glow and turning it silver at the edges. The blanket was tented over his lap, the shape of it unmistakable, and his head was tipped back against the headboard, his mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on the screen.
The screen.
Barry's gaze followed Jake's, and his stomach dropped through the floor.
A woman was on her knees on the TV, her mouth stretched around a man's cock, her eyes watering as she took him deeper. The audio filled the silence between them — a wet, rhythmic sound, breathy and obscene, punctuated by the man's low groans. The volume was up. It was definitely up. Barry could hear every slick inch of it.
His fingers tightened on the controller. The joystick creaked under the pressure.
Jake's head snapped toward the door.
For one long, frozen moment, neither of them moved. Jake's blue eyes went wide, his mouth still hanging open, his hand hovering over the remote on the bed beside him like it had been caught mid-reach. The blanket over his lap shifted with a small, involuntary twitch, and Barry watched the shape of it move, watched the fabric pull tight against something underneath.
His throat closed.
"Shit," Jake said. The word came out rough, scraped. He blinked, and something in his face changed — the shock softening, the corners of his mouth twitching up into something almost apologetic. "Bro. I didn't—" He gestured vaguely at the door, at the TV, at the whole embarrassing tableau. "I thought I locked it."
Barry couldn't move. His feet were nailed to the threshold, his hand still gripping the door frame, the controller dangling uselessly from his other hand. The woman on the TV moaned, a low, drawn-out sound that seemed to hang in the air between them like smoke.
Jake's hand moved toward the remote again, and Barry watched it happen in slow motion — the thick fingers, the dusting of blonde hair across the knuckles, the way the muscles in his forearm shifted as he reached. The remote was just out of his reach, sitting at the edge of the mattress, and Jake had to stretch for it, his body arching slightly, the blanket slipping lower on his hips.
Barry saw the V of his pelvis. Saw the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric. Saw the way the blanket tented upward, straining, and his brain short-circuited completely.
"It's cool."
The words came out of his mouth before he knew he was saying them. His voice was higher than he wanted, thinner, but it cut through the wet sounds from the TV like a knife. Jake's hand froze mid-reach, his fingers inches from the remote, and he turned to look at Barry with an expression that was half relief, half surprise.
"What?"
"It's cool," Barry repeated. His heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. "We're both guys. No hang-ups." He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet. "If you want to, you know. Keep going. I don't care."
The words hung in the air between them, and Barry felt his face go hot. He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, could feel the way his ears were burning, and he wanted nothing more than to turn around and walk out of the room and never come back. But his feet wouldn't move. They were rooted to the carpet, and his eyes were rooted to Jake, and the controller was still warm in his hand, and the woman on the TV was still moaning, and the room still smelled like stale pizza and damp towels, and Jake was looking at him with those bright blue eyes and that slow, spreading grin.
"No shit?" Jake said. He laughed, a low, easy sound that seemed to vibrate through the close air. "You're a real one, bro."
He settled back against the headboard, the motion casual and unselfconscious, and his hand found the blanket. He adjusted it, tugged it down slightly, and then his hand disappeared beneath it again. Barry watched the fabric shift, watched the shape of Jake's forearm move under the blanket, and his mouth went dry.
"You game?" Jake asked, his eyes already drifting back to the screen. The woman on the TV had shifted position, and now she was on her back, her legs spread, the man positioning himself between them. Jake's gaze fixed on the image with the same easy attention he might give a basketball game, and his hand moved in a slow, rhythmic motion beneath the blanket.
Barry's brain stopped working entirely.
"I—" He heard his own voice, thin and distant. "Yeah. I mean. I was just going to—" He gestured vaguely with the controller, toward his desk, toward his side of the room, toward anywhere that wasn't here, wasn't this, wasn't the sight of Jake Miller's hand moving under a blanket while a woman on the TV spread her legs for a man who wasn't either of them.
"Cool," Jake said. "Don't let me interrupt your game." He didn't look away from the screen. His other hand was resting on his stomach, fingers splayed across the blonde hair, and Barry watched the way his abs moved with each breath, the way the blanket rose and fell with his rhythm.
Barry's feet finally cooperated. He stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a click that sounded too loud in the quiet. He moved toward his side of the room, his desk, his chair, his own bed with its carefully folded sheets and its single pillow. He set the controller down on the desk, and his hands were shaking so badly he nearly knocked over a stack of notebooks.
He caught himself on the edge of the desk, his palms flat against the wood, and he took a breath. Then another. The air was thick with the smell of pizza and sweat and something else — something musky and warm that he couldn't name, that he didn't want to name, that made his stomach clench with a feeling he'd spent two years trying to ignore.
Behind him, the TV changed sound. The woman's moans became sharper, quicker, punctuated by the wet slap of skin on skin. Barry heard Jake exhale, a low, rough sound that was almost a grunt, and he closed his eyes.
He should sit down. He should sit at his desk and turn on his computer and play his game and pretend none of this was happening. That was what a normal person would do. That was what a roommate with no hang-ups would do.
Instead, he turned.
Jake was still sprawled across his bed, his head tipped back, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the screen. His hand was moving faster now, the blanket shifting with each stroke, and Barry could see the outline of it — the thick shape of his forearm, the way the muscles tensed and relaxed, the way his hips had begun to shift in small, involuntary movements.
The woman on the TV was moaning, her voice rising, and Jake's breathing had changed — deeper, rougher, catching at the edges. Barry watched his throat work as he swallowed, watched the way his jaw tightened, and he couldn't look away.
He was frozen again. His hands hung at his sides, his heart pounding so hard he could feel it in his fingertips, and he watched his roommate jerk off to porn on a Tuesday night like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Jake's eyes flicked toward him.
For a second, they just looked at each other. Jake's hand never stopped moving, and his gaze was lazy, unfocused, his pupils blown wide in the flickering light of the TV. He grinned, that same easy grin, and Barry felt his breath catch in his throat.
"You gonna watch, bro?" Jake asked. His voice was rough, low, barely above a whisper. "Or you just gonna stand there?"
Barry's mouth opened. No sound came out.
The woman on the TV cried out, a sharp, breathless sound, and Jake's eyes slid back to the screen. His hips bucked once, twice, and Barry saw the blanket strain against his grip, saw the way his whole body tensed, and he knew — he knew — that he should look away. That he should turn around and sit at his desk and play his game and pretend he hadn't seen any of this.
But his eyes stayed fixed on the movement of Jake's hand, on the rhythm of his breathing, on the way his chest rose and fell beneath the blonde hair, and he couldn't move.
He couldn't move, and he couldn't look away, and the room filled with the sound of Jake's soft grunts, and Barry stood there, still holding the door frame, still frozen, still watching — as the blanket shifted, and Jake's hand moved, and the TV flickered, and the woman's moans rose to a pitch that seemed to fill every corner of the room.
His fingers found the edge of his desk, the wood worn smooth from years of some other student's elbows. He gripped it the way he'd gripped the controller, the way he'd gripped the door frame, like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The grain pressed into his palm, a small, sharp truth in a room that had stopped making sense.
