Nice to meet you, I am Andrej.

[bankai-shikai]

Hey guys, I have been reading many stories from this section and it inspired me to write a story of my own first experience. So if you like it, give me a heads-up.

————————————-

I become aware of my first thoughts while lying on the floor, watching my feet tap uncontrollably. I’ve always had this nervous energy in moments of anxiety. Wiping the sweat from my face, I curse the unbearable August heat—even for me, it’s too much. How did I survive back in 2009, riding that bus to Karlovci in May? On days like this, I often think about my life nearly a decade ago.


Back then, my thoughts felt clearer, my goals more defined. I had the motivation and energy to move forward. But the path of a high school boy is never straightforward.


“Petar, get up off the floor, you’ll catch a cold,” my mother says, rolling a cigarette at the table.


For weeks now, I’ve felt empty. My mind fixates only on the people I’ve lost touch with. Not just people, but places too. It’s been a while since I was last in Serbia. My whole life has changed—some would call it a radical shift—since my family and I moved to Switzerland in search of a better life. Ah, life… ah, to be an expat.


Trying to sum up the past fifteen years in a few sentences is impossible. Writing a book about it? Even harder. Especially a book like this, in our so-called tolerant and blessed country. But I’ll try. This time, I’ll give it my all. Not necessarily for myself, but for some sixteen-year-old “Petar” out there who needs a story like this—to make sense of his first experience with his best friend. To understand. Maybe, if he’s lucky, to forgive himself and figure out what it really means to love.


I loved Andrej too. Or at least, I think I did. We talked on the phone today for almost an hour. He quit his job and needed someone to listen. And who else but his Petar? His wife? Of course not. She’s too busy, working like a mule. Complicated situation? Not anymore, trust me.


But almost ten years ago, it was. Extremely.


What can you do? A kid is a kid, no matter how grown-up he feels or pretends to be.


After dedicating more than eight years to karate, I started feeling drained. The rhythm I had built demanded that I keep going, but I wasn’t sure how. Regular gym workouts felt inadequate, and I didn’t want to go through the hassle of adapting to yet another karate club. I was at a crossroads—on one side, my old life and habits; on the other, the challenge of a new place, a new school, and a new sport.


Then, one day in Novi Sad, I noticed a flyer taped to a lamppost. An MMA club was accepting new members. Something about it caught my eye, stirring an interest I had never felt before.


Karate, despite all the years I had poured into it, left me restless. It simply wasn’t enough. My body buzzed with adrenaline as I tore the slip of paper with the club’s address and phone number. A new challenge, new limits to push, stepping out of my comfort zone—these things ignited something inside me. They forced me to reflect on the choices that had led me to this point.



Even now, when I think about my need for change, I return to that moment and realize: change is addictive.



That same feeling followed me as I stood in my new room, staring at my reflection in the mirror after a shower. I looked good, yet all I could see were my flaws.



I will never forget stepping out of my father’s Dacia and taking that first step toward the old gym. It was a relic of the communist era, already unfamiliar to my generation. A frozen piece of history, abandoned for over three decades. The massive concrete structure, its faded gray walls peeling, stood as a reminder of a past long gone.



The gym no longer exists—it was demolished sometime around 2015 or 2016.



But I still remember walking inside, overwhelmed by the thick, nostalgic scent of sweat, cigarettes, and history. The red walls seemed untouched, better preserved than the crumbling exterior. The floor was covered in cracked linoleum tiles, and the low ceiling held faded acoustic panels, their color dulled—probably from years of cigarette smoke. The fluorescent lights, though newer, looked precariously detached, as if they were hanging solely by their electrical cables.



It was perfect. But of course, aesthetics had never been a priority in the golden years of Josip Broz Tito.



Old propaganda posters lined the walls, depicting athletic young pioneers—the idealized peak of physical strength and unity. A collection of ancient Soviet equipment sat forgotten in the corner, making me wonder if this place had once been a government-sponsored training facility.



Despite its state of decay, I was in awe. This forgotten building had been reborn as a mixed martial arts club.


Worn-out punching bags swung lazily from the ceiling, their chains creaking with each movement. A ring stood in the center, surrounded by faded mats and metal benches, their seats sagging in the middle.



About fifteen guys were training, their focus unwavering.


Most wore black Adidas shorts, some in tank tops, some shirtless. Sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Their deep, rhythmic breathing filled the space as I followed my father inside. Was it the heaters, too strong for a hall this size? Or just the intensity of their training?


Those few seconds stretched into eternity.


That sound—those breaths—captivated me. The rise and fall of their sweat-covered chests, the glistening beads of exertion that I felt only I could see. That was the moment I first felt something sexual towards men. Though at the time, I didn’t understand it.



I had no idea where my life was heading or how the next few months would define it.



My father gestured for me to follow him toward an office-like room. It was empty, but after a few moments, a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared. Bald, but solidly built—the perfect image of a coach. He shook my father’s hand, then mine, holding my gaze just a second longer than expected.



“Milan. Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.



The membership fee was paid, my club card handed over in minutes. I was officially part of the team. But despite my excitement, my mind kept drifting back to the guys training.


Milan smiled as I told him about my karate background. He said I had potential here—all I had to do was commit and give it my all. We went outside of the office.



Then, he clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the gym.



“Alright, guys, gather up!” he called out.



Every single one of them turned to look at him. No exceptions.



“This is Petar, a karate practitioner for seven years. He’s joining us next week.”



Within seconds, I was surrounded. Pats on the shoulder, handshakes, nods, welcoming smiles. I returned them all, my grip firm, my own smile steady. But deep down, I was waiting for something else.



I’m not sure how to describe it.



But maybe—just maybe—you already know.



Who could have guessed that this was only the first step before falling down the rabbit hole?

 

[Split018]

Mach weiter sehr interessant

 

[bankai-shikai]

Mach weiter sehr interessant

Danke viel Mal

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 1


Those few moments felt like an eternity: I was surrounded by guys of all ages. Pats on the shoulder, slaps on the back, handshakes, and smiles overwhelmed me. I accepted them all with a smile and a firm handshake in return, but deep inside, I was waiting for something else. I’m not sure I can even describe what. It definitely wasn’t the euphoria or the raw energy that filled that stifling space. But I won’t lie—it was flattering.


For a brief moment, I slipped into that familiar state of dissociation. Once the excitement had settled, I realized that Coach Milan had started talking to the guys about upcoming training sessions. I also noticed that my father was nowhere in sight. And just as I came back to reality, I realized I hadn’t caught the last few sentences.

On impulse, I turned to the guy next to me and whispered, "What did the coach say?" I hadn’t even taken a proper look at him, but he seemed about my age. My focus lingered on his brown hair and the acne scars scattered across his cheeks.


"Relax, man. He gives the same speech all the time. Nothing important."


I didn’t like that answer. Just like I didn’t like the idea of disappointing my coach.

The whole thing—this forced stoicism that both my father and Milan embodied—seems ridiculous to me now. But back then, that’s just how men of their generation were raised.

My father had come with me, but aside from a handshake and a brief "congratulations" for joining the club, he hadn’t said a word. Now, I wish he had hugged me. Told me this was a great decision for my health. Or anything, really—just for a moment—to show that he genuinely cared. But when I was sixteen, that wasn’t part of my reality.


I get it now. Fathers back then believed that if they hugged their sons and told them something encouraging, it would turn them into fags.


At that moment, my biggest fear wasn’t the thought that I might be gay. After that night, I often had intense homosexual thoughts, but I didn’t categorize them that way in my mind. When I was with my first girlfriend, Karolina, my cock never betrayed me—I could even have sex with her. But was it the fact that she was older than me that made it exciting? Or maybe it was the way she had kept me on edge for so long with her teasing? Who knows...

Growing up in a small village in Serbia, I understood why she had waited as long as she could. Today, that kind of value seems less appreciated—or maybe my perspective has just narrowed.


I forced myself to shake off those thoughts. I had to. All I knew was that my life was heading in a good direction. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the club. The moment the cool November air hit me, sweat from the stifling atmosphere inside formed on my forehead. My breathing grew heavy.

Outside, my father stood smoking his new Davidoff cigarettes, talking on the phone. I inhaled deeply, trying not to draw attention to my reaction. A reaction meant questions, which meant answers, which meant a poorly concealed lie.


My parents, grandmother, twin brother, and I moved from a very small village near the Hungarian and Romanian borders. The reason was my enrollment in the Karlovci Gymnasium. Or rather, my mother says I was the final drop that spilled the cup. They had always wanted to move to the city. A village is a village—agriculture alone wasn’t enough for a decent life.

Today, my memories of life in Banat are almost washed away, replaced by some imposed recollections I know aren’t real. I suppose growing up in poverty led my brain to react in the most logical way. I once read that when Marie Antoinette built her Petit Trianon, she hired people to maintain her little cottage. Every strawberry she picked was perfect. Every egg she took from the henhouse was spotless. Every jug of milk was freshly prepared and strained for her maximum enjoyment. I feel like my childhood memories have been polished to perfection—I only remember the beautiful things, and with each passing year, nostalgia grows heavier and more exhausting. Every rare visit back to the village is accompanied by deep sorrow because facing reality feels too real.


But that doesn’t matter. What matters is my right hand—Stevan.

My twin brother, Stevan, was an inevitable presence that defined my childhood. We had been inseparable for as long as I could remember. He was, to my pride, two centimeters shorter than me, but stockier. In the face, however, we were identical. I used to casually bring up those two centimeters in conversation whenever we disagreed on something. As the years passed, they stopped coming up.

Having a sibling is an irreplaceable feeling. Having a twin brother is all of that—times two. I could always count on him.


In our new (but actually 40-year-old) house, we had separate rooms, right across from each other. I went to the gymnasium, and Stevan attended an electrotechnical school. As people, we were complete opposites. But even now, many years later, our bond is unbreakable. Back then, we had moments that I now look back on with a much softer, more affectionate perspective than I did at 16. Today, we are each other’s wall of support. Back then, I didn’t necessarily have that wall, and looking back, I think that was when I needed it the most.

I often notice this pattern in life: the things we need most in a given moment are often the things we lack. Later, we have them in abundance, but by then, the lessons have already been learned, and we hold diplomas in excess.

While it took me months—maybe even years—to build something resembling true friendship, Stevan had two classmates inviting themselves over for the weekend just a week after my enrollment in the MMA club. I’ll never forget the shock I felt when I heard the familiar voice greeting my mom.


"Good afternoon, my name is Andrej," said the guy standing next to me in the club.

The moment he greeted my mom, our eyes met. The intensity of our gaze could have been cut with a knife. He broke the tension by stepping closer to me.

"I figured you must be Stevan’s brother since you clearly didn’t recognize me at practice. But that wasn’t the right moment for introductions," he said with a smile, extending his hand toward me.


That moment felt like an eternity once again. Andrej had just taken off his winter jacket, revealing his muscular arms, crisscrossed with prominent veins. His arms were shaved. His chest and abs were exaggeratedly defined beneath his tight white t-shirt, which looked like it might tear at any second.

“… and after we go out, Andrej and Ljubiša will sleep over at our place…," my brother told our mom.

In some kind of slow-motion effect, my gaze shifted to Stevan.

If you’re unfamiliar with my country’s culture, this might seem like an unusually casual thing to say to one’s parents, but in my house, it was completely normal. We often had friends staying over spontaneously—my brother and I did the same at theirs. I never thought much of it until I encountered Western culture.

Only then did it hit me that Stevan had mentioned his two classmates would be staying over that weekend.

While it took me months, maybe even years, to build something that could be called a real friendship, Dimitrije, my desk mate at the gymnasium, didn’t set foot in my house until four months into our acquaintance. We didn’t have any particularly close bond, but the pressure from Stevan, who constantly had friends over, was strong.


After a few moments, the guys gathered their things and headed to Stevan’s room. Out of nervousness, I hovered around my mom and grandma in the kitchen, trying to seize every opportunity to catch a glimpse of Andrej or overhear their conversation. I suppose this kind of behavior is normal when you have your first real crush.


Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see him. But when they were getting ready to leave for a night out, I heard his voice. By then, the rush of emotions had settled, and I made a clear-headed decision not to step into the hallway just to see him.

