Chapter 4: Beer-Fueled Negotiations
The door clicked shut behind Andy, sealing him into the dim, quiet loneliness of the doorstep. He stood there for a long moment, the muffled sounds of male camaraderie from Brad's townhouse, a dull throb through the door. He could picture it: Ryan clapping Brad on the back, Mark offering a dry retort, the hiss of another beer being opened. A world from which he'd been politely, but firmly, ejected.
He let himself into his own townhouse, one door down. The silence here was heavier. It was lonely. He didn't turn on the lights. He shut the front door, and leaned his forehead against the cool woodwork beside it. And he just stood there, inside the door, barely inside the dark, empty living room. Inside his own, empty life. Outside, the streetlamp cast a blue-white glow on living shrubbery and empty sidewalk. That was yesterday, Brad had said. A secret , a joke at his expense. And a boundary drawn, Andy firmly on the outside of it. Had any of 'yesterday' mattered? It did then, Andy knew that. But what about today? Would he ever not be the inside joke with Brad?
Back in Brad's apartment, the air was thick with unspoken words. Ryan, blessedly oblivious, had plunged into his third beer, the awkwardness of his entrance smoothed over by alcohol and his own easy-going nature. He was holding court on the couch, recounting a call from his shift.
"...so the cat's up the tree, right? Classic. But the lady, she's screaming it's a purebred Savannah, costs more than my truck. And the cat's just sitting there, licking its paw, giving zero fucks." Ryan took a long pull. "Took us twenty minutes and a can of expensive tuna. The things we do."
Brad laughed, a genuine sound this time. He was leaned back in an armchair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. His eyes, however, kept drifting to Mark, who stood by the fireplace, sipping his beer with a thoughtful detachment. The trainer was watching Ryan, but his gaze was assessing, not engaged.
"So you just crash the party, Ry?" Brad asked, steering the conversation back. "No text, no nothing?"
"Deb cancelled. Again," Ryan said, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. He was a good-looking guy in a rugged way, but his love life was a series of short, fiery explosions that fizzled out fast. "Said I was 'emotionally unavailable.'Whatever that means. I had the beer. Figured you'd be around. Heard the music last night, by the way. Sounded epic."
"It was," Brad said, his tone flat."Different crowd."
Mark finally spoke, his voice cutting through the haze of beer and small-talk. "So you're at loose ends, Ryan.Bored. No workout today?"
"Leg day yesterday," Ryan groaned, rubbing a thick thigh. "I'm fucking crippled. Why do we do it, man?"
"For the payoff," Mark said, pushing off the mantel. He moved to the center of the room, his movements still carrying that gym-honed grace. "Discipline.Control. Pushing past the point where a normal person would quit." His eyes flicked to Brad. "Recognize the feeling?"
Brad held his gaze. A silent transaction passed between them. Ryan, semi-drunk and emotionally raw, was another variable. A potential complication, or an opportunity. The unspoken question from earlier—who leads, who follows—was now woven around a third, unaware participant.
"You sound like my drill sergeant," Ryan chuckled, finishing his beer. He reached for a fourth. Brad and Mark let him.
The next hour dissolved into a warm, beery blur. The conversation meandered—work, football, a vague plan to catch a game at the bar next weekend. Ryan's sentences grew slower, his laughter louder and less frequent. He slumped deeper into the couch cushions, his eyes glazing over as Mark talked about metabolic pathways with a focused intensity that felt, to Brad, like a performance.
Finally, mid-sentence about heart rate zones, Ryan's head lolled back. His mouth fell open slightly. A soft, rhythmic snore escaped his lips.
The sudden quiet was abrupt. The jazz had ended an album ago, leaving only the low hum of the refrigerator and Ryan's gentle snoring.
Neither Brad nor Mark moved. They looked at the sleeping firefighter, then at each other.
Brad set his empty bottle down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink. "Well."
"He's out," Mark stated, walking over to stand beside the couch. He looked down at Ryan's sprawled, muscular form. Ryan's shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of taut abdomen above his belt. "Empty stomach.Emotional distress. Poor nutritional preparation for a drinking session."
"Always the trainer," Brad said, but he was standing now too, joining Mark. They stood side-by-side, looking down at their unconscious friend. The earlier energy, the predatory tension, had shifted into something speculative, collaborative.
"He's strong," Mark murmured, almost to himself. "Good V-taper. Impressive lat spread, even in repose."
Brad's lips quirked. "You gonna measure his body fat percentage next?"
