Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Note: Sorry, English is not my first language. I'd be really grateful if you keep that in mind while reading the story. And enjoy the story. Please leave comments and vote for it. Thank you.

(Chapter: 1)

Ezran;

I didn't know his name then. Didn't know he lived across from me. Didn't know that man would eventually rip my life in half and leave me crawling toward the part of myself I didn't know existed. Cause that part? God forbid me- was not right. Men only like women. Then why the fuck my dick twitching looking at him when he didn't even noticed me?

All I knew was that he was standing on his balcony, half-naked, soaked in sunlight and sin.

Boxers slung low on his hips like even that piece of cloth was begging him to let go. Wet hair dripping down his bare chest. A single sentence carved across his chest in black ink-meant something, probably, but I couldn't read that from where I stood. Cigarette clinging between his lips like it belonged there more than I did anywhere near that view.

And me?

I was frozen.

Halfway through hanging my laundry, toothbrush still in my mouth, staring like a fucking idiot while my freshly washed boxers dripped onto the concrete. I hadn't slept. My back ached from unpacking. But suddenly none of that mattered, because he was standing there like the cover model for every mistake I was never allowed to make.

And he didn't even notice me.

Didn't glance. Didn't nod. Didn't exist in my direction.

He just... watered his plants. Nonchalantly. One hand holding a ridiculous plastic watering spray, the other lazily scratching his stomach like he hadn't just walked out of someone else's bed, lit a smoke, and declared war on every single moral of the society.

I'd seen attractive people before. I'm not blind. But he?

He was the kind of man you don't look at-you survive.

I wasn't supposed to react. Wasn't supposed to feel that twist in my gut. That pull. That heat. Not because I was religious-I wasn't. I didn't even believe in hell, but suddenly I was half-convinced I was already in it.

Because my eyes wouldn't move.

Because my fingers tightened on the railing.

Because I hated him. Immediately. Viscerally. Unfairly.

Not for being attractive.

But for making me feel something wrong which felt dangerously right.

Because that meant something was wrong with me. Very very wrong. So fucking wrong.

And where I come from? That kind of wrong doesn't get talked about.

It gets silenced. Mocked. Caged. Beaten out.

I dropped my toothbrush. Didn't even notice.

Didn't pick it up either.

I backed into my apartment like the balcony had caught fire and I'd been stupid enough to stand in it.

I shut the door.

Locked it.

And for the rest of the day, I pretended like I hadn't seen anything.

Like I didn't spend the next three hours trying not to remember the shape of his spine, the cut of his hips, or the way the smoke curled from his mouth like a fucking promise I wasn't allowed to hear.

----

I didn't sleep that night. Not really.

I laid down, sure. Flopped onto my shitty single mattress, closed my eyes, and told myself to forget. But my brain was a rabid mutt that hadn't been fed in years, and now it had a taste for something dangerous.

And by dangerous, I mean six-foot-something of half-naked, tattooed, cigarette-smoking apocalypse with wet hair and no fucks to give.

Keal Hyrjon.

I didn't know his name in the morning. But now? Thanks to the moaning idiot he was fucking last night, I do. Thin walls.

Even thinner patience.

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop-swear to God-but it's kind of hard not to when the man next door sounds like he's auditioning for a porn remake of Les Misérables.

And between the headboard slamming, the "Harder, Keal-fuck-harder," and the throat-shredding final act, I was left with a name. A voice. And the horrifying realization that my dick had twitched the second I heard his. Not his partner's. His.

I knew how his back flexed when he reached for a plant.

I knew how his jaw tensed when he exhaled smoke.

And I knew, without a doubt, that Keal didn't give a single fuck about who heard what or who saw what. He wanted to be seen. Loudly. Shamelessly. That balcony wasn't a balcony-it was his goddamn stage.

And I was front row, palms sweating, heart on fire, pretending I didn't pay for the ticket with my sanity.

I didn't sleep.

Instead, I tossed. Turned. Fought my own hands.

I shoved a pillow over my face.

Like that would help.

Like smothering the sound of Keal’s deep groans would somehow scrub him from my brain.

I fumbled blindly for my earbuds, shoved them in, scrolled through every damn playlist I had—Bollywood sad bois, instrumental lo-fi, bone-shattering hip-hop, even ear-splitting electro-trash.

Nothing.

Nothing worked.

Keal’s voice leaked in anyway.

Like the universe was punishing me for sins I don't know I committed.

The guy had begged—voice wrecked, body shameless. Called himself Keal’s slut, cried for cock like it was his only salvation.

I tore the earbuds out and launched my phone across the mattress.

This isn’t happening.

This is a nightmare.