Jake's breathing had changed again. It was rougher now, catching at the edges, and every small sound seemed to fill the space between them — the whisper of the blanket, the creak of the mattress springs, the wet, rhythmic noise from the TV that Barry couldn't seem to filter out no matter how hard he tried.
He should sit down. He knew he should sit down. His chair was right there, three feet from his desk, its back covered in a hoodie he'd draped over it that morning. He could sit, and he could reach for his mouse, and he could open his game, and the sounds would fade into background noise, and Jake would finish, and it would be over, and they'd never have to talk about it.
His hands didn't move.
The remote was still on the edge of Jake's mattress, right where it had been when Barry walked in. It sat there like a dare, like a challenge, its buttons catching the flicker of the TV light. Jake hadn't touched it since the moment Barry had said *it's cool*. He'd just settled back, and his hand had found the blanket, and the remote had been forgotten.
Barry watched the way Jake's other hand lay on his stomach, fingers splayed across the blonde hair, rising and falling with each breath. The muscles in his arm moved beneath the skin with every stroke of the hidden hand, and Barry found himself counting them — one, two, three — the way he counted ceiling tiles when he couldn't sleep.
The woman on the TV had shifted again. Now she was bent over, her hands braced against a bed, and the man was behind her, his hands on her hips, his rhythm quickening. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic, and Barry heard Jake exhale through his nose, a sharp, almost animal sound.
His own body was betraying him. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, the way his pulse had settled into his throat, and worse — lower, harder to ignore — the beginning of a response he'd spent two years learning to suppress. His hoodie hung past his hips, loose and forgiving, but he could feel himself stirring anyway, could feel the fabric shifting against him as his body woke up against his will.
He pressed his palms flat against the desk and leaned into them, letting the wood take his weight, letting the pressure ground him. The room smelled like sweat now — Jake's sweat, sharp and musky, cutting through the stale pizza and damp towels. Barry's mouth went dry, and he swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears.
Jake's hips bucked again, a small, involuntary movement, and the blanket slipped another inch down his pelvis. Barry saw the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric, saw the sharp V of muscle that framed it, and his stomach clenched so hard he thought he might actually be sick.
He forced his gaze away. He looked at the ceiling, at the water stain in the corner, at the crack that ran from the light fixture to the wall. He counted the tiles — one, two, three, four — and he tried to think about anything other than the sound of Jake's hand moving under that blanket, the sound of his breathing, the way his chest rose and fell.
The ceiling didn't help. The water stain didn't help. Nothing helped.
His eyes drifted back, helpless, pulled by something he couldn't name. Jake's head was tipped back against the headboard now, his throat exposed, his jaw slack. The blonde stubble on his chin caught the TV light, and Barry watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, watched the cords of his neck stand out as he tensed.
The woman on the TV cried out again, a high, breathless sound, and Jake's hand moved faster, the blanket rippling with each stroke. Barry heard the sound of his own breathing, ragged and too loud, and he realized his hand had moved without his permission — was pressed flat against his own stomach now, gripping the fabric of his hoodie, holding himself still.
He didn't know how long he stood there. It could have been seconds. It could have been minutes. The room had stopped making sense, had narrowed to the sound of Jake's breathing and the flicker of the TV and the smell of sweat and the shape of the blanket moving in the dark.
And then Jake's hand slowed. His breathing changed, deepening, and Barry watched his chest rise and fall in a long, slow rhythm. His hips stopped moving, and the blanket went still, and for one terrible, suspended moment, the room was quiet except for the woman on the TV, still moaning, still lost in her own rhythm.
Jake's head turned. His eyes found Barry's across the dim room, and there was something in them that Barry couldn't read — something lazy and satisfied and knowing. His hand stayed where it was, still under the blanket, and he grinned, slow and easy, like they were sharing a joke.
"Told you," Jake said, his voice rough and low. "No hang-ups."
Barry's mouth opened. No sound came out. The room was still, and the TV was still, and Jake was still looking at him with those bright blue eyes, and Barry felt the weight of the moment press down on his chest like a hand.
The words landed somewhere in his chest, and Barry felt them settle there, warm and heavy. *No hang-ups.* He'd said that. He'd said it, and now Jake was looking at him like they shared something, like they were in on the same joke, and Barry didn't know how to tell him that the joke was on him — that he was standing in the dark with his heart in his throat and his hands shaking and the beginning of an erection pressing against the inside of his hoodie.
"Yeah," Barry heard himself say. The word came out rough, scraped. "No hang-ups."
Jake's grin widened, and then his eyes slid back to the TV, dismissing him, and the moment broke. The woman on the screen had shifted again — now she was on her hands and knees, her face buried in a pillow, the man behind her gripping her hips. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and rhythmic, and Barry watched Jake's hand resume its motion under the blanket, watched the muscles in his forearm move with each stroke.
Barry's own hand was still pressed flat against his stomach, gripping the fabric of his hoodie. He could feel the warmth of his own skin through the cotton, could feel the way his body had begun to respond despite every effort to suppress it. The fabric was soft and worn, washed a hundred times, and it hung past his hips the way he liked it — loose, forgiving, a shield between him and the world.
His fingers curled into the hem.
It was just a twitch at first, an involuntary movement, his hand seeking something to do. But the fabric shifted, and the cool air touched the skin of his stomach, and Barry felt the sensation travel down his spine like a current.
He should stop. He knew he should stop. He should turn around and sit at his desk and open his game and let the sounds fade into background noise. That was what a roommate with no hang-ups would do. That was what a normal person would do.
Instead, his fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants.
The elastic was soft, worn loose from a hundred washes, and it gave easily beneath his fingers. He didn't push past it. He just held it, his thumb hooked over the edge, and he watched Jake's hand move under the blanket, watched the rhythm of it, the way Jake's hips shifted in small, involuntary movements.
The man on the TV groaned, a low, drawn-out sound, and the woman's moans rose to match it. The sound filled the room, and Barry felt his own breathing quicken, felt the heat building low in his belly, felt his cock stir against his thigh.
He pushed his hand past the waistband.
The air was cool against his skin, and then his fingers closed around himself, and Barry had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. He was half-hard already — he hadn't even realized — and the feel of his own hand, warm and familiar, sent a jolt through him that made his knees weak.
He leaned back against the desk, letting it take his weight, and he watched Jake through the dark.
Jake hadn't noticed. His eyes were fixed on the TV, his head tipped back, his throat exposed. The blanket had slipped another inch down his hips, and Barry could see the sharp V of muscle that framed his pelvis, could see the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric. His hand was moving in a slow, steady rhythm, and every few seconds his hips would shift, a small, involuntary thrust that made the blanket ripple.
Barry's hand moved in time with it.