Mark ignored him. "He's searching for something. Fills the void with women and work. But the void remains." He finally turned his head, his eyes meeting Brad's in the low light. "He might be... receptive.To new experiences. If presented correctly."
The implication hung, dense and palpable. They were no longer just discussing Ryan.
"You're thinking about a team-building exercise," Brad said, his voice low.
"A unit," Mark corrected. "A hierarchy needs more than two points to be stable. A foundation." He paused. "Prendergast."
Andy's name in Mark's mouth, in this context, sent a jolt through Brad's calm. It was a claim, a rearrangement. Mark wasn't just proposing adding Ryan; he was architecting a structure. With Andy at the bottom.
"Prendergast is..." Brad searched for the right word. "Complicated. He's not like us."
"He's exactly what we're not," Mark countered. "That's the point. The contrast defines the structure. He's the control in the experiment." He took a step closer to Brad, the space between them charged not with imminent conflict, but with negotiation. "The question is the order of operations. Who establishes the protocol?"
Brad understood. This was the core of their silent competition. It wasn't about brute victory; it was about influence, about who set the terms for whatever this was becoming. Topping Andy wasn't just a physical act; it was a declaration of primacy in this new, undefined thing they were building.
He looked back at Ryan, peacefully asleep and utterly unaware he was being discussed as a potential component in a psychosexual blueprint. He looked at Mark, all calculated intensity and sharp angles. He thought of Andy, hiding in his townhouse, next door, teeth-marked, feeling rejected (yes, that's what they had done). He was confused and undoubtedly turned on.
Brad reached out and picked up Ryan's empty beer bottle from the floor, placing it neatly with the others. The domestic gesture felt strangely decisive.
"Prendergast is mine," Brad said, the words quiet but absolute. "I drew first blood. I set the terms. You want in on this..." He gestured vaguely between themselves and the sleeping Ryan. "...this expansion. You work within my framework."
Mark didn't blink. "And your framework is?"
"Old school," Brad said, a slow grin spreading. "You don't just get the keys to the car because you know how it works. You prove you can handle the ride. You want to help me... train him?" He let the euphemism sit. "You earn your spot. On the roster."
It was a challenge, but a collaborative one. A quarterback calling the play, offering the running back a chance to prove his value.
Mark considered. He looked at Brad's resolute posture, the unshakable confidence in his own domain. He was a "Tank" to Mark's swimmer body. A lesser man would have bristled. Mark, however, saw the logic, the brutal clarity of it. He gave a single, slight nod.
"Fine. But my methods get applied. You provide the... motivation. I'll provide the regimen."
"Deal," Brad said.
Their hands didn't shake. The agreement was sealed in the heavy air over their snoring friend. The question of who topped whom wasn't answered; it was postponed, its energy channeled into a shared project.
Ryan snorted in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. He turned onto his side, facing the back of the couch, his broad back presented to them.
Brad and Mark looked at each other again. The plan was vague, dangerous, and ethically void. It crackled with potential.
"We should get him home," Mark said, his voice back to its normal, practical tone.
"Yeah," Brad agreed. But neither of them moved. After a long pause, "There is one more thing we could settle. The two of us. Tonight. "
Mark raised one eyebrow, with a glance indicating their sleeping buddy.
Brad’s grin didn’t falter. “He’s not a witness. He’s a prop. A sleeping one.” The firelight caught the sharp planes of his face, deepening the shadows. “This isn’t about him.”
Mark’s assessment was a physical thing, a slow rake of his eyes down Brad’s body that felt like static on skin. “Proving a point requires an audience, even an unconscious one.” He took a single step closer. The gap between them evaporated into mere inches charged with the scent of beer and clean sweat. “Or is the point just for you?”
“The point,” Brad said, his voice dropping to a gravelly murmur that vibrated in the quiet room, “is seeing if you talk as good as you think you do.” He didn’t move to touch, yet. “All that analysis. All that protocol.” He let the word hang, a smirk playing on his lips. “You planning this out in reps and sets, Olsen? What’s the next move in your regimen?”
The challenge was clear, a deliberate push against Mark’s controlled exterior. Mark’s jaw tightened, a faint tic beneath the stubble. He hated being predictable. Hated being read.
He closed the last fractional distance, his chest not quite touching Brad’s. “The next move is variable. Based on participant response.” His hand came up, not to Brad’s body, but to his own collar. His fingers hooked into the soft, gray fabric of his Henley shirt. “Hypothesis: you’re all directive, no follow-through. You call the play but wait for someone else to run it.”