I was particularly proud of that healthy decision.

 

[laptoper]

Great start, looking forward to more.

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 2


The house was silent, save for the soft hum of my computer. The blue glow from my monitor flickered across my face as I stared at the World of Warcraft loading screen. My fingers tapped against the keyboard, waiting for the game to pull me away from my thoughts. God, those feelings were making me crazy.


It must have been close to three in the morning when I heard the front door open. Laughter spilled into the hallway, muffled by drunken exhaustion - my own breathing silenced, as though they could hear it. Stevan and his friends had finally returned. Their footsteps were uneven, their voices hushed in the late-night stillness. I could hear my brother muttering something about being silent and getting water, Ljubiša mumbling a half-hearted joke in response.


Then, silence. Every second of it stretched into the eternity. I noticed I’ve been having a lot of those lately.


I refocused on my screen, pretending I wasn’t listening for another voice. For his voice.


A few minutes passed before I noticed movement in the hallway. The faintest shift in the shadows beyond my half-open door. Then, a soft knock.


“Still awake?”


I turned my head slightly, already knowing who it was before I even saw him.


Andrej stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. His t-shirt clung to his body in the dim light, the outline of his collarbones and chest subtly defined beneath the fabric. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and sweat.


My throat tightened.


“Yeah,” I muttered, turning back to my screen. “Couldn’t sleep.”


A pause. Then, he stepped inside. The door remained slightly open behind him, but he lingered there, one foot still in the hallway. Like he wasn’t sure if he should enter or not.


“I saw the blue light from the outside of the house... You play WoW?”


I nodded, clicking aimlessly through my inventory. “Yeah. Been playing since Burning Crusade.”


He let out a low whistle, stepping fully into my room now. “Damn. I never got into it. I was always more into shooters.”


I snorted. “Figures.”

Andrej grinned, closing the door behind him and pulling out my desk chair and turning it around before dropping into it, legs spread carelessly apart. He exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His body was electric.


“Good night?” I asked, glancing at him from the corner of my eye.


He chuckled, shaking his head. “Same old shit. Drank a bit, played pool, listened to Ljubiša hit on a girl way out of his league.”

I smirked. “Did he crash and burn?”


“Like a goddamn meteor.”


We laughed quietly, and for a moment, I forgot about the weight pressing against my chest.

Andrej shifted, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “So, MMA, huh?”

I inhaled sharply, my fingers hovering over my keyboard. “Yeah… it was actually a very spontanious decision.”

He studied me, his gaze thoughtful. “You nervous?”

“A bit.” I shrugged, forcing nonchalance. “Karate is different. It’s… disciplined. Structured. This is something else.”


Andrej nodded, his lips pressing together. “Yeah, it’s raw. There’s no room for hesitation in a fight.”


I swallowed. “For how long have you been doing it?”


“For about a year.” He ran a hand through his hair, his bicep flexing as he did. “But I’ve been in a few fights at school. Not proud of it, but it teaches you shit.


Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten. I wasn’t sure if it was the way his voice dropped slightly, or the way his gaze flickered over me like he was sizing me up.


”Yeah, I’ve already heard that your school was tough.”


“You’ll do fine,” he said after a moment. “Milan wouldn’t have let you in if he didn’t think you could handle it.”

I exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yeah.”


Silence stretched between us, comfortable but charged. The hum of my computer filled the room, the cursor blinking impatiently on my screen.


Then, Andrej reached out, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. A casual gesture. A friendly reassurance.


But I felt it everywhere.


His palm was warm through the thin fabric of my t-shirt, the weight of it grounding. I tried not to tense under his touch, but I knew I failed when his fingers curled slightly, just for a second, before he pulled away.
“Don’t overthink it,” he murmured. “Fighting’s mostly instinct. The rest comes with time.”


I nodded, unable to trust my voice.

He stood, stretching, his shirt riding up just slightly over his stomach. He was yawning. I forced my eyes away, staring hard at the game in front of me.


“Well, I should crash. I’ll see you in the morning, yeah?”


“Yeah,” I croaked.


He smirked, like he knew something I didn’t, then turned and walked toward the door. He hesitated for just a second before stepping into the hallway, leaving the scent of sweat and cigarettes lingering behind him.

I let out a slow, shaky breath, staring at my screen without really seeing it. As soon as he left the room, I put down my headphones and started pulling on my cock. I was incredibly hard, and the smell of Andrej that lingered in my nostrils did not help me. Before I started jerking off, I closed my eyes for a second, imaging him in that t-shirt, his hair ruffled, his smile wide. Then I stopped breathing because I thought I heard a noise. Those few seconds of waiting if the noise was something I imagined felt like hours while I was holding my hard cock in my hands.

I then threw my head back and started beating off. I no longer cared if someone came in, or if someone was able to hear me. It took just a couple of minutes to come to that point of no escape. The thoughts and images in my mind were overwhelming - his chest, his biceps clear as day in front of my eyes. My breathing stopped.

In that last second, I pulled my own t-shirt upwards and splashed across my abs, watching cum sliding slowly downwards, accellerated by my deep breathing.

The cursor blinked.

My thoughts raced no more.

I was so, so fucked.

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 3


The morning air was sharp against my skin as I pulled my blanket over my head, the lingering chill of the night still settled deep in the house. My window was open. I hadn't slept much. Maybe an hour, maybe less. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind conjured up the heat of his hand on my shoulder, the way his shirt clung to him, the scent of sweat and cigarettes that had burned itself into my memory.

I had to get up and do something. A run, yeah, a run is going to solve all my problems.

I exhaled slowly, shaking off the thoughts as I knelt down in the hallway, tightening the laces of my running shoes. The floor creaked lightly. Someone was awake. I hoped to God that it wasn’t him.

A door clicked open.

Andrej stepped into the hallway, rubbing his eyes, his t-shirt hanging loose over his frame. He didn’t see me at first, too busy stretching his arms over his head as he made his way toward the bathroom. I tried not to stare at the way his muscles tensed under his skin.

“Morning,” I muttered, my voice rough from lack of sleep.

Andrej glanced down, blinking at me before a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re up early.”

I shrugged, focusing on double-knotting my laces. “Figured I’d get a run in before training.”

He leaned against the wall, considering me. “Mind if I join?”

The question sent a spark of something through me. I kept my expression neutral, even as my stomach tightened. “Sure.”

He nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. I sat back against the wall, exhaling slowly, my pulse drumming in my ears.

Fifteen minutes later, we were jogging down the empty streets, the sun just beginning to claw its way over the rooftops. The cold air burned my lungs, but the movement felt good, grounding. Andrej ran beside me, his breathing steady, his pace easy. He made it look effortless.


We reached the tree line, our steps crunching over frost-bitten leaves as we slowed to a walk. The abandoned railway stretched ahead, the tracks rusted, half-buried in the overgrown grass. It had been years since any train passed through here.

Andrej kicked a loose stone along the tracks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You sleep at all?”

I huffed out a laugh. “Not much.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at me sideways, his smirk returning. “Funny. I thought I heard something last night after I left your room.”

My stomach turned to ice.

I kept my expression blank, my hands tightening into fists inside my sleeves. “Yeah?”

He hummed, tilting his head as if he were recalling it. “Little… rhythmic sound. Almost like someone was having a good time.”

My throat dried. I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze fixed on the tracks. “Maybe Ljubiša was jerking off.” I tried to deflect desperately.

Andrej barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, man. It came from your room.”

Silence stretched between us. The wind rustled through the bare trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and morning frost.

I exhaled, forcing myself to keep my cool. “Yeah, alright. I jerked off. So what?”

Andrej stopped walking, turning to face me fully. His smirk was slow, knowing. “So nothing. Just interesting timing.”

I rolled my eyes, shoving past him, continuing down the tracks. “You’re full of shit.”

He fell into step beside me, chuckling under his breath. “I’m just saying. Usually, guys wait until everyone’s asleep. But you? You didn’t care.” He let the words hang between us, charged and heavy.

My jaw clenched. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I respect it.” His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something underneath it, something that made my pulse quicken. “A man’s got needs, right?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The trees thinned ahead, revealing the edge of town in the distance. The moment stretched between us, the tension winding tighter, coiling beneath my skin.

I kept my gaze forward, heart hammering. “You done?”

Andrej laughed, soft and low. “Yeah. For now.”

We walked in silence after that, but I could feel him watching me. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Like he knew exactly what I had been thinking about the night before.

The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we came to a stop near the rusting tracks. There was a small lake there which reflected the morning red light perfectly. The air smelled like damp wood and earth, the last hints of morning mist clinging to the trees. Andrej rolled his shoulders, loose and at ease, before turning to me.

"Alright, since you're starting MMA, let me show you some basics," he said, cracking his knuckles. "You can't just rely on that karate stance forever."

I narrowed my eyes but didn't argue. Instead, I mirrored him as he widened his stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"First, always keep your hands up," he instructed, demonstrating by raising his fists near his chin. "This isn’t some point-scoring tournament. You drop your guard for even a second, and someone will put you to sleep."

I copied his stance, shifting my weight slightly as I tried to match his rhythm.

"Good," Andrej murmured, stepping closer. His hand rested briefly on my wrist, adjusting the angle. "A little looser. You’re too stiff."

"That’s just how I am," I muttered, and his grin widened.

"Yeah, I noticed."

He stepped behind me, hands lightly resting on my shoulders before sliding down to adjust my elbows. His touch was firm, but not rough. Heat spread down my spine, and I exhaled through my nose, trying to focus.

"Now, your stance is too upright. You need to lower your center of gravity a bit more—yeah, like that." He nudged my knee with his foot. "MMA is all about balance. If you stand too rigid, you’ll get taken down easy."

This is going to be difficult. We moved slowly at first. He had me practice shifting my weight, reacting to small feints he threw my way. Then he showed me a basic jab-cross combination, guiding my hands when I hesitated. His skin was warm against mine, the proximity making my pulse quicken. The difference in our body heath was exagerated by the cold air around us.


He caught my silent hesitation immediately.


"Still thinking about last night?" he teased, his voice dipping just enough to make it something more than a joke.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. But his smirk deepened, like he already knew.

"You know," he went on, circling me, "I never said what I thought I heard last night. You just admitted it all on your own."

I exhaled sharply, throwing a jab that he dodged too easily. "Shut up."

"Oh, come on," he chuckled. "It’s kinda flattering, actually—"

I moved on instinct. Fast. A sharp pivot, my hips twisting as I executed a precise sweep with my leg, knocking his footing out from under him. He barely had time to react before he hit the ground, hard, the breath leaving his lungs in a sharp grunt.

Before he could recover, I was on him, straddling his waist, my knee pressing into his side, keeping him pinned. My hands locked onto his wrists, holding him down against the gravel.


His chest rose and fell beneath me, and for the first time since I met him, he looked genuinely surprised. Then, something else—something unreadable—flickered across his face.


"Shit," he breathed. "Okay... fucking hell. Where the fuck was that earlier?"

I was still catching my breath, but I didn’t move. The weight of him beneath me, the warmth of his skin, the way his lips parted slightly as he looked up at me—it sent something sharp through my stomach. The tension was thick, almost suffocating.

For a second—just a second—I thought he was going to reach up and pull me down.

But he didn’t.


Instead, his mouth curved into something lazy and amused, his eyes glinting. "Alright, I get it. I’ll shut up."


I exhaled, shoving his wrists down one last time before letting go.


He laughed as I climbed off him, brushing gravel off my palms. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, still looking at me like he was seeing something different now.


I didn’t know what to do with that.


"Let’s head back," I muttered, already turning toward the path leading home. "I need breakfast."


"Yeah, yeah," he said, stretching as he stood. "Better eat up, fighter. Gonna need the energy."

He was still smirking when he fell into step beside me, and I hated that I was smiling, too.

 

[Split018]

Chapter 3


The morning air was sharp against my skin as I pulled my blanket over my head, the lingering chill of the night still settled deep in the house. My window was open. I hadn't slept much. Maybe an hour, maybe less. Every time I closed my eyes, my mind conjured up the heat of his hand on my shoulder, the way his shirt clung to him, the scent of sweat and cigarettes that had burned itself into my memory.