He didn't plan it. His hand just started moving, matching Jake's rhythm, stroke for stroke, and the sensation was so sharp, so immediate, that he had to press his free hand flat against the desk to keep himself upright. His head fell back, and he closed his eyes, and the world narrowed to the sound of Jake's breathing, the wet slap from the TV, the feel of his own hand moving in the dark.
He was harder now. Fully hard, his cock thick and hot in his grip, and he could feel the familiar pressure building low in his belly. He opened his eyes, and Jake was still there, still sprawled across his bed, still moving his hand under the blanket, and Barry watched the way the muscles in his chest moved with each breath, watched the blonde hair catch the flicker of the TV light.
He wanted —
He didn't know what he wanted. He wanted to stop. He wanted to keep going. He wanted to cross the room and push the blanket aside and see what was underneath, wanted to know if Jake's cock was as thick as the rest of him, wanted to feel it in his hand, in his mouth —
The thought made him gasp, a small, involuntary sound that escaped before he could stop it.
Jake's head turned.
Barry froze. His hand was still inside his hoodie, still wrapped around himself, and he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, could feel the blood rushing to his face as Jake's eyes found him across the dim room.
Jake's hand slowed, but it didn't stop. His eyes moved over Barry — the flushed face, the hand hidden beneath the hoodie, the way Barry was leaning back against the desk like his legs had given out — and his grin widened, slow and knowing.
"There he is," Jake said. His voice was rough, low, barely above a whisper. "Knew you had it in you, bro."
Barry's mouth opened. No sound came out. His hand was still frozen inside his hoodie, still wrapped around himself, and he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but watch Jake's grin spread across his face like he'd just won something.
Jake's eyes slid back to the TV, dismissing him again, and his hand resumed its rhythm under the blanket, faster now, more urgent. Barry watched the way his hips began to move in small, rhythmic thrusts, watched the way the blanket strained against his grip, and he felt his own hand start to move again, almost without his permission.
It was different now. Before, he'd been hiding, his hand concealed beneath the loose fabric of his hoodie. Now Jake knew. Jake had seen him, had grinned at him, had said *there he is* like he'd been waiting for it, and the knowledge sent a thrill through Barry that made his stomach clench.
He was still hidden. The hoodie still hung past his hips, still covered his hand, still gave him that thin shield of deniability. But Jake knew. Jake had seen. And Jake had grinned.
Barry's hand moved faster.
His eyes stayed fixed on Jake, on the way his chest rose and fell, on the way his jaw tightened as he watched the screen, on the way his hips bucked into his own fist. The woman on the TV was moaning, her voice rising to a pitch that seemed to fill the room, and the man was grunting, and the sound of skin on skin was quickening, and Barry could feel his own orgasm building, coiling low in his belly like a spring.
He was close. He was so close. He could feel it, the familiar pressure, the way his body was tensing, the way his breath was catching in his throat. He pressed his free hand flat against the desk, gripping the edge, and he watched Jake, watched the way his head fell back, watched the way his throat worked as he swallowed, watched the way his hand moved under that blanket.
Jake's breathing changed. It was rougher now, catching at the edges, and his hips were moving in a steady rhythm, and Barry knew — he knew — that Jake was close too. He could hear it, could see it, and the knowledge made his own arousal spike, made his hand move faster, made the pressure building in his belly almost unbearable.
"Yeah," Jake breathed. The word was barely audible, a whisper lost in the sound of the TV, but Barry heard it. He heard it, and he watched Jake's hand move faster, watched his hips buck, watched his whole body tense —
And then Jake's eyes found him again.
They were blown wide, dark in the flickering light, and they locked onto Barry's face with an intensity that made Barry's breath catch. Jake's hand never stopped moving, and his grin was gone, replaced by something else, something raw and hungry that Barry had never seen before.
"Don't stop," Jake said. His voice was rough, scraped, barely a whisper. "Watch me."
Barry's hand moved faster.
He couldn't help it. The command — because that's what it was, a command, low and rough and undeniable — went straight through him, and his hand was moving, matching Jake's rhythm, stroke for stroke, and he could feel himself right at the edge, could feel the pressure building and building and building —
Jake's head fell back. His mouth opened, and a low, guttural sound escaped him, and Barry watched his whole body tense, watched the muscles in his chest and stomach go rigid, watched his hips buck into his own fist —
And Barry came.
It hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. His hand was still moving, milking himself through it, and he could feel the heat of his own release spreading against his stomach, could feel his knees buckling, could feel the desk pressing into his back as he leaned into it, trembling.
Jake's own rhythm slowed, and Barry watched him through the haze of his own aftershocks, watched the way his chest rose and fell, watched the way his hand stilled under the blanket, watched the way his head tipped forward, his eyes finding Barry's across the dim room.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The TV had gone quiet, the scene shifting to something else, some other video, some other couple. The room was filled with the sound of their breathing, rough and uneven, and the smell of sweat, and something else — something muskier, something intimate.
Jake's grin returned. Slow, easy, like they'd just shared a joke.
"Told you," he said. His voice was still rough, still low, but there was a warmth in it now, a satisfaction. "No hang-ups."
Barry's hand was still inside his hoodie, still wrapped around the mess he'd made, and he could feel the sticky warmth cooling against his stomach. His face burned. He should move. He should go to the bathroom, clean himself up, pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened. But his legs felt like they belonged to someone else, and Jake was still looking at him with that lazy, satisfied grin, and the room was so quiet now that Barry could hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner.
"I—" Barry's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I should probably—"
"Shower's free," Jake said, cutting him off. He stretched, a long, easy motion that made the blanket slip another inch down his hips. Barry caught a glimpse of dark blonde hair below his navel, the trail disappearing into the shadow beneath the fabric, and his mouth went dry all over again. "You got a towel, right?"
Barry nodded. His tongue felt too thick for his mouth.
"Good." Jake's grin widened, and he reached for the remote on the edge of the mattress — the same remote he'd been about to grab when Barry had walked in, a lifetime ago. He clicked the TV off, and the room went dark except for the low yellow pool of the desk lamp. "Go clean up, bro. I'll be here when you get back."
Barry's legs finally cooperated. He pulled his hand out of his hoodie, wiping it clumsily on the inside of his sweatpants, and he crossed the room on unsteady legs, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his ears. The bathroom door was cool against his palm, and he slipped inside and closed it behind him, leaning back against it in the dark.
His reflection stared back at him from the mirror, flushed and wide-eyed. He looked like he'd just run a marathon. He looked like he'd just done something he couldn't take back.
He turned on the shower, letting the water run hot, and he stood under it for a long time, letting it wash away the evidence. The steam filled the small room, and he pressed his forehead against the tile, and he tried to make sense of what had just happened.
Jake had seen him. Jake had watched him jerk off, had told him — commanded him — not to stop, to watch, and Barry had obeyed. Barry had come in his hand while his roommate watched, and Jake had grinned at him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they'd just shared a beer instead of a mutual orgasm in the dark.