Brad’s eyes tracked the movement, his amusement sharpening into something hotter, more focused. “You gonna test that?”
“Data collection,” Mark corrected, his tone clinical, but his breath hitched just perceptibly. He pulled the collar, stretching the neckline. A dry pop of a stitch sounded faintly. “Starting with the environmental variables.”
With a sharp, deliberate motion, he peeled the Henley up and over his head in one fluid pull. The fabric whispered against his skin, his ears, before he dropped it silently to the floor between them. The firelight warmed the defined topography of his chest and shoulders, each muscle group sharp from a lifetime of curated strain. A faint scar curved over one rib.
He stood, exposed from the waist up, his expression not defiant but expectant. A scientist awaiting a reaction.
Brad exhaled, a slow, deliberate sound. The casual arrogance bled from his posture, replaced by a predatory stillness. His eyes didn’t flutter; they consumed, tracing the lines of Mark’s torso with an ownership that hadn’t been there seconds before. This was no longer a negotiation.
“Environmental variable,” Brad echoed, his voice thick. “Noted.”
He didn’t hesitate. His own hands went to the hem of his tight black t-shirt. He crossed his arms at his waist and hauled it up, the movement rougher, less controlled than Mark’s. It caught for a second on the breadth of his shoulders before he wrestled it free, his hair ruffling into chaotic waves.
He tossed the shirt aside. It landed on the arm of the couch, near Ryan’s dangling hand.
Brad’s torso was a broader canvas, layered with muscle earned from raw labor, not machines. A sprawling tattoo of architectural lines and gears wrapped around one shoulder and pectoral, the ink seeming to shift in the flickering light. Their bare chests didn’t touch, but the heat they generated formed a palpable field in the cool room.
The silence was no longer about negotiation. It was about appraisal, and a gathering, tangible hunger. Ryan snorted in his sleep, mumbling something about a hydrant.
The sound broke the spell, but only into a new, more dangerous phase. Brad’s eyes, dark and intent, locked onto Mark’s. He reached for his own belt buckle.
The metallic click of the release was obscenely loud.
Mark watched the motion, his analytical pretense gone. His nostrils flared. He gave one short, sharp nod, a general’s permission for the advance to begin. His own fingers went to the button of his jeans.
His own fingers went to the button of his jeans.
The leather of Brad’s belt slid through the loops with a hushed, definitive whisper, pooling on the hardwood with a soft thud. Mark’s button popped open, the denim loosening over his hips, a prelude. Ryan breathed heavily into the couch cushion, a steady, oblivious rhythm. The fire popped, casting jumping shadows that made their movements seem larger, more consuming.
“WAIT.” Brad was quiet.
They both looked at Ryan. He mumbled, “The Dalmatian’s name was Pongo,” and drooled slightly on the cushion.
A choked laugh escaped Brad, breaking the tension into something stranger. Mark’s stern expression cracked, just for a second.
“So what’s the play, quarterback?” Mark asked, picking up his shirt. “We just… stop?”
“Guest room. Down the hall.” Brad moved to the couch, grabbing Ryan under one thick arm. “Come on. He’s dead weight.”
Ryan groaned as they hauled him upright, his limbs loose and uncoordinated. “Five more minutes, Chief…”
“You’re done, buddy,” Brad grunted, maneuvering him. Ryan’s arm slung heavily over Brad’s shoulders, his head lolling against Brad’s temple. The scent of beer and cheap aftershave was overwhelming.
Together, they half-walked, half-dragged Ryan down the short, dark hallway. Brad shouldered the guest room door open. It was a clean, sparse space: a bed, a dresser, a single window.
They dumped him unceremoniously onto the queen mattress. Ryan immediately curled onto his side, boots still on, and was gone again to the world.
Brad stared down at him for a long moment. Then he leaned over and wrestled one boot off, then the other, dropping them to the floor with two dull thuds. It was a gesture of surprising, almost tender, practicality. Mark watched from the doorway, his arms crossed.
Brad straightened up, his back to Mark.
“Tomorrow,” Brad said, not turning around. “We talk about Andy. For real. No games. No sleeping witnesses.”
“And us?” Mark asked, the question hanging in the air between them.
Brad looked over his shoulder. The firelight from the living room silhouetted him in the doorway.
"My room."
He brushed past Mark into the hallway, leaving him alone in the dark with the sound of Ryan’s breathing.