I had to get up and do something. A run, yeah, a run is going to solve all my problems.

I exhaled slowly, shaking off the thoughts as I knelt down in the hallway, tightening the laces of my running shoes. The floor creaked lightly. Someone was awake. I hoped to God that it wasn’t him.

A door clicked open.

Andrej stepped into the hallway, rubbing his eyes, his t-shirt hanging loose over his frame. He didn’t see me at first, too busy stretching his arms over his head as he made his way toward the bathroom. I tried not to stare at the way his muscles tensed under his skin.

“Morning,” I muttered, my voice rough from lack of sleep.

Andrej glanced down, blinking at me before a slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’re up early.”

I shrugged, focusing on double-knotting my laces. “Figured I’d get a run in before training.”

He leaned against the wall, considering me. “Mind if I join?”

The question sent a spark of something through me. I kept my expression neutral, even as my stomach tightened. “Sure.”

He nodded and disappeared into the bathroom. I sat back against the wall, exhaling slowly, my pulse drumming in my ears.

Fifteen minutes later, we were jogging down the empty streets, the sun just beginning to claw its way over the rooftops. The cold air burned my lungs, but the movement felt good, grounding. Andrej ran beside me, his breathing steady, his pace easy. He made it look effortless.


We reached the tree line, our steps crunching over frost-bitten leaves as we slowed to a walk. The abandoned railway stretched ahead, the tracks rusted, half-buried in the overgrown grass. It had been years since any train passed through here.

Andrej kicked a loose stone along the tracks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You sleep at all?”

I huffed out a laugh. “Not much.”

“Yeah?” He glanced at me sideways, his smirk returning. “Funny. I thought I heard something last night after I left your room.”

My stomach turned to ice.

I kept my expression blank, my hands tightening into fists inside my sleeves. “Yeah?”

He hummed, tilting his head as if he were recalling it. “Little… rhythmic sound. Almost like someone was having a good time.”

My throat dried. I swallowed hard, keeping my gaze fixed on the tracks. “Maybe Ljubiša was jerking off.” I tried to deflect desperately.

Andrej barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, man. It came from your room.”

Silence stretched between us. The wind rustled through the bare trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and morning frost.

I exhaled, forcing myself to keep my cool. “Yeah, alright. I jerked off. So what?”

Andrej stopped walking, turning to face me fully. His smirk was slow, knowing. “So nothing. Just interesting timing.”

I rolled my eyes, shoving past him, continuing down the tracks. “You’re full of shit.”

He fell into step beside me, chuckling under his breath. “I’m just saying. Usually, guys wait until everyone’s asleep. But you? You didn’t care.” He let the words hang between us, charged and heavy.

My jaw clenched. “Shut up.”

“Hey, I respect it.” His voice was smooth, teasing, but there was something underneath it, something that made my pulse quicken. “A man’s got needs, right?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

The trees thinned ahead, revealing the edge of town in the distance. The moment stretched between us, the tension winding tighter, coiling beneath my skin.

I kept my gaze forward, heart hammering. “You done?”

Andrej laughed, soft and low. “Yeah. For now.”

We walked in silence after that, but I could feel him watching me. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking.

Like he knew exactly what I had been thinking about the night before.

The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we came to a stop near the rusting tracks. There was a small lake there which reflected the morning red light perfectly. The air smelled like damp wood and earth, the last hints of morning mist clinging to the trees. Andrej rolled his shoulders, loose and at ease, before turning to me.

"Alright, since you're starting MMA, let me show you some basics," he said, cracking his knuckles. "You can't just rely on that karate stance forever."

I narrowed my eyes but didn't argue. Instead, I mirrored him as he widened his stance, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"First, always keep your hands up," he instructed, demonstrating by raising his fists near his chin. "This isn’t some point-scoring tournament. You drop your guard for even a second, and someone will put you to sleep."

I copied his stance, shifting my weight slightly as I tried to match his rhythm.

"Good," Andrej murmured, stepping closer. His hand rested briefly on my wrist, adjusting the angle. "A little looser. You’re too stiff."

"That’s just how I am," I muttered, and his grin widened.

"Yeah, I noticed."

He stepped behind me, hands lightly resting on my shoulders before sliding down to adjust my elbows. His touch was firm, but not rough. Heat spread down my spine, and I exhaled through my nose, trying to focus.

"Now, your stance is too upright. You need to lower your center of gravity a bit more—yeah, like that." He nudged my knee with his foot. "MMA is all about balance. If you stand too rigid, you’ll get taken down easy."

This is going to be difficult. We moved slowly at first. He had me practice shifting my weight, reacting to small feints he threw my way. Then he showed me a basic jab-cross combination, guiding my hands when I hesitated. His skin was warm against mine, the proximity making my pulse quicken. The difference in our body heath was exagerated by the cold air around us.


He caught my silent hesitation immediately.


"Still thinking about last night?" he teased, his voice dipping just enough to make it something more than a joke.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. But his smirk deepened, like he already knew.

"You know," he went on, circling me, "I never said what I thought I heard last night. You just admitted it all on your own."

I exhaled sharply, throwing a jab that he dodged too easily. "Shut up."

"Oh, come on," he chuckled. "It’s kinda flattering, actually—"

I moved on instinct. Fast. A sharp pivot, my hips twisting as I executed a precise sweep with my leg, knocking his footing out from under him. He barely had time to react before he hit the ground, hard, the breath leaving his lungs in a sharp grunt.

Before he could recover, I was on him, straddling his waist, my knee pressing into his side, keeping him pinned. My hands locked onto his wrists, holding him down against the gravel.


His chest rose and fell beneath me, and for the first time since I met him, he looked genuinely surprised. Then, something else—something unreadable—flickered across his face.


"Shit," he breathed. "Okay... fucking hell. Where the fuck was that earlier?"

I was still catching my breath, but I didn’t move. The weight of him beneath me, the warmth of his skin, the way his lips parted slightly as he looked up at me—it sent something sharp through my stomach. The tension was thick, almost suffocating.

For a second—just a second—I thought he was going to reach up and pull me down.

But he didn’t.


Instead, his mouth curved into something lazy and amused, his eyes glinting. "Alright, I get it. I’ll shut up."


I exhaled, shoving his wrists down one last time before letting go.


He laughed as I climbed off him, brushing gravel off my palms. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, still looking at me like he was seeing something different now.


I didn’t know what to do with that.


"Let’s head back," I muttered, already turning toward the path leading home. "I need breakfast."


"Yeah, yeah," he said, stretching as he stood. "Better eat up, fighter. Gonna need the energy."

He was still smirking when he fell into step beside me, and I hated that I was smiling, too.

Geile Geschichte

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 4

After returning home, I withdrew into my room, shutting the door behind me as if that would somehow keep my thoughts out. I threw myself into my chair, booting up my computer, the familiar loading screen of World of Warcraft flickering across my face. I needed a distraction. Something—anything—to stop my mind from replaying every single second of the last twenty-four hours.


But it was impossible. The rush of wrestling Andrej to the ground, the way his body had felt beneath mine, the way he had looked at me—amused, impressed, something else—I couldn't push it away. And then, that damn smirk. I clenched my fists against my thighs.

A part of me wanted to dismiss it all as a joke, as Andrej just messing with me. But another part—the one I was trying to ignore—kept whispering: what if it wasn’t?

And then came the shame. A cold, sinking feeling in my stomach that made my fingers tremble against the keyboard. I knew what I felt. And I knew I wasn’t supposed to feel it.

Growing up in Serbia in the mid-2000s, there were things that were simply understood, even if they were never spoken out loud. Boys played football, roughhoused, talked about girls. They didn’t look at their teammates for too long in the locker room. They didn’t let their thoughts drift in the wrong direction. And if they did—well, they sure as hell didn’t talk about it.

I had learned that lesson early. In our town, in our culture, there were no soft places to land for boys like me. Anything outside the norm was met with a smirk at best, a fist at worst. So I buried it. I trained harder, spoke deeper, acted tougher. And yet, in just a few days, Andrej had cracked something open inside me.

I spent the rest of Sunday hiding in Azeroth, trying to escape myself.

Monday came, and with it, the knot of anxiety in my stomach grew tighter. I had school in the afternoon—something that was common in Serbia but still strange to anyone from the West. Instead of the typical early-morning classes, Karlovačka Gimnazija ran in shifts, alternating weeks between morning and afternoon sessions. This week, I had the later shift, which meant I had too much time to overthink my first real MMA training that evening.

At least the thought of going to school distracted me for a while. Karlovačka Gimnazija wasn’t just any school—it was a piece of history. The oldest gymnasium in Serbia, founded in the 18th century, it had a presence that made you feel like you were part of something bigger. The architecture was stunning, with high ceilings, grand halls, and a library that smelled of centuries-old books. It was the kind of place that made you want to be someone. Important. Remembered.

The students were a mix—some from wealthier families, others like me who had worked their asses off to get here. Being part of Karlovačka meant something, and I wanted to prove I deserved it.

The day passed quickly, my nerves keeping me from fully focusing. My thoughts were split between the schoolwork in front of me and the looming training session at 20:00. By the time I was standing at the main bus station in Novi Sad, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.


The cold bit at my skin as I walked toward Detelinara. I took the longer route, cutting through the park, my breath visible in the crisp night air. The streetlights cast long shadows over the pavement, and for a few moments, I let myself enjoy the silence. I needed it before stepping into the chaos of the gym.

As I neared the club, I spotted a familiar figure leaning against the wall outside. Andrej.

"Took you long enough," he called out, grinning as he rubbed his hands together. "I’ve been freezing my ass off."


I rolled my eyes, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Then why didn’t you wait inside?"

"And miss my dramatic entrance?" He smirked, nudging my arm as I reached him. "C’mon, let’s go. You ready to get your ass kicked?"

The training was intense. As a new member, I was put through the basics—stance, footwork, breathing control. Milan, the coach, watched me closely, correcting every little mistake. It wasn’t like karate. There was no formality, no rigid structure. It was raw, fast, and brutal. I loved it.

For the first few weeks, beginners focused on conditioning and fundamentals. We drilled takedown defense, learned how to sprawl properly, practiced breaking falls so we wouldn’t knock the wind out of ourselves every time we hit the mat. By the end of the session, my muscles ached, my knuckles were sore, and my shirt was drenched in sweat.

And I couldn’t wait to come back.

The locker room smelled like sweat and cheap deodorant, but mostly sweat. The club had showers, but they were out of use—probably hadn’t worked properly in years. So, like everyone else, I peeled off my soaked t-shirt, letting the cool air hit my overheated skin.

The room was cramped, the benches pressed against the old lockers. Guys stood around, chatting, toweling off, laughing. It was casual, normal—except for the way my pulse jumped when Andrej took the spot right next to me.

I focused on my bag, pretending not to notice as he pulled his shirt over his head. But I did notice. The way his back flexed, the way the light caught the sweat on his skin. I stole a glance. Just one.

And he caught me.

His smirk was slow, lazy, knowing. And then, he winked.

My stomach flipped, my ears burned. I looked away, fumbling with my hoodie like it was suddenly the hardest thing in the world to put on. When I glanced up again, Andrej was already pulling on his jacket, moving toward the door.

And just like that, he was gone.

I don’t know why I felt disappointed. Maybe I expected him to linger, to say something. But he didn’t.

I sighed, slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading outside. The night air was cold against my flushed skin.

Andrej was leaning against the same wall as before, waiting.

"Took you long enough," he said, echoing his words from earlier. Then, more casually, "Hey, let me get your number."

I blinked. "What for?"

"Dunno. In case I need a sparring partner. Or someone to kick my ass again." His grin was easy, but there was something else behind it.

I hesitated for half a second before rattling off my number. He punched it into his phone, shooting me a look as he saved it. "Cool."

We started walking toward the bus station together, our conversation drifting between games, training, and nothing at all. The cold no longer bothered me.

I barely felt it at all.

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 4

After returning home, I withdrew into my room, shutting the door behind me as if that would somehow keep my thoughts out. I threw myself into my chair, booting up my computer, the familiar loading screen of World of Warcraft flickering across my face. I needed a distraction. Something—anything—to stop my mind from replaying every single second of the last twenty-four hours.