*No hang-ups.*
The words echoed in his head, and he pressed his forehead harder against the tile, the cool ceramic grounding him. He'd said that. He'd said it, and Jake had taken him at his word, and now — now what? What did this make them? What did Jake think this was?
He turned off the water and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. His hoodie lay on the floor where he'd dropped it, and he stared at it for a long moment, at the dark stain that had soaked through the fabric, and he felt his face heat all over again.
He pulled on a clean pair of sweatpants and a fresh t-shirt, leaving the hoodie on the bathroom floor. He'd deal with it later. He'd wash it in the sink, or stuff it in the bottom of his laundry bag, or burn it, depending on how the next ten minutes went.
He opened the door.
Jake was still on his bed, but he'd moved. He was sitting up now, his back against the headboard, the blanket pooled around his waist. He'd pulled on a pair of boxers — loose, grey, doing almost nothing to hide the shape of him — and he was scrolling through his phone, his other hand resting on his stomach, fingers splayed across the blonde hair.
He looked up when Barry came out. His eyes moved over Barry — the fresh t-shirt, the damp hair, the way Barry was hovering in the bathroom doorway like he might bolt — and his grin returned, slow and easy.
"Feel better?" Jake asked.
Barry's throat closed. He nodded.
"Good." Jake set his phone down and patted the edge of his bed. "Come here, bro. Let's talk."
Barry's feet carried him across the room before his brain could object. He sat on the edge of Jake's mattress, the springs creaking under his weight, and he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, on the towel he'd left on the bathroom floor, on anything but Jake's bare chest and the way the light caught the hair there.
"Look at me," Jake said.
Barry looked up.
Jake's blue eyes were steady, warm, missing the lazy amusement they'd held before. "You okay? That was—" He paused, searching for the word. "That was a lot. For a first time."
Barry blinked. "First time?"
"First time doing that with someone else in the room." Jake's voice was gentle, quieter than Barry had ever heard it. "Right?"
Barry's face went hot. He wanted to lie, wanted to say yes, that was the first time, that it meant nothing. But the word stuck in his throat, and Jake was looking at him with those steady blue eyes, and Barry found himself shaking his head before he could stop himself.
"No," he said. The word came out small. "It wasn't the first time I've—" He gestured vaguely, his hand fluttering. "But it was the first time with—"
He couldn't say it. Couldn't say *with another person*, couldn't say *with a guy*, couldn't say *with you*. The words were too big, too heavy, too true.
But Jake didn't need him to say it. Something in his face shifted, a flicker of understanding, and he reached out and put a hand on Barry's shoulder. The touch was warm, heavy, grounding.
"Hey," Jake said. "It's cool. It's all cool."
Barry's breath caught. The word — *cool* — was the same word he'd used, the same lie he'd told, but Jake said it like it was true, like it was simple, like there was nothing strange about any of this.
"I'm not—" Barry started, and stopped. His heart was hammering again, and his hands were shaking, and he could feel the truth pressing against his lips, demanding to be spoken. "Jake, I'm not—"
"Not what?" Jake's hand was still on his shoulder, warm and steady. "Not straight?"
The word hung in the air between them, and Barry felt his whole body go rigid. He'd never said it out loud. He'd never told anyone, had never even let himself think it in words that clear, and here was Jake, saying it like it was nothing, like it was just a fact about the weather.
Barry's throat worked. The word was right there, sitting on his tongue, and he could feel the shape of it — two syllables, simple, true — but his mouth wouldn't cooperate. His eyes dropped to Jake's chest, to the blonde hair that caught the lamplight, and he watched the rise and fall of his breathing, the slow, patient rhythm of a man who had nowhere else to be.
"Yeah," Barry said. The word came out barely audible, but it landed. "Yeah. I'm not straight."
Jake's hand didn't move from his shoulder. If anything, it pressed a little deeper, a little warmer. "Okay," he said, simply. "Cool."
Barry blinked. "Cool?"
"Yeah. Cool." Jake shrugged, the motion easy, unbothered. "You're my roommate, bro. You're a good guy. You just told me you're gay. That doesn't change any of that."
Barry's chest felt too tight. He'd spent years building walls around this, years learning to deflect and deflect and deflect, and Jake had just knocked one down with a shrug and a casual word. He didn't know what to do with the space it left.
"I thought—" Barry started, and stopped. He tried again. "I thought you'd—"
"What? Freak out?" Jake's grin returned, but it was softer now, gentler. "Nah. I don't care about that stuff. You're you. That's all that matters."
Barry's eyes burned. He blinked hard, refusing to let the moisture gather, and he looked down at his hands, at the way they were twisting in his lap. "I've never told anyone that," he said, the words coming out rough. "Not once."
Jake's hand squeezed his shoulder once, then withdrew. Barry felt the absence of it like a cold spot. "Well, now you have," Jake said. "And the world didn't end. See?"
Barry let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh. "Yeah." He looked up, meeting Jake's eyes for the first time since he'd sat down. "I guess I see."
Jake's grin widened, and he leaned back against the headboard, stretching his arms above his head. The motion pulled his t-shirt up, exposing a strip of stomach, and Barry's eyes caught on the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers. He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.
"So," Jake said, drawing the word out. "That thing earlier. That was—"
"Please don't," Barry said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. His face was burning. "I don't think I can—"
"I wasn't going to make it weird," Jake said, holding up his hands. "I was just going to say it was fun. In a weird way." He paused, tilting his head. "You know, I've never done anything like that before. With a guy. In the room, I mean."
Barry's heart stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I've watched porn with my bros before, sure. But nobody ever—" Jake gestured vaguely toward Barry, toward the space where Barry had been standing, frozen, his hand hidden under his hoodie. "Nobody ever did that. It was like—" He paused, searching for the word. "It was like a mirror, almost. Like watching myself."
Barry didn't know what to say to that. The words *like a mirror* echoed in his head, and he turned them over, examining them from every angle, trying to find the meaning Jake had hidden inside them.
"I'm sorry," Barry said finally. "I shouldn't have—"
"Why not?" Jake's voice was genuinely puzzled. "I mean, I was doing the same thing. It's not like you were being weird about it. You just—" He paused, grinning. "You just got caught up in the moment. Happens to everyone."
Barry's throat tightened. He wanted to believe that, wanted to believe that what he'd done was normal, that it didn't mean anything, that Jake wasn't secretly disgusted and just too polite to say so. But the doubt was still there, gnawing at the edges.
"You're not—" Barry started, and stopped. He tried again. "You're not weirded out? That I—" He gestured vaguely, unable to finish the sentence.
"That you jerked off while I was jerking off?" Jake laughed, a low, easy sound. "Bro, I literally just told you it was like watching myself. Why would I be weirded out?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes steady on Barry's. "Unless you're weirded out. Are you weirded out?"
"No," Barry said quickly. Too quickly. "I mean—" He paused, trying to find the words. "I don't know what I am. I just know I'm not—" He gestured again, helplessly. "I'm not weirded out."
