Chapter 7: The Comparison
The cabin door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in with the smell of pine logs and old wool. The drive had been twenty miles of silent, winding road, the memory of the shower stall humming in the space between the passenger and driver’s seats like a third person. Chris moved to the fireplace with a practiced ease, crouching to crumple newspaper under the grate.He didn’t look at me.
“Whiskey?” he asked, his back still turned.
“Yeah.” My voice sounded rough, unused.“Please.”
He poured two fingers into heavy glass tumblers and handed me one. Our fingers brushed.Neither of us flinched. We settled into the worn leather armchairs that faced the stone hearth, the only sound the crackle of catching flame and the soft knock of ice in our glasses.We drank.Talked about nothing. The cabin, the fishing tomorrow, a stupid movie we’d seen years ago. The normalcy was a performance, and we were both lousy actors. The whiskey burned a warm path down my throat, pooling in my stomach, loosening the rigid coil of shame that had taken root there. With every sip, the image of his blurred silhouette behind the steam-mottled glass grew sharper, more detailed in my mind’s eye.
He was telling a story about his divorce, something about splitting the records. “She took the Bowie.The Bowie, Ben. Criminal.”
I laughed, a real one, the tension in my shoulders easing a fraction.The fire was warm on my shins.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the empty glass dangling from his long fingers. The firelight played over the sharp planes of his face, catching the green in his eyes. He studied me for a long moment, the humor fading into something more contemplative.
“You know,” he said, his voice dropping into a quieter, more intimate register.“You were a beast today.On that last deadlift.Form was perfect. Looked strong.”
I shrugged, looking into my drink. “Felt like I was gonna snap in half.”
“Nah.You’ve put on good mass.Shoulders are bigger.” He paused. “Been a while since we compared.”
A log shifted, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.Compared.A college thing. Post-gym, shirtless, flexing in some dorm room mirror, all idiot bravado and brotherly shoves.Harmless.
This did not feel harmless.“Come on,” he said, a challenge laced with a smile. “For old times’ sake. See if my abs are still sharper than yours.” He stood up, fluid and unselfconscious, and in one smooth motion, pulled his hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it over his head.He tossed them onto his chair.
The firelight didn’t just play over him now; it worshipped him. It traced the deep, familiar grooves of his abdomen, the defined serratus along his ribs, the lean cords of his arms. He turned slightly, facing me more fully, and flexed with a mock-serious expression. Every muscle tightened, sculpting his torso into a map of shadows and highlights.My mouth went dry. The whiskey warmth turned into a different, deeper heat.“Your turn, big guy.” His eyes were on mine, unwavering.
I set my glass down on the floor.The action felt monumental. I stood, my heart hammering against my ribs.The cabin’s quiet was absolute, save for the fire. I pulled my own shirt off, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin.I didn’t flex. I just stood there, feeling exposed.Chris stepped closer. The space between us, charged for days, now collapsed to mere inches.He wasn’t looking at my face anymore. His gaze traveled over my chest, my shoulders, down to my stomach.“See?” he murmured, almost to himself. He lifted a hand, his fingertips hovering an inch from my skin.“You’re thicker. More density here.” He didn’t touch me, but the phantom sensation made my breath catch.
Then his hand moved, slowly, and the tips of his fingers finally made contact just below my pec. A light, clinical press.“Solid.”
His touch was electric.It burned.It was a brand.
His fingers trailed down, over the curve of my rib, through the trail of hair leading below my waistband.He stopped at the top button of my jeans. His other hand came up, mirroring the path on the other side of my torso, a slow, deliberate exploration.I was trembling. I couldn’t stop it.He looked up from his hands to my eyes. His expression was open, curious, utterly calm.The fire reflected in his pupils, twin points of orange flame.
“What about,” he said, his voice so low it was almost part of the crackling wood, “lower down?” His thumbs hooked into the front of my jeans, not pulling, just resting there against the hard line of me.The denim was taut.There was no hiding it. There had been no hiding it since he took his shirt off.
The air left my lungs in a slow, shaky exhale. Every rational thought—my wife, my son, my whole previously understood life—was a distant star, cold and unreachable. All that existed was the heat of the fire on my back, the coolness of the cabin air on my feverish skin, and the intense, focused warmth of his hands at my waist.He waited.The question hung between us, patient and absolute.
I managed a single, jerky nod.A slow smile touched his lips, not triumphant, but… grateful. Understanding.His fingers worked the button free.The sound of the zpper lowering was deafening. He didn’t push my jeans down. He just slid his hand inside, past the band of my briefs, his knuckles brushing against me.His touch was sure, finally closing around me. His eyes never left mine.He let out a soft, quiet breath, almost a sigh. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay.”