This is homesickness, anxiety, maybe low blood sugar. Not… this.

I curled in on myself, fists clenched, heartbeat slamming against my ribs like it wanted out.

Don’t think it. Don’t imagine it. Don’t fucking feel it.

I rolled over.

Then again.

Then again.

My skin was too tight. My boxers felt like torture. My cock pulsed like a traitor with no loyalty. I slammed my fist against the bed—once, hard, like I could bruise temptation out of my bones.

No. I wasn’t going to do this.

I closed my eyes and whispered verses I hadn’t touched since high school.

Begged God to erase the images in my head.

To make it stop.

To make me stop.

But Keal’s voice didn't leave.

It just… shifted.

Now it was saying my name.

Beg for it, Ezran…

And that was the moment something cracked.

Maybe the wall.

Maybe my will.

Maybe me.

---

🔞🔞🔞

The phone's screen glared 3:12 a.m., its light a cruel spotlight on my pathetic state. I staggered into the bathroom, the cold tile biting my bare feet, each step a slap of reality I couldn't escape. I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a judge's gavel, locking me in with my guilt. No light. I didn't deserve it. Didn't want to face the mirror and see the disgusting fuck staring back, eyes wild, sweat dripping down my temples, cock already straining against my boxers like a traitor begging to be caught.

My hands shook as I leaned over the sink, fingers digging into the porcelain until my knuckles screamed. My breath was a mess, shallow and jagged, my chest tight with a need I despised. My dick throbbed, hot and heavy, leaking through the fabric, a wet spot spreading like evidence of my blasphemy. I tried to stop, tried to lie to myself, my voice a hoarse whisper in the dark.

"It's just stress," I rasped, the words sour and useless. "It's just loneliness. It's just the shock of moving."

Bullshit. It was Keal. His name was a fucking brand on my brain, seared in by that voice-low, rough, dripping with control. I could still hear him through the walls, every word a knife twisting in my gut. "Keal, harder, please... oh my god, yes yes," the guy had whined, his voice raw with desperation. And Keal's response-fuck, it had gutted me. "You want harder? Then beg for it. Show me what a slut you're for my cock." And the guy did, sobbing, "Please, Keal, I'm your slut, I need your cock, fuck me, please," his words a humiliating surrender that had set my blood on fire.

I didn't know shit about gay sex. Never let myself think it, never dared look it up, never let the word "gay" even form in my head. It was forbidden, a one-way ticket to hell in my world. But now, my brain was a porn reel I couldn't shut off. It wasn't the other guy begging anymore. It was me. Me, on my four, ass up, Keal's hands gripping my hips so hard they'd bruise, his voice a growl in my ear. "Beg for it, Ezran," he'd say, and in my head, I was, my voice a broken mess, pleading for something I didn't even understand.

"Fuck," I groaned, my hand betraying me, ripping my boxers down so fast they tore at the seam. My cock sprang free, rock-hard, the tip glistening with precum, veins pulsing like they were angry. I gripped it, my fist tight, the first stroke a brutal shock that made my hips buck and my breath hiss. I braced my other hand on the sink, my arm trembling, my head hanging low like I was bowing to my own damnation.

My strokes were frantic, slick with precum, the wet sound of it loud and filthy in the silence. I pumped my cock hard, my grip punishing, my thumb dragging over the slit, smearing the mess and sending sparks up my spine. I bit my lip until it bled, trying to stay quiet, but a choked moan slipped out, then another, needy and pathetic. Keal's voice was everywhere, that "Tell me what a slut you're for my cock" looping in my head, and I pictured him-his tattooed chest heaving, his wet hair clinging to his neck, his eyes locked on mine as he fucked me.

I didn't know how it worked, but I imagined it, raw and obscene. Him behind me, his cock-thick, heavy, slick-pushing into my ass, stretching me open, the burn making me wild. "Beg," he'd growl, and in my head, I did, my voice hoarse: "Please, Keal, I'm your cockslut, fuck me, fuck me harder, please." My hips snapped forward, fucking my fist like it was him, my balls tight and aching, my thighs trembling. I pictured his hands on me, one gripping my throat, the other spanking my ass red, his voice mocking, "Look at you, Ezran, such a desperate little whore."

I hated myself, every stroke a reminder of how fucked I was. I was raised to be better, to want women, to be normal. This was wrong-sick, a betrayal of everything I was supposed to be. But I couldn't stop, my hand a blur, my cock leaking so much it dripped down my balls, splattering the tile. "I'm sorry," I gasped, tears stinging my eyes, but my body didn't care, chasing the edge with a hunger that made me want to puke.