Jake studied him for a long moment, his blue eyes unreadable. Then he nodded, once, and leaned back again. "Good," he said. "Then we're good."
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the mini-fridge filling the space between them. Barry's hands were still twisting in his lap, and he forced them still, pressing them flat against his thighs.
"Can I ask you something?" Jake said.
Barry's heart lurched. "Okay."
"That thing you said. When you walked in." Jake's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "You said you had no hang-ups. About the porn, I mean. About me—" He gestured toward the bed, toward the blanket, toward the whole tableau that had started this. "Was that true? Or were you just saying it?"
Barry's mouth went dry. He could feel the truth pressing against his lips again, demanding to be spoken, and he knew — he knew — that he could lie, could say it was just nerves, just a roommate being cool, and Jake would believe him. But something in Jake's eyes made him hesitate.
"I don't know," Barry said finally. "I think—" He paused, swallowing hard. "I think I meant it. I just didn't know I meant it until I said it."
Jake's grin returned, slow and knowing. "Yeah," he said. "I know that feeling."
Barry's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Jake shrugged, easy and unconcerned. "I didn't know I was cool with it either. Until you walked in and said that, and I realized I didn't want you to leave." He paused, letting the words settle. "I wanted you to stay."
Barry's breath caught. The words hung in the air between them, and he could feel the weight of them, the implication, the thing neither of them was quite saying.
"Why?" Barry asked. The word came out smaller than he intended.
Jake's eyes held his for a long moment. Then he shrugged again, the motion casual, but his gaze didn't waver. "Because it felt good," he said. "Having someone there. Watching. Not judging." He paused, his grin turning crooked. "Maybe I liked it more than I thought I would."
Barry's heart was hammering so hard he could feel it in his temples. The room felt smaller, closer, the air thick with something he couldn't name. Jake was looking at him with those steady blue eyes, and there was something in them now that hadn't been there before — a flicker of something, a question, an invitation.
"So what does that mean?" Barry asked. His voice was barely audible. "For us?"
Jake's grin spread, slow and easy, like he'd been waiting for the question. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm kind of curious to find out."
He reached out and put his hand on Barry's shoulder again, the same warm, heavy weight as before. But this time, it stayed. This time, his thumb traced a slow circle against the fabric of Barry's t-shirt, and Barry felt the touch travel down his spine like a current.
"No pressure," Jake said, his voice low. "But if you ever want to do that again—" He paused, letting the words hang. "I wouldn't be opposed."
Barry's mouth opened. No sound came out. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, could feel his pulse hammering in his throat, could feel the way his body had begun to respond to Jake's words, to his touch, to the closeness of him.
"I—" Barry started, and stopped. He swallowed hard. "I might want that."
Jake's grin widened, and his hand squeezed Barry's shoulder once before withdrawing. "Good," he said. "Then we'll figure it out. Together."
He stretched again, a long, easy motion, and then he swung his legs off the bed, standing up. Barry's eyes followed him automatically, watching the way the boxers hung low on his hips, watching the way the muscles in his back moved beneath the t-shirt as he walked toward the mini-fridge.
"You want a beer?" Jake asked, pulling open the fridge door. The light spilled out, illuminating his profile, and Barry watched him bend down, the fabric of his boxers pulling tight across his ass.
"Yeah," Barry said, his voice rough. "Sure."
Jake straightened, two bottles in his hand, and he tossed one to Barry. Barry caught it, the glass cold against his palm, and he watched Jake settle back onto his bed, cracking open his own bottle and taking a long drink.
"So," Jake said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What do you want to watch?"
Barry blinked. "Watch?"
"Yeah." Jake grinned, gesturing toward the TV, still dark. "We got a whole night ahead of us. And I figure—" He paused, his eyes glinting in the lamplight. "Since we're both cool with it now—"
He reached for the remote, still sitting on the edge of the mattress, and he held it up, the buttons catching the light.
"Maybe we could find something we both like."
Barry's hand moved before his brain caught up. The remote was warm from Jake's grip, still carrying the heat of his palm, and Barry's fingers closed around it like it was the controller he'd been holding an hour ago. The plastic was smooth, familiar, and he could feel Jake watching him — could feel those blue eyes on the side of his face, patient and curious.
He pressed the power button.
The TV flickered to life, the screen filling with a grid of thumbnail images. Half-naked women draped over beds, couples in various states of undress, a row of titles in bold white letters that Barry's eyes skated over without really reading. His thumb hovered over the scroll button, and he could feel his face burning, could feel the weight of Jake's gaze like a physical thing.
"You're really doing this," Jake said. His voice was low, amused, and Barry could hear the grin in it without looking.
"You told me to pick," Barry said. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"I did." Jake shifted on the bed, the springs creaking, and Barry heard the rustle of fabric as he settled back against the headboard. "I just didn't think you'd actually—" He paused, and Barry could feel him gesturing vaguely. "You know. Do it."
Barry's thumb stopped on a thumbnail. A man and a woman, tangled together on a bed, the woman's head thrown back, the man's hand buried in her hair. It was the kind of video he'd watched a hundred times alone in the dark, his hand moving under the covers, his eyes fixed on the screen, pretending he wasn't thinking about what it would be like to be the man — or what it would be like to be the one on his knees.
He scrolled past it.
The next row was different. A man on his knees, his head bowed, another man standing over him with a hand tangled in his hair. The thumbnail was grainy, poorly lit, but the image was unmistakable, and Barry's thumb froze on the scroll button.
The room went very quiet.
Barry could feel the heat rising from his collar, could feel the way his pulse had settled into his throat, hammering against his skin. He didn't look at Jake. He couldn't. His eyes were fixed on the thumbnail, on the image of the man on his knees, and he could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a hand on his chest.
"Huh," Jake said. The word was neutral, unreadable.
Barry's thumb moved. He scrolled past it, his hand shaking slightly, and he kept scrolling, past more couples, more women, more of the same. But his mind was stuck on that image — the man on his knees, the hand in his hair — and he could feel the ghost of it lingering at the edge of his vision.
"Wait," Jake said.
Barry's thumb froze.
"Go back."
Barry's heart stopped. He didn't move. He couldn't move. The remote was cold in his hand, and he could feel Jake's eyes on him, steady and patient, waiting.
"Go back," Jake repeated. "To the one you just passed."
Barry's thumb moved on its own. The screen flickered, the thumbnails shifting, and then the image was there again — the man on his knees, the other man standing over him, the hand tangled in his hair. Barry stared at it, his mouth dry, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips.
"That one," Jake said. His voice was low, contemplative. "You want to watch that one?"
Barry's throat worked. He couldn't speak. He could feel the truth pressing against his lips, demanding to be spoken, and he knew — he knew — that this was the moment. The moment where he could lie, could say no, could scroll past it and pretend he hadn't paused, hadn't lingered, hadn't let Jake see what he really wanted.