But it was impossible. The rush of wrestling Andrej to the ground, the way his body had felt beneath mine, the way he had looked at me—amused, impressed, something else—I couldn't push it away. And then, that damn smirk. I clenched my fists against my thighs.

A part of me wanted to dismiss it all as a joke, as Andrej just messing with me. But another part—the one I was trying to ignore—kept whispering: what if it wasn’t?

And then came the shame. A cold, sinking feeling in my stomach that made my fingers tremble against the keyboard. I knew what I felt. And I knew I wasn’t supposed to feel it.

Growing up in Serbia in the mid-2000s, there were things that were simply understood, even if they were never spoken out loud. Boys played football, roughhoused, talked about girls. They didn’t look at their teammates for too long in the locker room. They didn’t let their thoughts drift in the wrong direction. And if they did—well, they sure as hell didn’t talk about it.

I had learned that lesson early. In our town, in our culture, there were no soft places to land for boys like me. Anything outside the norm was met with a smirk at best, a fist at worst. So I buried it. I trained harder, spoke deeper, acted tougher. And yet, in just a few days, Andrej had cracked something open inside me.

I spent the rest of Sunday hiding in Azeroth, trying to escape myself.

Monday came, and with it, the knot of anxiety in my stomach grew tighter. I had school in the afternoon—something that was common in Serbia but still strange to anyone from the West. Instead of the typical early-morning classes, Karlovačka Gimnazija ran in shifts, alternating weeks between morning and afternoon sessions. This week, I had the later shift, which meant I had too much time to overthink my first real MMA training that evening.

At least the thought of going to school distracted me for a while. Karlovačka Gimnazija wasn’t just any school—it was a piece of history. The oldest gymnasium in Serbia, founded in the 18th century, it had a presence that made you feel like you were part of something bigger. The architecture was stunning, with high ceilings, grand halls, and a library that smelled of centuries-old books. It was the kind of place that made you want to be someone. Important. Remembered.

The students were a mix—some from wealthier families, others like me who had worked their asses off to get here. Being part of Karlovačka meant something, and I wanted to prove I deserved it.

The day passed quickly, my nerves keeping me from fully focusing. My thoughts were split between the schoolwork in front of me and the looming training session at 20:00. By the time I was standing at the main bus station in Novi Sad, I was practically vibrating with anticipation.


The cold bit at my skin as I walked toward Detelinara. I took the longer route, cutting through the park, my breath visible in the crisp night air. The streetlights cast long shadows over the pavement, and for a few moments, I let myself enjoy the silence. I needed it before stepping into the chaos of the gym.

As I neared the club, I spotted a familiar figure leaning against the wall outside. Andrej.

"Took you long enough," he called out, grinning as he rubbed his hands together. "I’ve been freezing my ass off."


I rolled my eyes, shoving my hands into my pockets. "Then why didn’t you wait inside?"

"And miss my dramatic entrance?" He smirked, nudging my arm as I reached him. "C’mon, let’s go. You ready to get your ass kicked?"

The training was intense. As a new member, I was put through the basics—stance, footwork, breathing control. Milan, the coach, watched me closely, correcting every little mistake. It wasn’t like karate. There was no formality, no rigid structure. It was raw, fast, and brutal. I loved it.

For the first few weeks, beginners focused on conditioning and fundamentals. We drilled takedown defense, learned how to sprawl properly, practiced breaking falls so we wouldn’t knock the wind out of ourselves every time we hit the mat. By the end of the session, my muscles ached, my knuckles were sore, and my shirt was drenched in sweat.

And I couldn’t wait to come back.

The locker room smelled like sweat and cheap deodorant, but mostly sweat. The club had showers, but they were out of use—probably hadn’t worked properly in years. So, like everyone else, I peeled off my soaked t-shirt, letting the cool air hit my overheated skin.

The room was cramped, the benches pressed against the old lockers. Guys stood around, chatting, toweling off, laughing. It was casual, normal—except for the way my pulse jumped when Andrej took the spot right next to me.

I focused on my bag, pretending not to notice as he pulled his shirt over his head. But I did notice. The way his back flexed, the way the light caught the sweat on his skin. I stole a glance. Just one.

And he caught me.

His smirk was slow, lazy, knowing. And then, he winked.

My stomach flipped, my ears burned. I looked away, fumbling with my hoodie like it was suddenly the hardest thing in the world to put on. When I glanced up again, Andrej was already pulling on his jacket, moving toward the door.

And just like that, he was gone.

I don’t know why I felt disappointed. Maybe I expected him to linger, to say something. But he didn’t.

I sighed, slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading outside. The night air was cold against my flushed skin.

Andrej was leaning against the same wall as before, waiting.

"Took you long enough," he said, echoing his words from earlier. Then, more casually, "Hey, let me get your number."

I blinked. "What for?"

"Dunno. In case I need a sparring partner. Or someone to kick my ass again." His grin was easy, but there was something else behind it.

I hesitated for half a second before rattling off my number. He punched it into his phone, shooting me a look as he saved it. "Cool."

We started walking toward the bus station together, our conversation drifting between games, training, and nothing at all. The cold no longer bothered me.

I barely felt it at all.

Awesome story--thanks man

 

[Dream Big]

This is excellent work.

 

[bankai-shikai]

This is excellent work.

Thank you so much, this means a lot. I enjoy your stories as well.

 

[josh271]

I love your work I hope you continue

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 5


You have to understand, this had been happening for months. This ridiculous game between us—pseudo-flirting, teasing, laughing—had become a part of our routine, a rhythm so familiar that it felt like breathing. It was driving me insane.

I was seriously starting to fall in love with him. It bothered me, because I never expected something like this could happen. I fantasized about the two of us being together, holding hands, living life like my mom and dad used to—not exactly the same life of course, but you get the jist.

It felt impossible. I have never seen such a life. Not on TV, definitely not in Serbia.

Even though it sounded and looked depressing, that did not stop me from dreaming about it.

I had other friends, coincidentally ones from school, and the dynamics of these friendships were absolute opposites when I compered them to the one I had with Andrej. Suddenly, he stopped coming to my place to hang out with Stevan. I was the one he came to visit. He was still friendly with him of course, but Stevan himself was occupied with his life, his flings and his other relationships. I barely saw him home.

End of March marked the time to start training outside, so our time was spent training at the home gym my father made for me. He did not speak much about sports, or MMA alltogether, but I know he approved. We always had a very silent relationship that made me wonder if he even wanted to become a father. Now I know that he did, but that he had a complicated relationship with his father as well. Today, with 33 years, I appreciate our silences.

My form was becoming exceptional. Even my body dismorphia was under control. I actually liked how MMA was making me look. Andrej took oftenly part in this admiration and showered me with compliments, which felt great, since they were coming from him. But still, he was driving me insane.

Actually, if I were honest, it had officially driven me insane in June, some 8 months after we started hanging out. We spent almost every day together, even when we weren’t training or at the gym. It wasn’t just about the fights, the workouts, or the adrenaline of competition. It was something else, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore. On the days we didn’t see each other, we spent the time talking on the telephone. In 2008, we had cellophones, but the credit limit was very present, and the landline offered hours of talking, seemingly without any cost.

By mid-June, school was over, and the humid weight of summer settled over Novi Sad. One evening, Andrej invited me over, casually mentioning that he’d gotten a new guitar he wanted to show off. I knew the invitation meant more than just music. It meant an entire evening, almost certainly a sleepover, a night stretched long with conversation and the kind of teasing that had started to feel sharper lately.

He lived quite close to me, some 15 minutes away if you took the bus. He had a large home, with three floors. On the first floor lived his grandparents, on the second his mom and dad, and on the third was his room, as well as the room of his younger brother. They had a large garden which was a work of art. His father worked in construction, so he had build 2m walls around the garden, creating a quiet and intimate enviroment. They had a small pavillion on the left side with a small fontaine beside it. Across the whole place outside were strung wires with grape vines which concieved the view from above. The summer in such a place was a thing of beauty. In the far back was a small guest house. Andrej told me once, that his uncle used to live there, but didn’t elaborate on that, so I never asked.

His parents knew me, and I liked them very much, especially his mother. We made a connection when I told her that I was going to the Karlovačka Gimnazija, where she explained that it was her lifelong wish to attend that school. But back in the day, the school cost too much, and her parents couldn’t handle it financially.

The day passed in a blur. We sprawled across his couch, watching YouTube conspiracy theories late into the night, our laughter mixing with the hum of the fan oscillating in the corner.

We were laying side by side. He had his father make him a special table with wheels which enabled him to bring his computer to his bed. He used to play games from his bed, which was unimaginable at the time. I was so jealous of him at the time because of it.

That day he was wearing a white undershirt, sleevless of course. From time to time, I sneaked a peak at the sweat pearls forming on his face, neck, chest and arms. His arms were becoming more and more accentuated if you can believe it. I lived for those moments, as they were my favorite thing on his body. Our friendship even enabled me to step over the boundaries from time to time—so I used those moments to touch him. Looking at him lying beside me in his bed made me touch his biceps. Almost instinctivly, without breaking eye contact with the screen, he reaised his arm and flexed for me during the touch. I gave it a silent nod of confirmation, validating the gains that he was showing me. Looking at those moments retrospectively from today’s perspective, I understand that they defined my sexuality and what I liked seeing on a man.

When it grew late, we moved to the guest house in his yard—he wanted to play the guitar some more without disturbing his parents. The small space smelled like warm wood and dust, the air thick from a day of trapped summer heat.

“I snuck some beers in,” he grinned, dragging six cold bottles from his backpack. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I took one anyway. The first few sips felt bitter, foreign. After half a bottle, the room started feeling smaller, my thoughts slower, heavier. I needed air.

I stepped outside, the coolness of the night pressing against my skin like a steadying hand. The grass beneath my bare feet was damp, its dewy chill seeping into my skin, grounding me in the moment. The air smelled of earth—rich, damp, alive—with the faintest hint of something floral carried on the breeze. Overhead, grapevines stretched on thin strings, their broad leaves rustling softly, casting shifting patterns of shadow and light under the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. A small stone fountain gurgled in the corner of the yard, its water spilling in a delicate cascade, the rhythmic trickling blending with the occasional chirp of a lone cricket. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was full—of movement, of texture, of the kind of peace that only came with the depth of night.

A light pressure on my shoulder startled me. Andrej.

“Lightweight…” he teased, stepping beside me.

I huffed. “I just needed some air.”

We sat on the warm concrete floor in front of the closed doors, the night pressing around us. We talked about upcoming MMA competitions, about training, but somehow, inevitably, the conversation circled back to that night at my house—the night we officially met. His voice turned teasing, playful, nudging at something just beneath the surface.

He bumped his knee against mine. “You were unsociable as hell that night.”

“I was not.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You totally were.”

I shoved him lightly, but he used the movement to his advantage, suddenly twisting and knocking me onto the floor. He was on me in seconds, pinning me down, grinning like a predator.

“Not so tough now, huh?”

I struggled, but it was pointless. His hands dug into my sides, fingers relentless. Then he started tickling me. I gasped, squirmed, the laughter forced from my throat, but then—then it changed. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My breath hitched, the heat flooding me immediate and humiliating.

Andrej stilled.

The weight of him settled on my hips, his gaze flicking down before snapping back to my face. He knew. I saw it in the way his expression shifted, in the way his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features.

“Petar,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.

Embarrassment surged up like fire. “I haven’t blown a load in a couple of days, okay?” I blurted, desperate to cut through the tension.

His brows lifted, then—slowly—his grin returned, lazy, knowing. “That’s your excuse?”

I scowled. “Fuck off.”

He didn’t move. His weight was still heavy on me, the warmth of his body pressing into mine in a way that made my stomach twist. That moment where he was sitting on my hard dick was stretched out in my mind. Then, as casually as if he were suggesting grabbing a snack, he said, “We should jerk off together.”

I froze.

”What?”

He tilted his head, waiting, unbothered. My pulse pounded against my ribs, and I had no idea what to say. No idea what this meant. But something in the way he said it—so sure, so easy—made it feel inevitable.