"Fuck-Keal-please" I whimpered, his name a prayer I shouldn't say. My orgasm exploded, a violent, shattering wave that tore a sob from my throat the second he ordered his partner in that sin wrapped growl, "Come for me. Show me what a good slut you are." Cum shot from my cock, thick ropes splattering my hand, the sink, the floor, hot and sticky, marking me like a criminal. My knees buckled, my body convulsing as I milked every pulse, my fist slick with my own mess, my breath a broken wail. It was the hardest I'd ever come, a pleasure so intense it felt like a blade, cutting me open.

Then it was over.

The shame hit like a freight train, crushing my chest, choking me. I slumped against the wall, my cock softening, still dripping, my hand coated in cum, the smell of it thick and damning. I stared at the mess, my breath hitching, my stomach lurching so hard I gagged, dry on my lip. I'd jerked to a man. Imagined Keal fucking my ass, owning me, breaking me, while I begged like a whore. I was a monster, a failure, everything my family'd spit on.

I turned on the faucet, the water roaring, and scrubbed my hands until they bled, the soap stinging like holy water on a demon. I grabbed toilet paper, scrubbing the floor, the sink, my thighs, my softening- anywhere, frantic, like I could wipe out the truth. But Keal was in my soul now, his smirk, his tattoos, his voice, and no scrubbing would make me clean.

I collapsed on the tile, knees to chest, head buried in my arms, shaking. This wasn't a fluke. This was me, cracking open, and Keal was the fucking fault line.

---

"It's just stress."

"It's just loneliness."

"It's just the shock of moving."

But none of that explained why I came harder than I had in months.

Or why I felt like throwing up after.

---

Morning came like a slap to the face.

To bright. Too loud. Too fucking real.

I dragged myself into the kitchen, shirtless, eyes half-shut, hair sticking up like I'd fought my demons and lost. My flatmate wasn't due to move in for another week, which was good-he didn't need to see the wreckage that was me.

I poured a cup of lukewarm coffee and stepped onto the balcony.

The same balcony where everything had gone to hell.

And guess who was still allergic to shirts?

Him.

Keal stood there like nothing had happened. Like the walls hadn't screamed his name last night. Like he hadn't just carved his existence into the back of my eyelids. Like he hadn't made me do shit I never knew existed. Cigarette between his fingers. Music playing faintly behind him-some upbeat synth-pop that made no goddamn sense coming from a man who looked like he'd chain-smoke through a funeral and flirt with the widow.

And then-

he came out.

The guy from last night.

Bare-chested. Still marked up from the fuckfest. Eyes sleepy, lips swollen, body language screaming claimed. He walked out like he belonged there, like he'd done this a thousand times before, like this wasn't a casual hookup but a goddamn tradition.

He slid his arms around Keal from behind.

Kissed his shoulder.

Smiled into his skin like he owned it.

My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles cracked.

Don't look. Don't look. Don't-

Keal looked.

Right at me.

His head tilted, brow raised like he'd caught me mid-sin.

"Morning, neighbor?"

He said, voice rough and stained with smoke reminding me the shameful act I was engaged in last night.

I choked on my coffee. Cough. Gag. Regret. Immediate full-body cringe.

"Hey,"

I rasped, eyes jerking away from his chest to the cracked concrete between us.

He grinned.

Of course he fucking did.

"You moved in yesterday, right?"

I nodded, because apparently I had a death wish.

"Cool. I'm Keal."

He didn't offer a hand. Just leaned on the railing, letting his nameless bedwarmer drape over him like a cheap luxury coat. He was still watching me with that look-the kind that peeled your skin off layer by layer and dared you to pretend you liked it.

"I'm Ezran."

"Ezran"

He repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like it was something he'd taste later.

"Nice. You look like a science guy."

I blinked.

"Uh. I am."

"Yeah, you've got that whole don't-talk-to-me-I-have-midterms vibe."

I should've walked away.

Should've shut the door.

Should've scrubbed my brain with bleach.

Instead, I stayed. Like a dumbass. Like a moth to a shirtless, sarcastic, possibly bisexual flame.

And in my world?

That word doesn't exist. There is no word like that.

Because men only like women.

Women only like men.

Period.

No commas. No exceptions. No room to breathe.

Keal took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the tin can at his feet. Bullseye. Then he turned to the guy still wrapped around him and whispered something I couldn't hear-but it made him laugh.

And then, just like that, Keal nodded at me.

Like this was normal.

Like we were normal.

And he walked inside.

I stood there a minute longer, face numb, coffee forgotten.

Then I went back in.

And slammed the door.

Because now he had a name.

And that made him real.

And real things?

Real things fucking ruin you.

----

THANK YOU FOR READING.

[This is my first story. Please leave comments and let me know if you're enjoying it. I'll update regularly.]