"Yeah," Barry said. The word came out barely audible. "I want to watch that one."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Barry kept his eyes fixed on the screen, on the thumbnail, on the image of the man on his knees, and he waited for Jake to laugh, to make a joke, to tell him to pick something else — something normal, something straight, something that wouldn't reveal the secret he'd been carrying for years.
Instead, Jake said, "Cool."
Barry blinked. "Cool?"
"Yeah." Jake shifted on the bed, and Barry heard the creak of the springs, the rustle of fabric. "Click it."
Barry's thumb pressed down.
The screen went dark for a moment, and then the video loaded, the image filling the screen. The man was still on his knees, his head bowed, and the other man was standing over him, his hand tangled in his hair. The sound was low at first — a murmur of voices, the rustle of fabric — and then it sharpened, the audio kicking in, and Barry heard the wet, rhythmic sound of a mouth on skin.
He couldn't look away.
The man on his knees was young, mid-twenties, with short dark hair and a lean, wiry build. His hands were braced on the thighs of the man standing over him, and his head moved in a slow, steady rhythm, his mouth stretched around the other man's cock. The camera angle was low, almost at floor level, and Barry could see everything — the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way his eyes watered, the way his hands gripped the other man's thighs like he needed them to stay upright.
Barry's mouth went dry.
He was still standing by the desk, still holding the remote, still wearing the clean t-shirt he'd pulled on after his shower. He could feel his body responding, could feel the familiar heat building low in his belly, and he pressed his free hand flat against the desk, grounding himself.
Jake didn't say anything. Barry could hear his breathing, slow and steady, and he could feel the weight of his gaze on the side of his face, but he couldn't look at him. He couldn't look away from the screen.
The man on his knees pulled back, his mouth sliding off the other man's cock with a wet, obscene sound. He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, his lips swollen, and he said something Barry couldn't hear over the sound of his own heartbeat. The other man laughed, low and rough, and he tugged the man on his knees upward, pulling him to his feet, pulling him into a kiss that was all tongue and teeth and hunger.
Barry's hand moved without his permission.
He didn't realize what he was doing until his fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, until he felt the soft elastic give beneath his touch. He froze, his hand hovering at his hip, and he could feel Jake's eyes on him, could feel the weight of that gaze like a hand on his skin.
"Don't stop," Jake said. His voice was low, rough, the same voice he'd used before — the command that had sent Barry over the edge the first time. "You started this. Finish it."
Barry's hand pushed past the waistband.
He was already hard — he hadn't even realized — and the feel of his own hand, warm and familiar, sent a jolt through him that made his knees weak. He leaned back against the desk, letting it take his weight, and he watched the screen, watched the two men tumble onto the bed, watched the way they moved together, all tangled limbs and hungry mouths.
His hand moved in a slow, steady rhythm, matching the pace of the men on the screen. He could feel the heat building in his belly, could feel his breath coming faster, and he kept his eyes fixed on the screen, on the way the man with the dark hair arched his back, on the way the other man's hand found his throat, on the way they moved together like they'd done this a hundred times before.
He didn't hear Jake move.
One moment he was alone by the desk, his hand moving under his waistband, his eyes fixed on the screen. The next, Jake was beside him — close, so close — and Barry could feel the heat of his body, could smell the sweat and musk of him, could feel the way the air had changed between them.
He turned his head, his hand stilling.
Jake was standing next to him, his eyes fixed on the screen, his hands shoved into the pockets of his boxers. His chest was bare, the blonde hair catching the blue light of the TV, and Barry could see the way his jaw was tight, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.
"Keep going," Jake said. His voice was low, almost a whisper. "Don't stop for me."
Barry's hand moved again.
His eyes stayed on Jake's profile — the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. He watched Jake's hands in his pockets, watched the way his fingers curled against the fabric, and he wondered — he couldn't help wondering — what Jake would do if he reached out and touched him.
The man on the screen groaned, a low, drawn-out sound, and Barry watched Jake's eyes flick toward the TV, watched the way his pupils dilated in the blue light. His hands were still in his pockets, but Barry could see the way his shoulders had tensed, the way his whole body had gone still.
"Jake," Barry said. The word came out rough, scraped.
Jake's eyes found his. They were dark, blown wide, and there was something in them that Barry hadn't seen before — something raw and hungry and barely contained.
"Yeah?"
Barry's hand was still moving, still working himself through the fabric of his sweatpants, and he could feel the pressure building, could feel himself right at the edge. His eyes stayed locked on Jake's, and he could see the way Jake's breath had quickened, the way his chest was rising and falling faster now.
"I want—" Barry started, and stopped. His throat was too tight, his heart hammering too hard. "I want you to watch me."
Jake's eyes went dark. He didn't say anything, but he didn't look away either. He just stood there, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes fixed on Barry's face, and Barry could feel the weight of that gaze like a physical thing.
Barry's hand moved faster.
He didn't hide this time. He didn't tuck his hand under the fabric of his hoodie, didn't try to conceal what he was doing. He pushed his sweatpants down just enough, let his cock spring free, and he wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slow and deliberate, letting Jake see everything.
Jake's breath caught.
It was a small sound, barely audible, but Barry heard it. He heard it, and he watched Jake's eyes drop to his hand, watched the way his gaze lingered on the movement, watched the way his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Jake's eyes stayed on Barry's hand. The blue light from the TV painted his face in shifting shadows, and Barry could see the way his jaw worked, the way his throat moved as he swallowed. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the wet rhythm from the screen and Barry's own ragged breathing, and Barry felt the weight of Jake's attention like a rope pulling taut between them.
"You're really not going to hide it," Jake said finally. His voice was low, rough, and there was something in it that Barry couldn't quite name.
"You told me not to."
"I did." Jake's hands were still in his pockets, but Barry could see the way his fingers were curled into fists, the way the muscles in his forearms had gone tight. "I just didn't think you'd listen."
Barry's hand slowed. He could feel the heat building in his belly, could feel himself right at the edge, but he forced himself to stop, forced himself to hold still. His cock was wet at the tip, glistening in the blue light, and he could feel Jake's eyes on it, could feel the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure against his skin.
"Do you want me to stop?" Barry asked. The words came out before he could think about them, and he felt his face burn, felt the heat rising from his collar.
Jake's eyes snapped to his. They were dark, blown wide, and there was something in them that Barry hadn't seen before — something raw and hungry and barely contained. "No," he said, his voice rough. "I don't want you to stop."
Barry's hand resumed its motion. He kept his eyes on Jake's face, watching the way his lips parted slightly, watching the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. The man on the screen groaned, a low, drawn-out sound, and Barry watched Jake's eyes flick toward the TV, watched the way his pupils dilated in the blue light.
"You can touch yourself too," Barry said. The words came out before he could stop them, and he felt his heart hammering in his throat. "If you want."
Jake's hands stayed in his pockets. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and Barry could feel the silence stretching between them, thick and heavy. Then Jake pulled his hands out, and Barry watched him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, watched him push them down just enough to free his own cock.
Barry's breath caught.