Somehow, we ended up on one of the twin beds, side by side in the dark. My breathing was shallow, my hands trembling slightly as I pushed down my shorts. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet. In that split of a second, I found myself naked beside my best freind, himself naked as well. Then, from beside me, the unmistakable shift of movement.

He exhaled slowly. “Fuck.”

I turned my head, and—

Jesus.

His cock was big, thick in his grip. He stroked himself lazily, his breathing growing heavier. My stomach flipped, but I forced myself to move, to do the same. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The only sounds were the slick movement of our hands and our ragged breaths.

Then, before I could second-guess myself, I reached out.

My fingers wrapped around him, the heat of his skin shocking against my palm. He inhaled sharply, hips jerking slightly into my touch. My chest tightened at the sound, at the way he tensed beneath me.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

I kept going, emboldened by the way his breath hitched, by the way his muscles locked under my touch. He was coming undone beneath my hand, and I had done that. It gave me a rush—the power of it, the confidence. I tightened my grip, stroking with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savoring the way he twitched, the way his thighs trembled slightly. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. When his orgasm started coming, it ripped through him, his whole body seizing with it.

His body jerked, and then he started ejaculating—hard, fast, his breath shattering around it. I barely had time to register it before he was swearing, sitting up. He whispered to himself saying ”Holy fucking shit,” or something similar. I no longer listened. The room was so dark I barely saw the cum on his perfectly defined chest and abs.

"How about you?" he asked, but I shook my head, still dazed, still trying to understand what the hell had just happened. He left for the bathroom, and I followed, watching from the doorway as he rinsed himself off, the linen sheet I’d grabbed clutched in my hands.

We joked about it, somehow. It was light, easy, as if it hadn’t just changed everything.

We went to bed after that, lying apart but close enough that I could hear the steady rhythm of his breath.

---

I woke to the sound of a text alert. Groggy, I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the window. Andrej stirred beside me, sitting up, the sheets slipping from his bare torso. His back was broad, the muscles shifting as he rubbed his face, exhaling slowly “Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“Everything okay?” I murmured.

He checked his phone, then sighed. “My dad needs me on-site. Someone called in sick.”

I watched him silently, my stomach tightening as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The moment felt fragile, unreal, like something I’d imagined rather than lived. He stood, stretched, and dressed quickly, moving with the easy confidence of someone entirely unbothered by the fact he was sleeping naked beside his best friend.

“You can stay if you want,” he said casually, pulling on his shirt. “Sleep in. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Stay? Sleep in? Fat chance. I needed to run away. I needed to scream.

As soon as he had left, I took my things and walked home.

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 5


You have to understand, this had been happening for months. This ridiculous game between us—pseudo-flirting, teasing, laughing—had become a part of our routine, a rhythm so familiar that it felt like breathing. It was driving me insane.

I was seriously starting to fall in love with him. It bothered me, because I never expected something like this could happen. I fantasized about the two of us being together, holding hands, living life like my mom and dad used to—not exactly the same life of course, but you get the jist.

It felt impossible. I have never seen such a life. Not on TV, definitely not in Serbia.

Even though it sounded and looked depressing, that did not stop me from dreaming about it.

I had other friends, coincidentally ones from school, and the dynamics of these friendships were absolute opposites when I compered them to the one I had with Andrej. Suddenly, he stopped coming to my place to hang out with Stevan. I was the one he came to visit. He was still friendly with him of course, but Stevan himself was occupied with his life, his flings and his other relationships. I barely saw him home.

End of March marked the time to start training outside, so our time was spent training at the home gym my father made for me. He did not speak much about sports, or MMA alltogether, but I know he approved. We always had a very silent relationship that made me wonder if he even wanted to become a father. Now I know that he did, but that he had a complicated relationship with his father as well. Today, with 33 years, I appreciate our silences.

My form was becoming exceptional. Even my body dismorphia was under control. I actually liked how MMA was making me look. Andrej took oftenly part in this admiration and showered me with compliments, which felt great, since they were coming from him. But still, he was driving me insane.

Actually, if I were honest, it had officially driven me insane in June, some 8 months after we started hanging out. We spent almost every day together, even when we weren’t training or at the gym. It wasn’t just about the fights, the workouts, or the adrenaline of competition. It was something else, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore. On the days we didn’t see each other, we spent the time talking on the telephone. In 2008, we had cellophones, but the credit limit was very present, and the landline offered hours of talking, seemingly without any cost.

By mid-June, school was over, and the humid weight of summer settled over Novi Sad. One evening, Andrej invited me over, casually mentioning that he’d gotten a new guitar he wanted to show off. I knew the invitation meant more than just music. It meant an entire evening, almost certainly a sleepover, a night stretched long with conversation and the kind of teasing that had started to feel sharper lately.

He lived quite close to me, some 15 minutes away if you took the bus. He had a large home, with three floors. On the first floor lived his grandparents, on the second his mom and dad, and on the third was his room, as well as the room of his younger brother. They had a large garden which was a work of art. His father worked in construction, so he had build 2m walls around the garden, creating a quiet and intimate enviroment. They had a small pavillion on the left side with a small fontaine beside it. Across the whole place outside were strung wires with grape vines which concieved the view from above. The summer in such a place was a thing of beauty. In the far back was a small guest house. Andrej told me once, that his uncle used to live there, but didn’t elaborate on that, so I never asked.

His parents knew me, and I liked them very much, especially his mother. We made a connection when I told her that I was going to the Karlovačka Gimnazija, where she explained that it was her lifelong wish to attend that school. But back in the day, the school cost too much, and her parents couldn’t handle it financially.

The day passed in a blur. We sprawled across his couch, watching YouTube conspiracy theories late into the night, our laughter mixing with the hum of the fan oscillating in the corner.

We were laying side by side. He had his father make him a special table with wheels which enabled him to bring his computer to his bed. He used to play games from his bed, which was unimaginable at the time. I was so jealous of him at the time because of it.

That day he was wearing a white undershirt, sleevless of course. From time to time, I sneaked a peak at the sweat pearls forming on his face, neck, chest and arms. His arms were becoming more and more accentuated if you can believe it. I lived for those moments, as they were my favorite thing on his body. Our friendship even enabled me to step over the boundaries from time to time—so I used those moments to touch him. Looking at him lying beside me in his bed made me touch his biceps. Almost instinctivly, without breaking eye contact with the screen, he reaised his arm and flexed for me during the touch. I gave it a silent nod of confirmation, validating the gains that he was showing me. Looking at those moments retrospectively from today’s perspective, I understand that they defined my sexuality and what I liked seeing on a man.

When it grew late, we moved to the guest house in his yard—he wanted to play the guitar some more without disturbing his parents. The small space smelled like warm wood and dust, the air thick from a day of trapped summer heat.

“I snuck some beers in,” he grinned, dragging six cold bottles from his backpack. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I took one anyway. The first few sips felt bitter, foreign. After half a bottle, the room started feeling smaller, my thoughts slower, heavier. I needed air.

I stepped outside, the coolness of the night pressing against my skin like a steadying hand. The grass beneath my bare feet was damp, its dewy chill seeping into my skin, grounding me in the moment. The air smelled of earth—rich, damp, alive—with the faintest hint of something floral carried on the breeze. Overhead, grapevines stretched on thin strings, their broad leaves rustling softly, casting shifting patterns of shadow and light under the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. A small stone fountain gurgled in the corner of the yard, its water spilling in a delicate cascade, the rhythmic trickling blending with the occasional chirp of a lone cricket. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was full—of movement, of texture, of the kind of peace that only came with the depth of night.

A light pressure on my shoulder startled me. Andrej.

“Lightweight…” he teased, stepping beside me.

I huffed. “I just needed some air.”

We sat on the warm concrete floor in front of the closed doors, the night pressing around us. We talked about upcoming MMA competitions, about training, but somehow, inevitably, the conversation circled back to that night at my house—the night we officially met. His voice turned teasing, playful, nudging at something just beneath the surface.

He bumped his knee against mine. “You were unsociable as hell that night.”

“I was not.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You totally were.”

I shoved him lightly, but he used the movement to his advantage, suddenly twisting and knocking me onto the floor. He was on me in seconds, pinning me down, grinning like a predator.

“Not so tough now, huh?”

I struggled, but it was pointless. His hands dug into my sides, fingers relentless. Then he started tickling me. I gasped, squirmed, the laughter forced from my throat, but then—then it changed. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My breath hitched, the heat flooding me immediate and humiliating.

Andrej stilled.

The weight of him settled on my hips, his gaze flicking down before snapping back to my face. He knew. I saw it in the way his expression shifted, in the way his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features.

“Petar,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.

Embarrassment surged up like fire. “I haven’t blown a load in a couple of days, okay?” I blurted, desperate to cut through the tension.

His brows lifted, then—slowly—his grin returned, lazy, knowing. “That’s your excuse?”

I scowled. “Fuck off.”

He didn’t move. His weight was still heavy on me, the warmth of his body pressing into mine in a way that made my stomach twist. That moment where he was sitting on my hard dick was stretched out in my mind. Then, as casually as if he were suggesting grabbing a snack, he said, “We should jerk off together.”

I froze.

”What?”

He tilted his head, waiting, unbothered. My pulse pounded against my ribs, and I had no idea what to say. No idea what this meant. But something in the way he said it—so sure, so easy—made it feel inevitable.

Somehow, we ended up on one of the twin beds, side by side in the dark. My breathing was shallow, my hands trembling slightly as I pushed down my shorts. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet. In that split of a second, I found myself naked beside my best freind, himself naked as well. Then, from beside me, the unmistakable shift of movement.

He exhaled slowly. “Fuck.”

I turned my head, and—

Jesus.

His cock was big, thick in his grip. He stroked himself lazily, his breathing growing heavier. My stomach flipped, but I forced myself to move, to do the same. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The only sounds were the slick movement of our hands and our ragged breaths.

Then, before I could second-guess myself, I reached out.

My fingers wrapped around him, the heat of his skin shocking against my palm. He inhaled sharply, hips jerking slightly into my touch. My chest tightened at the sound, at the way he tensed beneath me.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

I kept going, emboldened by the way his breath hitched, by the way his muscles locked under my touch. He was coming undone beneath my hand, and I had done that. It gave me a rush—the power of it, the confidence. I tightened my grip, stroking with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savoring the way he twitched, the way his thighs trembled slightly. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. When his orgasm started coming, it ripped through him, his whole body seizing with it.

His body jerked, and then he started ejaculating—hard, fast, his breath shattering around it. I barely had time to register it before he was swearing, sitting up. He whispered to himself saying ”Holy fucking shit,” or something similar. I no longer listened. The room was so dark I barely saw the cum on his perfectly defined chest and abs.

"How about you?" he asked, but I shook my head, still dazed, still trying to understand what the hell had just happened. He left for the bathroom, and I followed, watching from the doorway as he rinsed himself off, the linen sheet I’d grabbed clutched in my hands.

We joked about it, somehow. It was light, easy, as if it hadn’t just changed everything.

We went to bed after that, lying apart but close enough that I could hear the steady rhythm of his breath.

---

I woke to the sound of a text alert. Groggy, I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the window. Andrej stirred beside me, sitting up, the sheets slipping from his bare torso. His back was broad, the muscles shifting as he rubbed his face, exhaling slowly “Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“Everything okay?” I murmured.

He checked his phone, then sighed. “My dad needs me on-site. Someone called in sick.”

I watched him silently, my stomach tightening as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The moment felt fragile, unreal, like something I’d imagined rather than lived. He stood, stretched, and dressed quickly, moving with the easy confidence of someone entirely unbothered by the fact he was sleeping naked beside his best friend.

“You can stay if you want,” he said casually, pulling on his shirt. “Sleep in. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Stay? Sleep in? Fat chance. I needed to run away. I needed to scream.

As soon as he had left, I took my things and walked home.

Awesome--thanks for update--hot and sexy

 

[vxie]

great stroy so far man - cant wait to read more

 

[Split018]

Chapter 5


You have to understand, this had been happening for months. This ridiculous game between us—pseudo-flirting, teasing, laughing—had become a part of our routine, a rhythm so familiar that it felt like breathing. It was driving me insane.