-----

(To be continued)

Chapter Text

(Chapter: 2)

Keal;

I noticed him the moment he moved in. No dramatic entrance. No flair. Just some guy dragging a box labeled "Kitchen Shit" up two flights of stairs like he was carrying the weight of his dead dreams in that cardboard coffin. Sweat soaked his shirt like sin clinging to a saint, hair sticking to his forehead in limp clumps, and eyes-those damn eyes-glassy with the kind of burnout you don't get from finals week. That was a man who'd been emotionally evicted long before his lease even started.

Funny. Not my type, though.

I mean, sure, I noticed him. I notice everything. You don't run four businesses in a city crawling with fake IDs, trust fund trash, and Instagram sex fiends without noticing shit. But him? He had that wide-eyed, twitchy energy of someone who didn't know if he was here to live, die, or cry about both.

And I don't fuck confused.
Confused gets clingy. Confused asks questions I don't have answers to. Confused assumes pillow talk is a gateway drug to relationships. I've danced with confused before. They always come with baggage and a playlist full of sad boy songs. They want to be saved. I'm not a savior-I'm the storm that drowns them.

He looked like a baby deer on the freeway. Or a virgin at a sex club, realizing the "Choke me, daddy" wasn't his massage to read.

Cute? Maybe. In a "don't come near me unless you want to spiral" sort of way. He didn't scream 'fuck me.' He is the type to whisper 'break me.'

And that's...boring.

That day, I was watering my plants. Shirtless, obviously. Not for the neighbors-habit. I like the sun. I like the way it licks at my skin. And yeah, maybe I like giving a free show. The abs cost me hours in the gym and a lifetime of trauma. Might as well get the appreciation I was never hugged for.

Before him, whoever lived in that apartment, I've fucked. Hell, I've probably fucked half this complex. Some of them twice. They knew the rules: no sleepovers, no cuddling, no kisses and no names unless you're screaming mine.

So when I caught him staring-frozen mid-laundry, toothbrush still in his mouth, boxers in one hand-I grinned.

Not my type.

Still...

He didn't look away.

He tried. Backed into his apartment like I'd pulled my dick out and recited some book named 'Gay Revelation 101'. But I saw it. That flicker. Not lust-yet. Disgust, confusion, panic. But underneath all that straight-boy denial was a seed. Just a little one.

Curiosity.

And curiosity is the first sin. The most terrifying sin.

I didn't dwell. I had shit to do. Liquor invoices, DJ schedules, supplier tantrums. When you run two bars, a strip club, and a lounge full of people who think mood lighting counts as personality, you learn to prioritize.

From noon to five? Businessman.

From eleven to five AM? Sin incarnate.

I flirt. I drink. I dance. I fuck. I rinse. I repeat. I live fast, reckless, and unapologetically loud. Because I know what silence tastes like. I know what it's like to grow up invisible, unheard, told to sit still and be someone I'm not. Fuck that. I'd rather burn out than fade in the background again.

So that night, I had someone over like every other night. A hotshot dancer. Flexible. Loud. The kind of guy who thinks astrology explains his toxic personality. I let him ride me until his knees gave out. He screamed. I growled. I don't fuck gentle. I fuck like I'm trying to erase myself in someone else's skin.

No apologies.

Next morning, I was out again. Coffee in one hand. Cigarette in the other. Shirt still MIA, of course. Why hide the goods? Society already forced me into pants; they're not getting my torso.

Then he came out.

Ezran.

Still looking like desire had personally throat-punched his soul.

His eyes locked on me like he couldn't decide whether to bolt or drop to his knees and pray.

And I knew.

He heard us. Every damn sound. Every moan, every curse, every filthy, degrading whisper I gave that dancer. I saw it in the way his ears turned pink, in the way his hand trembled holding that coffee cup.

I said, "Morning, neighbor," with my most casual, most sultry voice.

He choked.

On the coffee. On his thoughts. On the sheer panic of being caught in his own reaction.

Fucking nirvana.

I wanted to laugh. Instead, I kept my neutral face. Because repression? That shit's intoxicating.

Ezran-tight shoulders, clean lines, brows furrowed like judgment was a second language. Closet case, clearly. The type raised on shame and Sunday sermons. The kind who says "I'm not gay" like it's a prayer and not a lie.

And those are the ones who break best.

I wasn't obsessed. He is the kind I usually don't even bother to glance twice. But I watched him. Not in the creepy way. I didn't stalk. I observed. There's a difference. Creepers hide in shadows. I stand in the sun and dare them to meet my eyes.

He avoided mine.

Every time.

Until he didn't.