Jake was thick — thicker than Barry had imagined, and he'd imagined it more times than he'd ever admit. The blonde hair at the base was darker than the hair on his chest, and his cock curved slightly upward, flushed and heavy against his stomach. Barry watched Jake wrap his hand around himself, watched the way his fingers barely met around the girth, and he felt his own arousal spike, felt the pressure building low in his belly.
"Fuck," Barry breathed. The word came out soft, almost reverent.
Jake's eyes found his. There was a glint in them now, something that might have been amusement, something that might have been something else entirely. "You like that?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
Barry couldn't speak. He nodded, his eyes fixed on the movement of Jake's hand, on the way his fist moved up and down the thick shaft, on the way the head disappeared and reappeared with each stroke.
"Good," Jake said. "Then watch."
Barry watched.
He watched the way Jake's hand moved — slow, deliberate, unhurried — and he matched his own rhythm to it, stroke for stroke. The man on the screen had shifted position, the two men tangled together on the bed, and the wet sounds filled the room, mingling with the sound of their breathing, with the soft creak of the floorboards as Jake shifted his weight.
"You've done this before," Jake said. It wasn't a question.
Barry's face burned. "What do you mean?"
"Watched guys." Jake's hand never stopped moving. "You knew exactly which video to pick."
Barry's throat closed. He could feel the truth pressing against his lips, demanding to be spoken, and he knew he could lie, could deflect, could say it was just a random pick, just luck. But Jake was looking at him with those steady blue eyes, and Barry found himself nodding before he could stop himself.
"Yeah," he said, the word coming out rough. "I've watched guys before."
Jake's grin spread, slow and knowing. "I figured." He paused, his hand still moving, his eyes never leaving Barry's face. "You're good at it."
Barry blinked. "At what?"
"Watching." Jake's voice was low, almost a whisper. "You've got this look on your face — like you're memorizing everything. Like you're trying to remember it all."
Barry's heart stuttered. He hadn't realized his face was doing anything, hadn't realized Jake could see the way his mind was racing, cataloging every detail — the way Jake's thumb swept across the head of his cock, the way his abs tensed with each stroke, the way his breath caught at the edges.
"I can't help it," Barry said. The words came out before he could stop them. "You're—" He stopped, his throat working. "I just want to remember it."
Jake's hand slowed. The rhythm changed, became something deliberate, almost lazy, and his eyes never left Barry's face. "Remember it, huh?" He tilted his head, considering. "What part exactly?"
Barry's mouth opened, but nothing came out. His hand had stopped moving entirely, frozen around himself, and he could feel the heat of his own blush spreading down his neck. The question hung in the air, and he knew — he knew — that Jake was teasing him, drawing it out, making him say it.
"I don't know," Barry managed. "All of it."
Jake's grin widened. "All of it," he repeated, like he was tasting the words. "That's a lot to remember."
Barry's hand resumed its motion, slow and tentative, and he watched Jake's eyes drop to follow the movement. The blue light from the TV painted Jake's chest in shifting patterns, and Barry could see the way his breathing had quickened, the way his abs tightened with each inhale.
"Show me," Jake said.
Barry blinked. "Show you what?"
"What you're remembering." Jake's voice was low, rough. "Show me what you'd do if I wasn't here."
The words landed in Barry's chest like a stone in still water. He understood what Jake was asking — understood it in the way his body tensed, in the way his hand tightened around himself. Jake wanted to see him the way he was alone. Wanted to see the version of Barry that existed only in the dark, with the door locked and the headphones on.
Barry's face burned, but his hand moved faster.
He closed his eyes. He'd never done this — never performed for anyone, never let anyone see the way his hips bucked into his fist, the way his head fell back, the way he bit his lip to keep from making noise. But the image of Jake's cock was burned into his mind, thick and flushed, and he let himself have it. Let himself imagine what it would feel like wrapped in his hand, what it would taste like, what Jake would sound like if Barry were the one on his knees.
A sound escaped him. Small, breathy, almost a whimper.
"There it is," Jake murmured. "There you go."
Barry's eyes snapped open. Jake was watching him with an intensity that made his stomach clench — dark eyes, parted lips, his own hand moving in a slow, matching rhythm. He looked like he was memorizing Barry the same way Barry was memorizing him.
"Don't stop," Jake said. "Keep your eyes open. I want to see you when you come."
The command went through Barry like a current. His hand moved faster, his hips bucking into his own fist, and he kept his eyes locked on Jake's face, on the way his jaw was tight, on the way his throat worked as he swallowed. The pressure was building, coiling low in his belly, and he could feel himself right at the edge, trembling with it.
Jake's hand sped up too. His breathing was rough now, catching at the edges, and Barry watched the way his chest rose and fell, watched the way his abs tensed with each stroke. They were matching each other again, stroke for stroke, breath for breath, and Barry could feel the room narrowing to the space between them, to the sound of their breathing, to the blue light flickering across their skin.
"Jake," Barry gasped. The word came out broken, desperate.
"Yeah," Jake breathed. "Yeah, come on. Let go."
Barry's orgasm hit him like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. His hand kept moving, milking himself through it, and he watched Jake's eyes on him, watched the way his pupils blew wide as Barry's body tensed and shuddered. He heard his own voice, a low, broken sound, and he felt the heat of his release splashing against his stomach, felt his knees buckle, felt the desk pressing into his back as he leaned into it.
Jake followed a second later. His head fell back, his mouth opening on a low, guttural groan, and Barry watched him come — watched the way his body went rigid, watched the way his hand tightened around himself, watched the way his release streaked across his own stomach and chest.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their breathing, rough and uneven, and the low murmur of the video still playing on the TV. Barry's hand was still wrapped around himself, sticky and spent, and he could feel the mess cooling against his skin.
Jake opened his eyes. They found Barry's across the dim room, and there was something in them — something soft, something almost tender — that Barry hadn't seen before.
"Well," Jake said, his voice rough and low. "That was—" He paused, searching for the word. "That was something."
Barry's throat was too tight to speak. He nodded, his hand dropping to his side, and he watched Jake reach for the boxers he'd pushed down around his thighs, watched him pull them back up with a casual, unselfconscious motion.
"You good?" Jake asked. He stepped closer, close enough that Barry could smell the sweat and musk of him, could see the way his chest was still heaving.
Barry nodded again. His voice came out rough, scraped. "Yeah. I'm good."
Jake's grin returned, slow and easy. He reached out and put a hand on Barry's shoulder, the same warm, heavy weight as before, and his thumb traced a slow circle against the fabric of Barry's t-shirt.
"Good," he said. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
Barry's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
Jake's eyes held his for a long moment. Then he glanced at the TV, still playing, still showing the two men tangled together on the bed, and he nodded toward it.
"There's more where that came from," he said. "And I figure — since we're both cool with it now — we've got all night to figure out what else we're into."