I was seriously starting to fall in love with him. It bothered me, because I never expected something like this could happen. I fantasized about the two of us being together, holding hands, living life like my mom and dad used to—not exactly the same life of course, but you get the jist.

It felt impossible. I have never seen such a life. Not on TV, definitely not in Serbia.

Even though it sounded and looked depressing, that did not stop me from dreaming about it.

I had other friends, coincidentally ones from school, and the dynamics of these friendships were absolute opposites when I compered them to the one I had with Andrej. Suddenly, he stopped coming to my place to hang out with Stevan. I was the one he came to visit. He was still friendly with him of course, but Stevan himself was occupied with his life, his flings and his other relationships. I barely saw him home.

End of March marked the time to start training outside, so our time was spent training at the home gym my father made for me. He did not speak much about sports, or MMA alltogether, but I know he approved. We always had a very silent relationship that made me wonder if he even wanted to become a father. Now I know that he did, but that he had a complicated relationship with his father as well. Today, with 33 years, I appreciate our silences.

My form was becoming exceptional. Even my body dismorphia was under control. I actually liked how MMA was making me look. Andrej took oftenly part in this admiration and showered me with compliments, which felt great, since they were coming from him. But still, he was driving me insane.

Actually, if I were honest, it had officially driven me insane in June, some 8 months after we started hanging out. We spent almost every day together, even when we weren’t training or at the gym. It wasn’t just about the fights, the workouts, or the adrenaline of competition. It was something else, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore. On the days we didn’t see each other, we spent the time talking on the telephone. In 2008, we had cellophones, but the credit limit was very present, and the landline offered hours of talking, seemingly without any cost.

By mid-June, school was over, and the humid weight of summer settled over Novi Sad. One evening, Andrej invited me over, casually mentioning that he’d gotten a new guitar he wanted to show off. I knew the invitation meant more than just music. It meant an entire evening, almost certainly a sleepover, a night stretched long with conversation and the kind of teasing that had started to feel sharper lately.

He lived quite close to me, some 15 minutes away if you took the bus. He had a large home, with three floors. On the first floor lived his grandparents, on the second his mom and dad, and on the third was his room, as well as the room of his younger brother. They had a large garden which was a work of art. His father worked in construction, so he had build 2m walls around the garden, creating a quiet and intimate enviroment. They had a small pavillion on the left side with a small fontaine beside it. Across the whole place outside were strung wires with grape vines which concieved the view from above. The summer in such a place was a thing of beauty. In the far back was a small guest house. Andrej told me once, that his uncle used to live there, but didn’t elaborate on that, so I never asked.

His parents knew me, and I liked them very much, especially his mother. We made a connection when I told her that I was going to the Karlovačka Gimnazija, where she explained that it was her lifelong wish to attend that school. But back in the day, the school cost too much, and her parents couldn’t handle it financially.

The day passed in a blur. We sprawled across his couch, watching YouTube conspiracy theories late into the night, our laughter mixing with the hum of the fan oscillating in the corner.

We were laying side by side. He had his father make him a special table with wheels which enabled him to bring his computer to his bed. He used to play games from his bed, which was unimaginable at the time. I was so jealous of him at the time because of it.

That day he was wearing a white undershirt, sleevless of course. From time to time, I sneaked a peak at the sweat pearls forming on his face, neck, chest and arms. His arms were becoming more and more accentuated if you can believe it. I lived for those moments, as they were my favorite thing on his body. Our friendship even enabled me to step over the boundaries from time to time—so I used those moments to touch him. Looking at him lying beside me in his bed made me touch his biceps. Almost instinctivly, without breaking eye contact with the screen, he reaised his arm and flexed for me during the touch. I gave it a silent nod of confirmation, validating the gains that he was showing me. Looking at those moments retrospectively from today’s perspective, I understand that they defined my sexuality and what I liked seeing on a man.

When it grew late, we moved to the guest house in his yard—he wanted to play the guitar some more without disturbing his parents. The small space smelled like warm wood and dust, the air thick from a day of trapped summer heat.

“I snuck some beers in,” he grinned, dragging six cold bottles from his backpack. I wasn’t much of a drinker, but I took one anyway. The first few sips felt bitter, foreign. After half a bottle, the room started feeling smaller, my thoughts slower, heavier. I needed air.

I stepped outside, the coolness of the night pressing against my skin like a steadying hand. The grass beneath my bare feet was damp, its dewy chill seeping into my skin, grounding me in the moment. The air smelled of earth—rich, damp, alive—with the faintest hint of something floral carried on the breeze. Overhead, grapevines stretched on thin strings, their broad leaves rustling softly, casting shifting patterns of shadow and light under the dim glow of a distant streetlamp. A small stone fountain gurgled in the corner of the yard, its water spilling in a delicate cascade, the rhythmic trickling blending with the occasional chirp of a lone cricket. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was full—of movement, of texture, of the kind of peace that only came with the depth of night.

A light pressure on my shoulder startled me. Andrej.

“Lightweight…” he teased, stepping beside me.

I huffed. “I just needed some air.”

We sat on the warm concrete floor in front of the closed doors, the night pressing around us. We talked about upcoming MMA competitions, about training, but somehow, inevitably, the conversation circled back to that night at my house—the night we officially met. His voice turned teasing, playful, nudging at something just beneath the surface.

He bumped his knee against mine. “You were unsociable as hell that night.”

“I was not.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You totally were.”

I shoved him lightly, but he used the movement to his advantage, suddenly twisting and knocking me onto the floor. He was on me in seconds, pinning me down, grinning like a predator.

“Not so tough now, huh?”

I struggled, but it was pointless. His hands dug into my sides, fingers relentless. Then he started tickling me. I gasped, squirmed, the laughter forced from my throat, but then—then it changed. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. My breath hitched, the heat flooding me immediate and humiliating.

Andrej stilled.

The weight of him settled on my hips, his gaze flicking down before snapping back to my face. He knew. I saw it in the way his expression shifted, in the way his lips parted slightly, surprise flickering across his features.

“Petar,” he said, his voice low, unreadable.

Embarrassment surged up like fire. “I haven’t blown a load in a couple of days, okay?” I blurted, desperate to cut through the tension.

His brows lifted, then—slowly—his grin returned, lazy, knowing. “That’s your excuse?”

I scowled. “Fuck off.”

He didn’t move. His weight was still heavy on me, the warmth of his body pressing into mine in a way that made my stomach twist. That moment where he was sitting on my hard dick was stretched out in my mind. Then, as casually as if he were suggesting grabbing a snack, he said, “We should jerk off together.”

I froze.

”What?”

He tilted his head, waiting, unbothered. My pulse pounded against my ribs, and I had no idea what to say. No idea what this meant. But something in the way he said it—so sure, so easy—made it feel inevitable.

Somehow, we ended up on one of the twin beds, side by side in the dark. My breathing was shallow, my hands trembling slightly as I pushed down my shorts. The rustle of fabric was deafening in the quiet. In that split of a second, I found myself naked beside my best freind, himself naked as well. Then, from beside me, the unmistakable shift of movement.

He exhaled slowly. “Fuck.”

I turned my head, and—

Jesus.

His cock was big, thick in his grip. He stroked himself lazily, his breathing growing heavier. My stomach flipped, but I forced myself to move, to do the same. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. The only sounds were the slick movement of our hands and our ragged breaths.

Then, before I could second-guess myself, I reached out.

My fingers wrapped around him, the heat of his skin shocking against my palm. He inhaled sharply, hips jerking slightly into my touch. My chest tightened at the sound, at the way he tensed beneath me.

“Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

I kept going, emboldened by the way his breath hitched, by the way his muscles locked under my touch. He was coming undone beneath my hand, and I had done that. It gave me a rush—the power of it, the confidence. I tightened my grip, stroking with a slow, deliberate rhythm, savoring the way he twitched, the way his thighs trembled slightly. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parted, chest rising and falling in uneven waves. When his orgasm started coming, it ripped through him, his whole body seizing with it.

His body jerked, and then he started ejaculating—hard, fast, his breath shattering around it. I barely had time to register it before he was swearing, sitting up. He whispered to himself saying ”Holy fucking shit,” or something similar. I no longer listened. The room was so dark I barely saw the cum on his perfectly defined chest and abs.

"How about you?" he asked, but I shook my head, still dazed, still trying to understand what the hell had just happened. He left for the bathroom, and I followed, watching from the doorway as he rinsed himself off, the linen sheet I’d grabbed clutched in my hands.

We joked about it, somehow. It was light, easy, as if it hadn’t just changed everything.

We went to bed after that, lying apart but close enough that I could hear the steady rhythm of his breath.

---

I woke to the sound of a text alert. Groggy, I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the window. Andrej stirred beside me, sitting up, the sheets slipping from his bare torso. His back was broad, the muscles shifting as he rubbed his face, exhaling slowly “Shit,” he muttered, his voice rough.

“Everything okay?” I murmured.

He checked his phone, then sighed. “My dad needs me on-site. Someone called in sick.”

I watched him silently, my stomach tightening as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The moment felt fragile, unreal, like something I’d imagined rather than lived. He stood, stretched, and dressed quickly, moving with the easy confidence of someone entirely unbothered by the fact he was sleeping naked beside his best friend.

“You can stay if you want,” he said casually, pulling on his shirt. “Sleep in. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Stay? Sleep in? Fat chance. I needed to run away. I needed to scream.

As soon as he had left, I took my things and walked home.

Tolle Geschichte , bin sehr gespannt wie es weitergeht, hvala ti

 

[bankai-shikai]

Thank you for the compliments guys.

 

[bankai-shikai]

Chapter 6


It is almost inconceivable that it took me over a decade to put these experiences into writing. Scattered fragments of this story exist somewhere online, buried beneath the dust of time. Most of them were written in my native language, a relic of a younger self trying to make sense of things. So if you happen to be one of the rare souls who once stumbled upon those words, tell me. I wonder if they read any differently now.

Writing was something I had always imagined myself doing, ever since my time at Karlovačka Gimnazija. It makes perfect sense—bear with me—one of Serbia’s most renowned writers once walked the same halls, and much of the curriculum revolved around language, literature, and rhetoric. It was an environment that encouraged articulation, yet when the moment came, I found myself utterly incapable of putting my thoughts into words.

By then, I had already spent a year at the school. Serbian was my native tongue, English a necessity for admission, and despite never foreseeing a real need for it, I had begun learning German as well. Three languages lived within me, yet young Petar sat in his room for a week in absolute silence after that night with his best friend. That motherfucker.

Most of my time was spent crying. My parents weren’t home—they were in Italy, chasing business opportunities. Stevan… I hadn’t seen him for days. If it weren’t for Facebook, I might have been worried. But he posted regularly, so at least I knew he was alive. Thank God for my grandmother. She was there, a quiet but steady presence. Of course, I couldn't talk to her about the mess unraveling inside me, but she sat beside me, drinking her coffee in silence. That was all I needed.

Andrej never once wrote to me during that first week. He didn’t come by, didn’t call. His Facebook remained empty, a void of nothingness that gnawed at me. To this day, it remains the most agonizing experience I have ever had in relation to another person. And believe me, I’ve lived through some shit.

That summer marked the beginning of a new chapter, though I only recognized it in hindsight. Thank God for coping mechanisms—for the quiet ways we teach ourselves to survive. Photography became mine. There was an old camera lying around, so I started photographing the yard, my grandmother, the thick heat of summer itself.

A few months ago, I stumbled upon my old Blogspot page. One of the images of my backyard was still there, titled Endless Summer. That was the longest summer of my life, and every day after that night with Andrej felt exactly like that—endless.

Distraction came in the form of a masked party.

My friends at school recommended it—an unusual event hosted by a group of people in Belgrade, themed around Japanese culture, particularly anime. It was called Sakura. At first, I hesitated. I had only recently started watching Bleach and Death Note, dipping into that strange, exaggerated world of power struggles, moral ambiguity, and death gods. Something about them resonated with me in ways I couldn't fully articulate, perhaps the idea of reinvention, of hidden identities. But going to a party where people dressed in elaborate costumes, slipping in and out of characters, felt foreign to me.

Still, I went. Maybe because I wanted to see what it was like, or maybe because I wanted to disappear into something that wasn’t this.