Until the morning I caught him staring again. This time through his window. Sitting in his table, probably his study table. But his eyes were anywhere but the book open in front of him. His eyes was on me. Hard. Confused. Curious. Thought he was slick. Thought a cracked curtain could hide him.

It couldn't.

I was shirtless again. This time doing nothing but existing. And he stared like he was angry at me for existing like that. Like I was tempting him. Like I was the reason his hands were shaking when he pulled the curtains.

I started timing it. Every night I had someone over, I'd catch glimpses of him the next morning. Eyes puffy. Face red. Like he hadn't slept. Like the walls weren't the only thing paper-thin. Like he hated the part of himself that liked the sounds I made someone else scream.

And hate?

Hate is almost as powerful as desire, if not more.

One night, I made it louder on purpose. Told the guy to beg louder. Told him to scream. Moan. Call me his God.

Ezran didn't come out the next morning.

But I saw the lights in his place flicker at 2 AM.

Saw the shadows pacing.

He was unraveling.

And I? I was fascinated.

There's something delicious about watching someone so tightly wound start to fray. Something holy in the destruction of something pure. Not because I want to hurt him.

But because I want to see what he becomes when he stops lying to himself.

The thing about repression is-it doesn't disappear. It festers. It grows teeth. It turns into obsession. And sooner or later, that boy is going to break. Maybe it'll be a drunken mistake. Maybe it'll be a whispered confession. Maybe he'll just snap and get on his knees and beg to god like he thinks it'll fix something.

It won't. Because the next time he'll kneel, I'll be his God.

Only God.

Just to see how fast he falls.

Because that's what I do. I don't love. That shit is for stupid people. I unravel. I ruin. I teach people how to set fire to their old selves and dance in the ashes. And Ezran Sharma?

He's already burning.

He just doesn't know it yet.

----

THANK YOU FOR READING.

Chapter Text

(Chapter 3)

Ezran;

The phone rang at 6:15 p.m., the screen lighting up with “Maa” like a summons from a past I couldn’t outrun. I stared at it on the kitchen counter, my hands frozen mid-chop over a half-diced onion. The knife trembled in my grip, my pulse hammering in my throat. I knew what was coming. Same script, different day. But today? Today, I was already a mess of guilt and shame, my skin crawling with the memory of last night’s betrayal—my hand, my cock, Keal’s voice in my head like a fucking demon I couldn’t exorcise.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel, the rough fabric scraping my palms like penance, and picked up the phone. “Hello, Maa,” I said, voice flat, trying to sound normal, like I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours spiraling into a pit of self-loathing.

“Ezran, beta, Howre you?” Her voice was warm, laced with that mix of love and expectation that always made my chest ache. “Are you eating timely? You’re not skipping meals, are you?”

“Hmm, haan, Maa,” I mumbled, leaning against the counter, my eyes fixed on the cracked tile floor. My stomach twisted, not from hunger but from the weight of what I’d done. Jerking off to Keal. To a man. His name burned in my brain, a sin I couldn’t scrub out, no matter how hard I’d tried in that bathroom at 3 a.m.

“Accha, listen,” she continued, her tone shifting to that familiar lecture mode. “Your Papa and I were talking. Now you’re in a new city, new apartment, new job. You have to be careful, beta. These places, they have all kinds of people. Bad influences. You know how it is—alcohol, drugs, wrong company. Stay away from all that nonsense. You're our good boy.”

“Ji, Maa,” I said automatically, my voice hollow. Good boy. The words landed like a slap, stinging worse than the soap I’d scrubbed my hands with last night. Good boys didn’t imagine their neighbor—a man—fucking them, didn’t beg for it in their head, didn’t come so hard they sobbed afterward. Good boys didn’t hide in their apartment, avoiding their balcony because they were terrified of seeing him again, shirtless, smirking, like he knew exactly what he’d done to me.

“Ezran, are you even listening?” Her voice sharpened, pulling me back. “I’m serious. You’re alone there, no family to guide you. Don’t get mixed up with the wrong crowd. Focus on your work, your studies. Find a nice girl, settle down soon. Your cousin Anil, he’s getting engaged next month. You’re not getting younger, beta.”

“Haan, accha,” I rasped, my throat tight. A nice girl. Settle down. The life I was supposed to want, the one I’d been raised for—clean, straight, normal. My family’s world was black-and-white: men marry women, have kids, build a life. No room for gray, no space for the way my body had reacted to Keal’s voice, his body, his existence. I pressed my free hand to my forehead, my skin clammy, my heart pounding like it wanted to escape my chest.

“And beta,” she went on, oblivious to the war inside me, “stay away from those modern types, you know? The ones who don’t respect our values. Drinking, partying, living like they have no shame. You’re from a good family. Don’t let anyone pull you into their dirty ways.”