Barry's heart hammered in his chest. He could feel the weight of Jake's hand on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his body close by, and he could feel the beginning of a new tension building low in his belly — not arousal, not yet, but something like anticipation. Something like hunger.
"Yeah," he said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. "I think I'd like that."
Jake's grin widened, and he gave Barry's shoulder a squeeze before withdrawing his hand. He walked back to his bed, settling against the headboard with the same easy confidence as always, and he picked up the remote from where Barry had set it down.
"Your pick," Jake said, holding it out. "Show me what else you like."
Barry crossed the room on unsteady legs. He took the remote from Jake's hand, his fingers brushing against Jake's, and he felt the spark of contact travel up his arm. He settled onto the edge of his own bed, facing Jake, and he scrolled through the thumbnails with a thumb that was still trembling.
He paused on a video. Two men, one on his back, the other between his legs. The image was clear, explicit, and Barry felt his face heat as he clicked it.
The screen flickered, and the video loaded. The man on his back groaned as the other man pushed inside him, and Barry watched, transfixed, as they moved together in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Jake didn't say anything. He just watched, his eyes fixed on the screen, his hand resting on his stomach. But Barry could see the way his chest was rising and falling faster, could see the way his fingers curled against the fabric of his boxers.
"That one," Jake said finally, his voice low. "I like that one."
Barry's heart stuttered. He kept his eyes on the screen, but he could feel Jake's gaze on him, could feel the weight of it, could feel the question hanging in the air between them.
"Yeah," Barry said. "Me too."
The video played on, the sounds filling the room, and Barry sat on the edge of his bed, watching, feeling the heat building in his belly, feeling Jake's eyes on him, feeling the night stretching out ahead of them, full of possibilities he'd never let himself imagine.
He didn't look away from the screen. But he felt Jake shift on the bed, felt the mattress creak, and he knew — he knew — that Jake was watching him just as intently as he was watching the video.
The thought made his stomach clench. He kept his eyes forward, kept his breathing steady, and he let the sounds of the video wash over him, let the heat build, let the night unfold.
Jake's voice came from across the room, low and rough. "You ever done that before?"
Barry's throat worked. He knew what Jake was asking. He could feel the question hanging in the air, heavy and charged, and he knew he could lie — could say no, could deflect, could pretend he didn't understand. But Jake was looking at him with those steady blue eyes, and Barry found himself shaking his head before he could stop himself.
"No," he said. The word came out small. "I've never—" He gestured vaguely at the screen. "I've never done any of it."
Jake was quiet for a moment. The video played on, the sounds filling the room, and Barry could feel the weight of Jake's gaze on him, patient and waiting.
"Never?" Jake asked finally.
Barry shook his head. His face was burning, his heart hammering in his chest, and he kept his eyes fixed on the screen, on the two men moving together, on the way they fit.
"Never even kissed anyone," he said. The words came out before he could stop them, and he felt his face heat even more. "I mean — I've wanted to. But I never—" He stopped, his throat working. "I never had the chance."
The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Barry could feel Jake's eyes on him, could feel the weight of the moment, and he braced himself for the joke, the dismissal, the awkward change of subject.
Instead, Jake said, "Come here."
Barry blinked. "What?"
"Come here," Jake repeated. His voice was low, steady, and he patted the edge of his bed. "Sit with me."
Barry's legs carried him across the room before his brain could object. He sat on the edge of Jake's mattress, the springs creaking under his weight, and he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, on the way they were twisting in his lap.
"Look at me," Jake said.
Barry looked up.
Jake's blue eyes were steady, warm, missing the lazy amusement they'd held before. "You've never even kissed anyone?" he asked. His voice was gentle, quieter than Barry had ever heard it.
Barry shook his head. His throat was too tight to speak.
Jake studied him for a long moment. Then he reached out, his hand finding Barry's chin, and he tilted Barry's face up, gentle but firm.
"Can I show you?" Jake asked. "What it's supposed to feel like?"
Barry's heart stopped. His mouth opened, but no sound came out, and he could feel the heat of Jake's hand on his chin, could feel the warmth of his body close by, could feel the weight of the question hanging in the air between them.
"Yeah," Barry breathed. The word came out barely audible. "Yeah, show me."
Jake leaned in.
His lips were warm, softer than Barry had imagined, and they brushed against Barry's with a gentleness that made Barry's chest ache. Jake's hand moved from his chin to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and he pulled Barry closer, deepening the kiss.
Barry's eyes fluttered closed. He felt Jake's tongue trace the seam of his lips, felt the heat of his mouth, felt the way Jake's other hand found his waist, pulling him closer. He made a small sound — he couldn't help it — and Jake swallowed it, kissing him deeper, slower, like they had all the time in the world.
It was nothing like Barry had imagined. It was better. It was Jake's hand in his hair, Jake's breath warm against his cheek, Jake's body solid and real against his. It was the taste of beer and something else, something warm and male, and Barry felt his head spin, felt his hands come up to grip Jake's shoulders, felt himself melt into the kiss.
Jake pulled back slowly, his lips brushing against Barry's one last time before he withdrew. His eyes were dark, his breathing rough, and he looked at Barry with an expression that made Barry's stomach clench.
"Like that," Jake said. His voice was low, rough. "That's what it's supposed to feel like."
Barry couldn't speak. His lips were tingling, his heart hammering, and he could feel the heat of Jake's body close by, could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
He leaned in and kissed Jake again.
This time, he wasn't passive. He pressed his lips against Jake's, parted them, let his tongue find Jake's. He felt Jake's hands tighten on his hips, felt the low sound Jake made against his mouth, and he kissed him deeper, hungrier, like he was making up for every year he'd spent alone.
Jake kissed him back. His hands slid up Barry's back, pulling him closer, and Barry felt himself being drawn onto the bed, felt Jake's body against his, felt the heat of him through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
The video played on, forgotten, the sounds of the two men on the screen filling the room. But Barry didn't hear them. He could only hear Jake's breathing, could only feel the warmth of his mouth, could only taste the beer on his tongue.
Jake pulled back, his forehead resting against Barry's, his breathing rough. "You're a fast learner," he murmured.
Barry's face burned. He could feel Jake's smile against his lips, could feel the warmth of his body, could feel the way his heart was still hammering in his chest.
"I had a good teacher," Barry whispered.
Jake laughed, low and easy, and he pulled Barry closer, settling them both against the headboard. The video played on, the blue light flickering across their skin, and Barry leaned into Jake's warmth, feeling the steady beat of his heart against his cheek.
"So," Jake said, his voice rumbling in his chest. "You want to keep watching? Or you want to keep practicing?"
Barry's lips curved against Jake's skin. "Practice," he said.
Jake's hand found his chin, tilting his face up, and he kissed him again — slow, deep, thorough. Barry melted into it, his hands finding Jake's chest, his fingers curling into the blonde hair there, and he let himself be kissed, let himself be held, let himself imagine what else the night might hold.
The video played on. The blue light flickered. And Barry kissed his roommate in the dark, learning what it felt like to be wanted.