The venue was a dimly lit club, transformed with paper lanterns, painted screens, and the artificial scent of cherry blossoms clinging to the air. The crowd was an explosion of color—people draped in kimonos, masked faces tilting close in hushed conversation, neon wigs bouncing as figures slipped through the space like specters from another world. It was disorienting, surreal, and yet, within minutes of arriving, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: lightness.

I wasn’t sure how much I had to drink, only that it was enough to make the walls blur slightly, enough to make my body feel both weightless and heavy at the same time. The music thumped inside my chest, vibrating through the floor, and I let it carry me. It was easy to be anonymous here. My costume, a very simple version of a Neji Hyuga costume—became a shield. No one knew me, no one expected anything from me, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was dragging my own shadow behind me.

That was when Karolina found me.

I didn’t notice her at first. She noticed me. She was wearing a Ino Yamanaka costume from Naruto. She actually looked almost exactly like the charachter.

I had been standing at the bar, staring blankly at my half-empty glass, when she appeared beside me, her elbow nudging mine as if we were already friends. She was striking—short, platinum blonde hair framing sharp cheekbones, eyes that glinted with something mischievous even beneath her own mask.

“I never thought I would say this in real life, but your Neji might be even more socially awkward than the anime one. You look like you’re trying really hard to blend in,” she said, tilting her head.

I blinked at her, disoriented. “What?”

She grinned. “You’re standing alone at the bar, half-drunk, watching people like you’re narrating a novel in your head.”

I let out an awkward laugh. “Maybe I am.”

That made her laugh, too, a deep, rich sound. “Come on,” she said, grabbing my wrist. “You’re too serious, Neji. We’re going outside.”

I didn’t argue. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just the fact that I wanted to be led somewhere—anywhere.

We stepped into the cold air, and I inhaled deeply, letting the night settle into my lungs. The streets of Belgrade stretched out before us, the city humming with life even at this hour. Neon signs flickered in the distance, their reflections shimmering on the damp pavement. Somewhere, a group of people laughed loudly, their voices echoing off the buildings. Everything felt alive, electric.

I turned to Karolina, who was watching me with an amused expression. I thought she had said something.

“What?” I asked.

“You look like you just took your first breath in months.”

I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe I did.”

We talked for hours. About anime, about Death Note and Naruto, which she loved just as much as I did. We debated Light’s morality, whether L should have won, whether Near was a satisfying replacement. She was smart, quick-witted, and effortlessly funny. And for the first time in forever, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. Not Andrej. Not the mess in my head. Just this—the cold air, the city buzzing around us, the way my chest ached from laughing too hard.

I felt free.

We talked for hours, and I don’t remember much of what was said that night, only that it felt easy. That was the danger of Karolina—she made everything feel effortless. Before I knew it, we were leaving together, stumbling into the cold night air, her hand laced loosely in mine.

I won’t dwell on what we were. Not because she wasn’t significant, but because I never let myself believe that she truly was. We lasted six months. We had a lot of sex. And I wish I could say that it meant something more, that I fell in love with her, but the truth is, I was trying to outrun a feeling I wasn’t ready to face.

She was my first.

At the time, I told myself it was what I needed—to be with someone who didn’t ask questions, who didn’t demand anything from me except my presence. But the more I tried to convince myself that I was moving forward, the more I felt like I was standing still.

Six months later, I broke up with her over text.

I knew it was a cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud. I’m still in love with my best friend. I think I might be gay. I wrote them on the first of November 2008, while lying on the bed beside Stevan and watching television. The words looked so stark, so irreversible, even in writing. And once I sent them, I couldn’t take them back. My whole body shivered.

I don’t know what I expected—anger, heartbreak, maybe even relief—but all she said was, Okay.

It was the worst possible time to realize the truth about myself. Maybe that’s why I fought against it so hard. Even now, the question of labels makes me uncomfortable. The world thrives on categorization, on binary definitions. You are either this or you are that. Millennials, in particular, have an obsession with identity—everything must be named, sorted, understood. And yet, when it comes to myself, the words never seem to fit. If I had to define it, I’d say I’m bisexual. But back then? Back then, I was just lost.

Meanwhile, Andrej disappeared almost completely from my life.

After a couple of months he did try to start a conversation online, but I ignored him. Every message, every attempt to reconnect. If I responded, it would mean opening a door I had spent months trying to slam shut. And yet, his presence loomed over me. At training, he was there but not there. He came and went, irregularly, like a ghost haunting the edges of my vision. We barely spoke. If we ended up in the same room, it was as though an unspoken truce kept us from acknowledging the weight of what had happened.

Once while doing some shopping in the city, I met his mom on the street. She asked me why I wasn’t coming over. I made some excuse, like I’m busy, or something like that. She said that Andrej wasn’t doing well in school, we talked mostly about him. It was a strange thing.

Then, November arrived.

Stevan and I were celebrating our birthdays together, a joint tradition that felt almost obligatory at this point. The club was packed, the air thick with the scent of alcohol. You couldn’t even hear the music over the loud chatter of young teenagers.

I had started smoking. I wasn’t sure when it became a habit—whether it was boredom, stress, or just something to do with my hands—but it gave me an excuse to step away, to carve out a moment of solitude in the middle of the noise. Andrej was there. I saw him in the crowd of some 40 teenagers from two very different schools—that used to mean something back than. I would lie if I said that I was indifferent to his presence. Especially after the break up with Karolina. Especially because of the reason for the break up.

I slipped out the back of the club, the cold air biting against my skin as I lit up. The first inhale burned my throat, but the quiet was worth it.

His hands landed on my shoulders from behind, a firm squeeze that almost made me drop my cigarette. I knew that he would follow me.
I turned sharply, my pulse kicking up, and there he was—standing just close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath, the scent of his cologne underneath. He had changed. Not drastically, but just enough that it took me a moment to register the difference. He looked bigger. His frame had filled out—five, maybe ten kilos heavier than the last time I had really looked at him. Not fat, just solid, broader. The kind of weight that settled in his chest and shoulders, making him look stronger, more there somehow. His jaw was sharper too, the soft edges of boyhood chiseled away into something undeniably male.
And yet, his smirk was the same.

“I heard you broke up with your girlfriend,” he said, tilting his head, his voice laced with amusement.

I exhaled, bending down to pick up my cigarette. “Yeah. That news travels fast?”

“You could say that.” His smirk deepened. “Or, you know, I have my ways.”

I leaned against the wall, taking another drag. “Right. Spies, I assume.”

He let out a short laugh, stepping closer, so close that I could feel the residual heat from his body. “Of course. I keep tabs on all my favorite people.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Right. That’s why you ignored me for months.”

His expression flickered—just for a second—before the smirk returned. “I could say the same thing about you.”

I didn't have a good response to that, so I just kept smoking, letting the silence stretch. He watched me, his dark eyes flicking over my face before settling on the cigarette in my hand.

“You smoke now?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Since when?”

“A few months.”

He wrinkled his nose, tilting his head. “Doesn’t suit you.”

I laughed dryly. “Yeah, well. Neither does getting ghosted.”

His grin widened. “Ghosted? That’s dramatic.”

I exhaled. “And you love drama.”

“That’s true,” he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. His posture was relaxed, but there was a quiet energy to him, like he was waiting for something.

A breeze drifted through the alley, ruffling his shirt slightly, and I couldn’t help but notice how it stretched across his chest. He had always been in good shape—years of training had made sure of that—but now, there was something different about the way he carried himself. Like he was aware of the space he took up.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just a little. “So. How does it feel?”

I blinked. “How does what feel?”

“Being single.”

I scoffed. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess.”

He hummed, watching me closely. “No tragic heartbreak? No weeping in the rain, reciting poetry? Don’t they teach you those things at your school?”

I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, shut up.”

His grin widened. “Oh, come on. I was looking forward to some Shakespearean-level lamenting.”

I flicked my cigarette toward the ground, crushing it under my shoe. “Sorry to disappoint.” I tried to go inside, but he blocked me off.

He made a sound of mock disapproval. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“Oh, I’m no fun?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who disappeared off the face of the earth.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I didn’t disappear. I was around, just busy”

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “You ignored me first.”
I glanced at him.

A pause. Then:

“I missed you, Petar.”

Something thick settled in my chest. I swallowed. “Yeah…”

His gaze flickered over my face again, searching. “I was starting to feel like I actually had a best friend.” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “But you just… left.”

I exhaled, my fingers twitching at my sides. The closeness between us was suddenly suffocating.

“You left too,” I said quietly.

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

The air between us thickened, dense with something unspoken. The club’s muffled bass pulsed behind us, but out here, it was just the two of us, suspended in the cool night. Andrej shifted his stance slightly, his shoulder brushing against mine. Even through the thin fabric of my shirt, I could feel him—warm, solid, impossibly close.
I turned my head to look at him, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to really see him. He was still Andrej, still the boy who had driven me insane with his teasing, his careless charm, his way of making everything feel like it was exactly where it was supposed to be. But he wasn’t just a boy anymore. His face had sharpened, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader, stronger. Even his posture was different—rooted, like he knew exactly what he was doing, where he was standing.

Yet, his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—held something I wasn’t used to. There was a weight behind them, something careful, restrained. He was watching me like he was trying to figure something out.

“What?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, but close. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

He huffed a laugh, glancing down before meeting my eyes again. “I was just thinking.”

“Be carefull,” I muttered.

“Shut up,” he said, nudging me lightly with his shoulder. “I was just thinking that I missed this.”

I swallowed, my pulse hammering. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between us. “You. Talking. Smoking in alleys like degenerates.”

I let out a breath of laughter. “Right. A real Hollywood moment.”

He hummed, eyes dropping briefly to my lips before flicking back up. “I mean it, though.”

I was about to respond—about to deflect, or joke, or say *something*—but then he reached out. His fingers brushed the side of my face, just barely, a tentative touch that sent a slow, searing heat down my spine.

I froze.

He didn’t move his hand away. Instead, his thumb skimmed the corner of my jaw, light, almost like he was testing something. My skin burned under the touch, but I didn’t pull back. I couldn’t.

And then, barely above a whisper, he said, “You’re still bad at hiding things.”

I blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

I exhaled sharply. “I—”

But the words died in my throat because he was moving closer, his hand shifting, his palm now fully cradling my jaw. His fingers were warm, steady, anchoring me in place. I should have moved. Should have stepped back, said something.

But I didn’t.

I stayed right where I was as he leaned in, slow, deliberate, his breath ghosting over my lips.

Then, finally, he kissed me.

Soft. Tentative. Just the faintest press of lips, like the beginning of something that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to exist.

It was barely a touch. And yet…

 

[michaelnola]

Chapter 6


It is almost inconceivable that it took me over a decade to put these experiences into writing. Scattered fragments of this story exist somewhere online, buried beneath the dust of time. Most of them were written in my native language, a relic of a younger self trying to make sense of things. So if you happen to be one of the rare souls who once stumbled upon those words, tell me. I wonder if they read any differently now.

Writing was something I had always imagined myself doing, ever since my time at Karlovačka Gimnazija. It makes perfect sense—bear with me—one of Serbia’s most renowned writers once walked the same halls, and much of the curriculum revolved around language, literature, and rhetoric. It was an environment that encouraged articulation, yet when the moment came, I found myself utterly incapable of putting my thoughts into words.

By then, I had already spent a year at the school. Serbian was my native tongue, English a necessity for admission, and despite never foreseeing a real need for it, I had begun learning German as well. Three languages lived within me, yet young Petar sat in his room for a week in absolute silence after that night with his best friend. That motherfucker.

Most of my time was spent crying. My parents weren’t home—they were in Italy, chasing business opportunities. Stevan… I hadn’t seen him for days. If it weren’t for Facebook, I might have been worried. But he posted regularly, so at least I knew he was alive. Thank God for my grandmother. She was there, a quiet but steady presence. Of course, I couldn't talk to her about the mess unraveling inside me, but she sat beside me, drinking her coffee in silence. That was all I needed.

Andrej never once wrote to me during that first week. He didn’t come by, didn’t call. His Facebook remained empty, a void of nothingness that gnawed at me. To this day, it remains the most agonizing experience I have ever had in relation to another person. And believe me, I’ve lived through some shit.