“Ji, Maa,” I whispered, my voice cracking. Dirty. The word hit like a knife, slicing through the thin armor I’d tried to build since last night. I was dirty. Filthy. Wrong. I’d grown up hearing it—homosexuality was a sin, a sickness, a choice you didn’t make unless you were broken. My uncle’s voice echoed in my head from years ago, spitting about “those people” at a family dinner, how they were unnatural, how they’d burn in hell. And now I was one of them, wasn’t I? My hand shook, the phone slipping slightly against my ear.

“Ezran, what happened? You sound off. Are you sick?” Her concern was a fresh wound, because I didn’t deserve it. I wasn’t her good boy anymore. I was a liar, a coward, a disgusting fuck who’d defiled himself to thoughts of a man who didn’t even know what he’d done to me.

“Nah, Maa, just tired,” I lied, my voice barely above a whisper. “Long day at work.”

“Accha, take rest then. But promise me, beta, you’ll stay on the right path. We trust you. You’re our pride.”

“Hmm,” I managed, the sound choking me. Pride. I wanted to laugh, bitter and broken, but instead I just stood there, my eyes burning, my chest caving in. I was their shame, their failure, if they ever knew. If they knew what I’d done, what I’d felt, what I couldn’t stop feeling.

“Okay, beta, I’ll call tomorrow. Take care. Love you.”

“Love you too, Maa,” I said, the words mechanical, and hung up before she could hear the hitch in my breath.

I dropped the phone on the counter, my hands gripping the edge, my knuckles white. The kitchen spun, the onion’s sharp smell mixing with the sour taste of guilt in my mouth. I was dying inside, every word from Maa a hammer to the cracks Keal had already carved into me. Stay away from bad influences. Keal was the definition of bad—loud, shameless, fucking men like it was his birthright, flaunting it on his balcony like a middle finger to everything I’d been taught. And I’d liked it. I’d jerked off to it, come to it, cried over it.

I slid to the floor, my back against the cabinets, knees pulled to my chest. My hands shook as I dragged them through my hair, tugging hard, like the pain could pull Keal out of my head. But he was there, his smirk, his tattoos, his voice—“Beg for it, Ezran”—and my body reacted again, a traitor even now, my dick twitching in my jeans like it hadn’t learned its lesson.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice breaking. I pressed my palms to my eyes, hot tears leaking through, because I was wrong. So fucking wrong. Where I came from, this wasn’t just a mistake—it was a death sentence. Not literal, maybe, but social, emotional, familial. My parents would disown me. My cousins would mock me. My world would collapse, and for what? A neighbor I didn’t even know, who’d probably laugh if he knew how much he’d fucked me up?

He knew I’d heard him that night. Maybe he knew more—maybe he could see the disgusting truth I was trying to hide. And the worst part? I wanted him to see me again. I wanted his attention. I wanted to be on my knees, to know what his hands felt like, what his mouth felt like, and that thought made me want to puke.

I wasn’t raised for this. I was raised for Sunday pujas, for engineering degrees, for a wife I didn’t love but married anyway. I was raised to be straight, to be good, to be safe. But Keal was none of those things, and now neither was I. I was a hypocrite, a sinner, a man who said “Ji, Maa” while his soul screamed for something he could never have, never be.

I stayed on the floor until the kitchen grew dark, the onion forgotten, my coffee cold. I didn’t move, didn’t eat, didn’t dare step onto the balcony. Because if I saw him again, I didn’t know if I’d run—or if I’d fall.

And falling wasn’t an option.

Not when I was already broken.

The package squatted on my doormat like it had been waiting for me to blink first.

It wasn’t mine. My name—Ezran Sharma—would never be scrawled so recklessly across a cardboard box, all smudged ink and jagged capitals screaming indifference. The label read Keal Hyrjon, the letters bleeding into each other like they were trying to escape. The tape along one seam curled upward, half-peeled, as if the box itself was itching to spill its secrets.

I stood there, frozen in the dim hallway of our crumbling apartment block, staring at it for a solid seven minutes. My sneakers scuffed the worn linoleum, the only sound in a building that always felt too quiet at dusk. The box didn’t move, but it might as well have pulsed. It wasn’t going to explode—not literally. But I knew what it meant to knock on his door.

My skin prickled, a warning I ignored.

I could leave it. Let the hallway’s resident thieves claim it. Blame the delivery guy, who must’ve been drunk or cursed to drop this at my door, of all places. Not my problem. Not my fault.

But that would be wrong.

Wouldn’t it?

