My Best Friend's Brother Dylan Was Supposed to Be Straight Part 2
Part 2: Dylan Was Right Behind Me
I froze in the doorway.
His voice stopped me cold, low and rough behind me like a half-caught thought.
"Yo, Troy. Were you..."
Every molecule in my body held its breath.
Was I what? Looking? Staring? Getting hard at the sight of his flexed back in the mirror while he adjusted his waistband, abs catching the light like something sculpted?
My throat dried out in real time.
I turned around, heart punching my ribs.
Dylan stood half-shadowed by the hallway light, arms crossed against his chest. His biceps looked stupid big in the short sleeves of that faded tee. He gave me a look that was hard to read--serious, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe I was just projecting everything I didn't want to admit onto the curves of his mouth.
He blinked. "Were you... pissed earlier?"
I stared.
"Like, when I called you spaghetti noodle or whatever. You dipped a little after that, and I was like--shit, maybe I pushed too hard. I'm just messing, bro. You know that, right?"
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.
"Yeah," I said quickly. "No, it's fine. I wasn't pissed. I just needed to pee."
Dylan scratched his neck. "Cool. Just checkin'. You seemed quiet, and Jake mentioned you've been going through some stuff with school and shit, so..." His voice softened just a notch. "Didn't wanna be a dick."
It was probably the most earnest thing I'd ever heard him say. It almost made me feel worse.
Because it meant he had no clue.
I smiled a little, kept it safe. "Thanks."
He nodded once, then stepped back into his room. The door clicked shut behind him.
And I stood in the hallway like a complete idiot, warm all over, trying not to relive the exact moment when I'd watched him in the mirror--shirtless, posing without realizing it, muscles flexing casually like he was born in a Nike ad. I hadn't meant to look. I just... hadn't stopped myself. And when he tilted his head slightly, almost like he saw me in the reflection--
God. I couldn't stop thinking about it.
Later that night, Jake and I were already halfway through The Prestige, lights low, the glow of the TV flickering over us while we lounged on the big floor mat he kept rolled up in the basement. It was this old camping thing--soft enough to be comfy, but thin enough to feel every shift of the other person's body.
Jake had tossed a blanket over us both and was halfway into a bag of kettle corn.
"I swear this is Nolan's best movie," he said, mouth half-full. "Bale's insane in this."
"I'm just here for Bowie as Tesla," I muttered, already lowkey distracted.
And then I heard footsteps.
Dylan.
He came down the stairs in a loose tank top clung to his chest, low at the sides so his ribs and the cut of his torso were on full display., just wearing those soft gym shorts, the waistband slung low. The kind of shirt that looked like he'd just rolled out of bed in it. Soft. Faded. Comfortable in the way only Dylan could pull off.
His gym shorts hung low on his hips, and he scratched absently at his stomach as he yawned, casual as ever.
"You guys still up?"
Dylan didn't answer right away.
Then, with a little grunt, he padded over in his low-slung gym shorts and a loose tank top, the kind that gapped wide at the sides and clung in all the right places.
"Scooch over, spaghetti noodle. This is the best part."
He didn't wait for a response. Just dropped down beside me on the mat, barely any space between us. Then he tugged at the blanket like he owned it and slid under without asking.
I stiffened. Like--everywhere.
His thigh brushed mine. His scent hit me like a sucker punch--clean, warm, something vaguely woodsy, like cedar and sweat and body wash. He laid on his side facing the screen, muscle pressed to muscle, easy like this was normal. Like we did this all the time.
We watched in silence for a few minutes, the movie playing out in flickers of light across our faces. A scene came on--some tense moment between the magicians, one of them bleeding and dramatic--and Dylan muttered under his breath, "Dude needs a spotter. That's why I don't train solo."
I huffed a laugh, trying not to react too much. "Yeah, that's what you took from that scene."
"What? Lifting safely is important," he said, voice low and lazy.
More time passed. I couldn't focus on the film. I was too aware of how close we were, how his arm shifted every so often, brushing my back like an accident. How under the blanket, our legs kept touching, not enough to be obvious, but too much to ignore.
About thirty minutes in, I felt Jake start to nod off beside me.
It always happened around this point. Every time we rewatched The Prestige, he conked out somewhere in act two. Like muscle memory. First came the head droop, then the occasional twitch, and then the deep, unconscious breathing.
First came the head droop, then the occasional twitch, and then the deep, unconscious breathing.
On my right, Jake was out cold--mouth slightly open, one arm still draped over the popcorn bag like it was a teddy bear.
And when I looked to my left, where Dylan was curled under the blanket with me, I saw him asleep too. On his side. Very close to me. His breathing was slow, lips slightly parted, the rise and fall of his chest steady and warm. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful to be real.
I swallowed and reached for the remote, killing the screen with a soft click. The room went dim, all the leftover light pooling around the edges.
And I was just... lying there, like fuck.