That summer marked the beginning of a new chapter, though I only recognized it in hindsight. Thank God for coping mechanisms—for the quiet ways we teach ourselves to survive. Photography became mine. There was an old camera lying around, so I started photographing the yard, my grandmother, the thick heat of summer itself.

A few months ago, I stumbled upon my old Blogspot page. One of the images of my backyard was still there, titled Endless Summer. That was the longest summer of my life, and every day after that night with Andrej felt exactly like that—endless.

Distraction came in the form of a masked party.

My friends at school recommended it—an unusual event hosted by a group of people in Belgrade, themed around Japanese culture, particularly anime. It was called Sakura. At first, I hesitated. I had only recently started watching Bleach and Death Note, dipping into that strange, exaggerated world of power struggles, moral ambiguity, and death gods. Something about them resonated with me in ways I couldn't fully articulate, perhaps the idea of reinvention, of hidden identities. But going to a party where people dressed in elaborate costumes, slipping in and out of characters, felt foreign to me.

Still, I went. Maybe because I wanted to see what it was like, or maybe because I wanted to disappear into something that wasn’t this.

The venue was a dimly lit club, transformed with paper lanterns, painted screens, and the artificial scent of cherry blossoms clinging to the air. The crowd was an explosion of color—people draped in kimonos, masked faces tilting close in hushed conversation, neon wigs bouncing as figures slipped through the space like specters from another world. It was disorienting, surreal, and yet, within minutes of arriving, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time: lightness.

I wasn’t sure how much I had to drink, only that it was enough to make the walls blur slightly, enough to make my body feel both weightless and heavy at the same time. The music thumped inside my chest, vibrating through the floor, and I let it carry me. It was easy to be anonymous here. My costume, a very simple version of a Neji Hyuga costume—became a shield. No one knew me, no one expected anything from me, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I was dragging my own shadow behind me.

That was when Karolina found me.

I didn’t notice her at first. She noticed me. She was wearing a Ino Yamanaka costume from Naruto. She actually looked almost exactly like the charachter.

I had been standing at the bar, staring blankly at my half-empty glass, when she appeared beside me, her elbow nudging mine as if we were already friends. She was striking—short, platinum blonde hair framing sharp cheekbones, eyes that glinted with something mischievous even beneath her own mask.

“I never thought I would say this in real life, but your Neji might be even more socially awkward than the anime one. You look like you’re trying really hard to blend in,” she said, tilting her head.

I blinked at her, disoriented. “What?”

She grinned. “You’re standing alone at the bar, half-drunk, watching people like you’re narrating a novel in your head.”

I let out an awkward laugh. “Maybe I am.”

That made her laugh, too, a deep, rich sound. “Come on,” she said, grabbing my wrist. “You’re too serious, Neji. We’re going outside.”

I didn’t argue. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was just the fact that I wanted to be led somewhere—anywhere.

We stepped into the cold air, and I inhaled deeply, letting the night settle into my lungs. The streets of Belgrade stretched out before us, the city humming with life even at this hour. Neon signs flickered in the distance, their reflections shimmering on the damp pavement. Somewhere, a group of people laughed loudly, their voices echoing off the buildings. Everything felt alive, electric.

I turned to Karolina, who was watching me with an amused expression. I thought she had said something.

“What?” I asked.

“You look like you just took your first breath in months.”

I exhaled a laugh, shaking my head. “Maybe I did.”

We talked for hours. About anime, about Death Note and Naruto, which she loved just as much as I did. We debated Light’s morality, whether L should have won, whether Near was a satisfying replacement. She was smart, quick-witted, and effortlessly funny. And for the first time in forever, I wasn’t thinking about anything else. Not Andrej. Not the mess in my head. Just this—the cold air, the city buzzing around us, the way my chest ached from laughing too hard.

I felt free.

We talked for hours, and I don’t remember much of what was said that night, only that it felt easy. That was the danger of Karolina—she made everything feel effortless. Before I knew it, we were leaving together, stumbling into the cold night air, her hand laced loosely in mine.

I won’t dwell on what we were. Not because she wasn’t significant, but because I never let myself believe that she truly was. We lasted six months. We had a lot of sex. And I wish I could say that it meant something more, that I fell in love with her, but the truth is, I was trying to outrun a feeling I wasn’t ready to face.

She was my first.

At the time, I told myself it was what I needed—to be with someone who didn’t ask questions, who didn’t demand anything from me except my presence. But the more I tried to convince myself that I was moving forward, the more I felt like I was standing still.

Six months later, I broke up with her over text.

I knew it was a cowardly thing to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words out loud. I’m still in love with my best friend. I think I might be gay. I wrote them on the first of November 2008, while lying on the bed beside Stevan and watching television. The words looked so stark, so irreversible, even in writing. And once I sent them, I couldn’t take them back. My whole body shivered.

I don’t know what I expected—anger, heartbreak, maybe even relief—but all she said was, Okay.

It was the worst possible time to realize the truth about myself. Maybe that’s why I fought against it so hard. Even now, the question of labels makes me uncomfortable. The world thrives on categorization, on binary definitions. You are either this or you are that. Millennials, in particular, have an obsession with identity—everything must be named, sorted, understood. And yet, when it comes to myself, the words never seem to fit. If I had to define it, I’d say I’m bisexual. But back then? Back then, I was just lost.

Meanwhile, Andrej disappeared almost completely from my life.

After a couple of months he did try to start a conversation online, but I ignored him. Every message, every attempt to reconnect. If I responded, it would mean opening a door I had spent months trying to slam shut. And yet, his presence loomed over me. At training, he was there but not there. He came and went, irregularly, like a ghost haunting the edges of my vision. We barely spoke. If we ended up in the same room, it was as though an unspoken truce kept us from acknowledging the weight of what had happened.

Once while doing some shopping in the city, I met his mom on the street. She asked me why I wasn’t coming over. I made some excuse, like I’m busy, or something like that. She said that Andrej wasn’t doing well in school, we talked mostly about him. It was a strange thing.

Then, November arrived.

Stevan and I were celebrating our birthdays together, a joint tradition that felt almost obligatory at this point. The club was packed, the air thick with the scent of alcohol. You couldn’t even hear the music over the loud chatter of young teenagers.

I had started smoking. I wasn’t sure when it became a habit—whether it was boredom, stress, or just something to do with my hands—but it gave me an excuse to step away, to carve out a moment of solitude in the middle of the noise. Andrej was there. I saw him in the crowd of some 40 teenagers from two very different schools—that used to mean something back than. I would lie if I said that I was indifferent to his presence. Especially after the break up with Karolina. Especially because of the reason for the break up.

I slipped out the back of the club, the cold air biting against my skin as I lit up. The first inhale burned my throat, but the quiet was worth it.

His hands landed on my shoulders from behind, a firm squeeze that almost made me drop my cigarette. I knew that he would follow me.
I turned sharply, my pulse kicking up, and there he was—standing just close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath, the scent of his cologne underneath. He had changed. Not drastically, but just enough that it took me a moment to register the difference. He looked bigger. His frame had filled out—five, maybe ten kilos heavier than the last time I had really looked at him. Not fat, just solid, broader. The kind of weight that settled in his chest and shoulders, making him look stronger, more there somehow. His jaw was sharper too, the soft edges of boyhood chiseled away into something undeniably male.
And yet, his smirk was the same.

“I heard you broke up with your girlfriend,” he said, tilting his head, his voice laced with amusement.

I exhaled, bending down to pick up my cigarette. “Yeah. That news travels fast?”

“You could say that.” His smirk deepened. “Or, you know, I have my ways.”

I leaned against the wall, taking another drag. “Right. Spies, I assume.”

He let out a short laugh, stepping closer, so close that I could feel the residual heat from his body. “Of course. I keep tabs on all my favorite people.”

I scoffed, shaking my head. “Right. That’s why you ignored me for months.”

His expression flickered—just for a second—before the smirk returned. “I could say the same thing about you.”

I didn't have a good response to that, so I just kept smoking, letting the silence stretch. He watched me, his dark eyes flicking over my face before settling on the cigarette in my hand.

“You smoke now?”

I shrugged. “I guess.”

“Since when?”

“A few months.”

He wrinkled his nose, tilting his head. “Doesn’t suit you.”

I laughed dryly. “Yeah, well. Neither does getting ghosted.”

His grin widened. “Ghosted? That’s dramatic.”

I exhaled. “And you love drama.”

“That’s true,” he admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets. His posture was relaxed, but there was a quiet energy to him, like he was waiting for something.

A breeze drifted through the alley, ruffling his shirt slightly, and I couldn’t help but notice how it stretched across his chest. He had always been in good shape—years of training had made sure of that—but now, there was something different about the way he carried himself. Like he was aware of the space he took up.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just a little. “So. How does it feel?”

I blinked. “How does what feel?”

“Being single.”

I scoffed. “I don’t know. Fine, I guess.”

He hummed, watching me closely. “No tragic heartbreak? No weeping in the rain, reciting poetry? Don’t they teach you those things at your school?”

I rolled my eyes. “Jesus, shut up.”

His grin widened. “Oh, come on. I was looking forward to some Shakespearean-level lamenting.”

I flicked my cigarette toward the ground, crushing it under my shoe. “Sorry to disappoint.” I tried to go inside, but he blocked me off.

He made a sound of mock disapproval. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“Oh, I’m no fun?” I raised an eyebrow. “You’re the one who disappeared off the face of the earth.”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I didn’t disappear. I was around, just busy”

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “You ignored me first.”
I glanced at him.

A pause. Then:

“I missed you, Petar.”

Something thick settled in my chest. I swallowed. “Yeah…”

His gaze flickered over my face again, searching. “I was starting to feel like I actually had a best friend.” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “But you just… left.”

I exhaled, my fingers twitching at my sides. The closeness between us was suddenly suffocating.

“You left too,” I said quietly.

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

The air between us thickened, dense with something unspoken. The club’s muffled bass pulsed behind us, but out here, it was just the two of us, suspended in the cool night. Andrej shifted his stance slightly, his shoulder brushing against mine. Even through the thin fabric of my shirt, I could feel him—warm, solid, impossibly close.
I turned my head to look at him, and for the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to really see him. He was still Andrej, still the boy who had driven me insane with his teasing, his careless charm, his way of making everything feel like it was exactly where it was supposed to be. But he wasn’t just a boy anymore. His face had sharpened, his jaw more defined, his shoulders broader, stronger. Even his posture was different—rooted, like he knew exactly what he was doing, where he was standing.

Yet, his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—held something I wasn’t used to. There was a weight behind them, something careful, restrained. He was watching me like he was trying to figure something out.

“What?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.

His lips curled, not quite a smirk, but close. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

He huffed a laugh, glancing down before meeting my eyes again. “I was just thinking.”

“Be carefull,” I muttered.

“Shut up,” he said, nudging me lightly with his shoulder. “I was just thinking that I missed this.”

I swallowed, my pulse hammering. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between us. “You. Talking. Smoking in alleys like degenerates.”

I let out a breath of laughter. “Right. A real Hollywood moment.”

He hummed, eyes dropping briefly to my lips before flicking back up. “I mean it, though.”

I was about to respond—about to deflect, or joke, or say *something*—but then he reached out. His fingers brushed the side of my face, just barely, a tentative touch that sent a slow, searing heat down my spine.

I froze.

He didn’t move his hand away. Instead, his thumb skimmed the corner of my jaw, light, almost like he was testing something. My skin burned under the touch, but I didn’t pull back. I couldn’t.

And then, barely above a whisper, he said, “You’re still bad at hiding things.”

I blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “I can tell when you’re lying.”

I exhaled sharply. “I—”

But the words died in my throat because he was moving closer, his hand shifting, his palm now fully cradling my jaw. His fingers were warm, steady, anchoring me in place. I should have moved. Should have stepped back, said something.

But I didn’t.

I stayed right where I was as he leaned in, slow, deliberate, his breath ghosting over my lips.

Then, finally, he kissed me.

Soft. Tentative. Just the faintest press of lips, like the beginning of something that hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to exist.

It was barely a touch. And yet…

Now that is what I have been waiting for---thanks--much appreciated.