My hand hovered, fingers twitching like they couldn’t decide whether to obey. The air felt thick, pressing against my chest.

Just grab it. Knock. Drop it. Leave. You don’t have to see him.

But my brain, ever the traitor, whispered something worse.

What if he’s not alone?

What if I knocked and heard it again—that sound? The slap of skin, stifled gasps, the bed frame’s rhythmic creak like a taunt. What if he opened the door and I saw a her—or a him—lounging in the half-dark, wearing nothing but a smirk and his borrowed shirt? What if I had to stand there, clutching this stupid box, while my pulse betrayed me?

My stomach churned, acid climbing my throat.

I crouched, snatched the box—its edges sharp enough to bite—and marched three doors down. The hallway stretched, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air was stale, heavy with the ghost of cigarette smoke and regret. My knuckles rapped against his door before I could talk myself out of it.

One beat. Two. Three... why he's not opening?

Knock.

The door swung open, and the world tilted.

Keal Hyrjon stood there, fresh from a shower, a vision carved from reckless abandon. His dark hair was slicked back, wet strands clinging to his forehead, dripping onto his collarbone. A low-slung towel clung to his hips, barely holding on, water tracing slow, indecent paths down his chest. A thin silver chain glinted against his skin, half-tangled at the hollow of his throat. His chest...that tattoo. I couldn’t make out what  his tattoo was saying that day. But now? Now its clear. "Worship at my altar, baby" a single sentence carved at his chest in black ink. His one hand rested on the doorframe, casual, like he hadn’t just shattered every defense I’d built.

“Yo,” he said, voice low and gravelly, still laced with sleep. “What’s good?”

I forgot how to form words. My mouth went dry, I gulp down. My grip on the box tightening until the cardboard creaked.

“Uh.” I thrust it toward him like a shield. “This...this got dropped at my place.”

His hunter eyes flicked to the box, then back to me. A slow, easy smile curled his lips—not smug, not predatory, just… disarming. “Shit, my bad. Thanks, man. Ezran,  right ?”

He took it with one hand, his fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. My skin burned where they’d grazed.

I turned to leave, my boots heavy, already halfway to safety.

“Hey, hold up.” His voice stopped me cold. “You wanna come in? Least I can do is pour you a drink.”

My pulse stuttered.

'Say no. Walk away. Now.' My mind screamed.

“I—uh, I shouldn’t,” I stammered, hating how small my voice sounded. “Just wanted to—”

“C’mon, one drink.” He stepped back, holding the door wider, his towel shifting slightly lower. “Don’t make me beg, neighbor.”

My brain screamed to run. My body, traitor that it was, stepped inside.

His apartment was a fever dream of chaos and warmth and...luxury. The air hit me like a wave—soap, cigarette smoke, and something faintly cedarwood, faint alcohol and...oddly Keal. Clothes littered the floor: a flannel shirt crumpled by the door, a pair of jeans slung over a chair. An ashtray teetered on a stack of dog-eared books, cigarette butts spilling over the edge. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the kitchen table, catching the dim glow of a single overhead bulb. A hoodie draped across a chair seemed to watch me, its sleeves limp like it had given up.

And there, by the sagging couch, a crumpled condom wrapper glinted under the light.

My neck snapped as I looked away, heat crawling up my face. I shoved my hands into my pockets, fingers curling into fists.

“Sorry for the mess,” Keal said, not sounding a bit of a sorry.  He went striding past me with the box tucked under one arm. His towel swayed dangerously, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. “My usual crowd doesn’t give a shit about tidiness, y’know. And neither I'm any clean freak. Haha.”

That laugh. Low, careless, like he was sharing a private joke I wasn’t in on.

Usual crowd. Right. They come-strip-fuck-and-leave kind. The kind who leave their wrappers and their marks and don’t care who sees.

I swallowed, my throat tight with something I fail to recognise.

He vanished into the kitchen nook, setting the box down with a muffled clink. Glasses clinked, liquid sloshed. He didn’t ask what I wanted—just poured two fingers of something into mismatched mugs and slid one across the counter toward me. I caught it before it could spill, my fingers brushing the handle, still warm from his grip.

“I saw you that day. Med student, if I remember right. Yeah?” he said, leaning against the counter, one hip cocked. His towel dipped lower, revealing a faint trail of dark hair. He was still shirtless, skin still damp, utterly unaware—or maybe perfectly aware—of the havoc he was wreaking havoc. “Thought I’d seen you around.”

I nodded, my voice stuck somewhere deep. “Yeah. 3B.”

“Cool. I’m 3E. Been here a year and change. Place is a dump, but it’s got… character.” He grinned, sipping from his mug, his throat working as he swallowed.

