Chapter 5: Times passed
The two weeks that followed distilled their lives into a pattern Hugo both dreaded and craved. His own days were a blur of fluorescent-lit lecture halls and timid conversations with other exchange students. Heitor’s existence was simpler, more potent: the university gym, the weight rack, then the triumphant return to their sweltering apartment, a king returning to his fiefdom.
Heitor never wore a shirt anymore. His lean torso, glistening with a permanent sheen of dried sweat and new perspiration, became the apartment’s centerpiece. He moved with a lazy, arrogant grace, the same pair of thigh-length grey boxers hanging low on his hips, stained and stiff in places Hugo tried not to stare at. The smell of him—musky, salty, deeply animal—had seeped into the plaster, the couch, the very air.
"Cheira a macho aqui, né?" Heitor would grin, stretching his arms above his head, his armpits a dark, damp forest. He was proud of it.
The nights were a constant. The wall between their rooms might as well have been paper. Hugo’s initial shock hardened into a tense, feverish anticipation. He’d lie in bed, textbook forgotten, waiting for the first groan. It always came. Heitor’s self-pleasure was loud, conversational, a dirty monologue for an audience of one. "Essa putinha precisa disso... Toma... engole..."
Hugo learned the rhythms. The slow, building strokes. The frantic, slapping crescendo. The choked, guttural release that seemed to shake the wall. Sometimes he counted. Five was standard. Six, if Heitor had drank a certain protein shake. Hugo’s hand moved under his own sheets in a pathetic, desperate mimicry.
The evidence was everywhere by morning. A crusted sock draped over the living room chair. A puddled towel by the balcony door. And the boxers. Heitor would peel them off and leave them where they fell, a damp, crumpled flag of his conquest.
Hugo found one on the bathroom floor, the front salt-stiff and spotted with yellowish-grey streaks. He picked it up with two fingers. His heart hammered against his ribs. He brought the fabric to his face, inhaling sharply. The odor was catastrophic: ripe sweat, the bitter tang of urine, and underneath, the thick, unmistakable scent of Heitor’s cum. His stomach lurched. His cock throbbed. He darted out his tongue, a quick, shameful flick against the stiffest patch. The taste was complex, salty and chemical, utterly foreign.
He dropped it like it burned, flushing crimson.
Heitor’s physical domination was casual, constant. Passing Hugo in the narrow kitchen, a hard slap would land on his ass, the sound sharp in the tiny space. "Tá macio." Squeezing the back of Hugo’s neck as he looked into the empty fridge. "Cadê minha comida, gringo?" His touch was always a claim, a punctuation mark.
One afternoon, Hugo was scrubbing a pot Heitor had left to fossilize. Heitor walked in, dripping from the shower, a thin towel slung low. He stopped close behind Hugo, his heat radiating. Hugo froze, scrubber in hand.
"Quer um trabalho de verdade?" Heitor’s voice was low by his ear. He took Hugo’s wrist, moving his hand away from the pot. His own fingers, still damp, trailed down the center of Hugo’s spine, over his jeans. "Lamba o chão. Tá imundo."
He meant it literally. Hugo’s breath hitched. Heitor chuckled, that dark, knowing sound, and walked away, leaving Hugo trembling, leaning against the sink for support. The imprint of those fingers felt like a brand.
The climax came on a Friday, the air thick enough to drink. The nightly sounds from Heitor’s room had been particularly relentless, a brutal two-hour session that left Hugo a wrung-out, sweaty mess. Silence finally fell. Hugo waited, counting his own heartbeats.
He couldn’t stand it. He needed to move. He slipped out of bed and into the dark hallway, aiming for water. Heitor’s door was wide open. The room was a black cave smelling of sex and exhaustion.
A shift in the darkness. A low voice, rough from use. "Entra."
Hugo froze, one foot on the cool tile. He could run. He should run.
He didn’t. He took a step forward, then another, crossing the threshold. His eyes adjusted. Heitor was lying on his back atop the tangled sheets, completely naked in the sliver of streetlight cutting through the blinds. His body was a landscape of shadow and taut muscle. One hand rested on his stomach, the other loosely curled around the base of his cock, which lay thick and heavy against his thigh, still glistening, fully soft yet imposibly substantial.
"Ficou com inveja?" Heitor asked, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Queria ajudar?"
Hugo’s mouth was desert-dry. He couldn’t look away from Heitor’s hand, from the dormant weight it held.
"Chega aqui." It wasn't an invitation. It was an order.
Hugo’s legs carried him to the side of the bed. The smell here was primal, overwhelming. Heitor’s sweat, his musk, the volatile, metallic scent of fresh semen.
Heitor didn't move. "Tá vendo? Todo seu suor, seu trabalho... ficou na minha mão." He lifted his left hand, the one that had been working his cock. The fingers were sticky, shining. "Limpa."
He held his hand up, hovering in the space between them. Hugo stared at the offered fingers, his mind white noise. This was the line, the one he’d circled for weeks. He leaned down. His lips parted. The first taste was a shock—salty, bitter, viscous. He closed his eyes and took Heitor’s index finger into his mouth, sucking gently, cleaning the skin with his tongue.
A rumble of approval came from the bed. "Isso. Bom menino."
When his hand was clean, Heitor didn’t remove it. He curled his damp fingers around the back of Hugo’s head, not forcing, just holding. His other hand stroked his own cock once, twice, and it began to thicken, rising from his thigh. "Agora limpa o pau. Tá cheio de você."
He guided Hugo’s head down. The heat was immense. The smell, this close, stole Hugo’s thoughts. His lips touched the slick, velvet skin of the crown. He opened his mouth.
Heitor, only speaks Brazilian. No English words from him, only Brazilian sentences. From Heitor in the next chapters, only Brazilian Portuguese sentences (Hugo globally understands it).