“I've never tried alcohol,” I blurted, desperate to fill the silence. “I...I dont know. Just not something....we do. Conservative family.”  Stupid stupid me. Ezran, just die. Did he asked you!

His brows lifted. “No kidding? That’s hardcore. I can't live a day without my vodka, tonic, gin. Even got my business. Pubs, clubs, bars and all—only if I bother to show up.”

I clutched my mug, the bourbon–as he said, fumes stinging my nose. I don't drink. Never drank.

Keal’s phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with an unsaved number I couldn’t read. He glanced at it, then ignored it, his attention sliding back to me. “So, you been here recently?”

“Few weeks,” I said, my voice steadier now. “Came to this country last month.”

“Nice. You settling in okay? Your place can be a lot.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the building, maybe the whole damn city.

I nodded, glancing at the sin-drink at my hand to avoid answering. The bourbon was looking expensive, but I wouldn't know.  Never had any.

He wasn’t looking at me—not really. His gaze drifted to the box he’d set on the counter, then back to the room, like he was half-lost in thought. He wasn’t flirting. Wasn’t trying to charm me. He was just… there, existing with an ease that made my chest ache with something unfamiliar.

And that was the worst part.

Because I wasn’t just there. Not with the way my pulse hammered every time he shifted. Not with the way my eyes kept snagging on the chain at his throat, the tattoo on his left chest, the way his fingers curled loosely around his mug. Not with the way I was drowning in his orbit, and he didn’t even notice.

---

The box sat on the counter like an accusation. Its edges were dented now, the label’s ink smudged worse than before. I wondered what was inside—something mundane, like textbooks or takeout menus? Or something heavier, like the kind of trouble that followed guys like Keal? The kind that ended in late-night fights or hushed deals in back alleys?

“You get a lot of packages?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

He glanced at the box, then at me, his smile just goofy. “Sometimes. Just the usual–lubes, condoms and a toy or two."

I choked on air. How can he say something as if he's reading weather reports. I don’t want to know. Or maybe I do, and that scared me more.

His phone buzzed again, insistent. This time, he picked it up, thumbing the screen with a frown. “Clingy ass” he muttered, tossing it back down.

I should’ve left then. Set the mug down, mumbled thanks, and bolted. But my feet stayed rooted, my fingers tight around the ceramic.

“You ever get used to it?” I asked, my voice quieter than I meant. “The noise. The chaos.”

He tilted his head, studying me for the first time—lthere was not a bit of seriousness in his eyes. As if everything is just 'have fun, toss away and move on'. “Boy, I run multiple bars, clubs, pubs. Noise and chaos is my life. And life's too short to be Prim and proper.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Yet I muttered, "I'm not boy. I'm 24." He was absolutely what I was taught to stay away from for my entire life. But...there's a but. And I don't have any explanation for it.

He laughed. Loud. Carefree. "And I'm 31, med-boy."

My eyes widened. The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of things unsaid. Keal sipped his bourbon, his eyes drifting to the window where the city’s lights bled through the blinds. I followed his gaze, catching the faint reflection of us in the glass—him, in nothing but a loose towel and unbothered, me, stiff and unraveling.

“I should go,” I said, setting the mug down with a clink. The bourbon sloshed, nearly spilling.

“Yeah? Alright.” He straightened, pushing off the counter. “Thanks again for the delivery, Ezran.”

My name in his mouth hit like a shockwave. I only told him my name once. I didn’t think he'd even remember it.

I nodded, muttered something incoherent, and made for the door. My hand was on the knob when he spoke again.

“Yo, 3B.” I glanced back. He was leaning against the doorframe, towel still precarious, eyes glinting with his usual cocky mischief, "Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

I managed a nod, then fled.

---

Back in my apartment, the walls closed in. My hands shook as I locked the door, the click too loud in the quiet. I sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, the bourbon’s smell still lingering on my mind.

I didn’t sleep that night. Couldn't.

Not because of what Keal said. Not because of the way he looked, half-naked and untouchable. Not because of the condom wrapper or the buzzing phone or the box with its smudged, cryptic label.

But because of what didn’t happen.

Because he, the Keal who supposedly fucks like a madman, hadn’t flirted. Hadn’t touched me. Hadn’t done anything but offer a drink and a smile.

And that normalcy—that indifference—was what carved me hollow.

I lay there, replaying every second, every glance, every word. The box loomed in my memory, its contents a question I wasn’t sure I wanted answered. And Keal, with his careless charm and shadowed edges, felt like a puzzle I’d never solve.

But the worst part? The part that kept me staring into the dark until dawn?

I knew I’d knock on his door again. And I'm already hating myself for it.

----

[THANK YOU FOR READING]

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