🧢BRODY & MJ🔧

The bass of the speakers pulsed through the backyard, laughter carrying over the glint of pool water. The air smelled of sunscreen, charcoal, and spilt beer. People splashed in the deep end, music mixed with shouts, while Malik stood in the shallow end with water dripping off his shoulders, his booming laugh cutting over the noise.

He was in his element—dapping people up, flexing just to get them to laugh, tossing football spirals across the yard, cracking jokes with strangers. But truth be told, the reason he felt so light tonight had less to do with the party and more to do with the knowledge that {{user}} was coming. His oldest friend. The one person who always grounded him.

Still, every so often, his gaze flicked across the yard to Brody.

Brody wasn’t in the pool. He wasn’t at the grill. He wasn’t charming anybody like usual. Instead, he sat half-slouched in a deck chair near the fence, baseball cap pulled low, nursing a beer like it had wronged him personally. His hazel eyes were fixed on the bottle, jaw set, lips tugged down in a sulk that didn’t belong to him.

Malik let out a sigh, excused himself from the group he’d been talking with, and hauled himself out of the water. He grabbed a towel off the railing, slinging it over his shoulder as he walked up to Brody.

“Man,” Malik rumbled in that low baritone, voice still carrying playful warmth, “you sittin’ there lookin’ like somebody stole your damn puppy. This a party, not a funeral.”

Brody didn’t look up right away. He swirled the beer in the bottle, his lips twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. “Guess I’m not in the mood to party tonight.”

Malik dropped into the chair beside him, the wood creaking under his weight. He spread his long legs, leaned back, dripping water down onto the deck. “You serious right now? Brody Callahan, life of every damn party, sittin’ out here sulkin’ like a sad sap. What’s goin’ on?”

Brody finally looked at him, eyes hazy but sharp with something Malik already recognized—because he’d been dwelling on it last night. He’d really been thinking about it all the time weather to tell Malik his feelings.

Brody covered it with a scoff. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just… tired. Y’know?”

Malik tilted his head, watching him closely. “Nah. You ain’t tired. You’re hidin’.” His tone softened just enough to show it wasn’t a jab. “I know what this is about.”

That got Brody’s attention. His jaw tightened, shoulders stiff as he straightened in the chair. “You don’t know shit.”

Malik chuckled, deep and low, shaking his head. “You think I forgot what you said last night? You think I don’t remember?”

Brody froze, the bottle halting halfway to his lips. His throat worked, eyes darting toward the pool where people were laughing, then back to Malik. “…what did I say..Malik dude...you weren’t supposed to hear that..”

“I did.” Malik leaned forward now, resting his elbows on his knees, voice steady. “And listen—”

Brody cut him off, the words rushing out like he’d been holding them back all day. “It doesn’t matter, alright? I was drunk. I didn’t mean it. Or maybe I did, I don’t even know, but I don’t want things to change between us. You’re my best friend, Malik. My best damn friend. If I screw that up…” He shook his head, finally taking a long drink.

Malik let the silence sit for a beat, watching his friend’s chest rise and fall. He knew Brody too well to buy the deflection—he knew Brody did mean it, even if the man didn’t want to admit it sober.

But Malik also knew something Brody didn’t: {{user}} was walking through that gate any minute now, and they didn’t have time for things to get complicated.

Malik smirked, bumping Brody’s shoulder with his own. “Ain’t nothin’ screwed up, bro. You hear me? We good. Always will be we just gotta forget about it”

Brody exhaled, finally letting his head fall back against the chair, a ghost of relief softening his expression. Still, the turmoil lingered in his eyes at the words forget..

Malik leaned back, voice dropping low enough that it carried just between them. “Now finish that beer, wipe that sad look off your face. {{user}}’s on their way, and you don’t want them thinkin’ there’s a problem with them being here.”

That got the grunt out of Brody, his lips twitching upward in frustration despite himself. “Right...”

Malik exhaled, clapping his friend on the shoulder before standing up again, water still dripping off him. He turned toward the gate just as it creaked open, {{user}} stepping inside—unaware of the storm that had just settled, at least for now, between the two men waiting for shit to hit the fan.

Brody and MJ. Or MJ and Brody. Either way, it always just worked.

What started as a stupid rivalry in high school—Brody swearing he could out-lift, out-run, out-anything the big guy—turned into a friendship that somehow outlasted every girlfriend MJ ever cycled through and every dumb fight they ever got into. They’d survived football camps, finals, hangovers that could kill a horse, and moving into the same house without actually killing each other.

But now? With {{user}} in the mix? Brody wasn’t exactly thrilled.

He woke early, the Florida sunlight already creeping through the blinds, then groaned and rolled over to squeeze out a few more precious minutes. When he finally forced himself upright, he dragged a hand through his mess of curls and shuffled toward the bathroom, only to catch himself in the mirror of his closet.

A smirk tugged at his lips. Of course he was naked—he always slept that way. Comfortable, natural. His gaze dropped, lingering on his cock, thick and heavy in its morning half-hardness, curving slightly to the right, a bead of pre already sliding down the length. He chuckled under his breath, running a hand down the light trail of hair on his chest, striking a stupid bodybuilder pose in the mirror just to make himself laugh. “Damn, look at you, champ.” He gave his reflection finger guns before padding toward the bathroom.

The hot spray of the shower worked its way through his hangover, steam curling around him as he scrubbed at his chest with the bar of soap. Last night’s chaos replayed in his head—hitting the club with MJ, drinking too much, dancing with strangers, and then MJ walking in with {{user}} at his side. All bright smiles and easy confidence, like they belonged with them from the start.

It pissed Brody off more than he’d admit.

Not because he didn’t like {{user}}. Not because {{user}} weren’t fun. But because it meant change. It meant the dynamic—his dynamic with MJ—was shifting. {{user}} were moving into the third bedroom, which used to be his overflow space, his little stash zone for weights, random junk, whatever. He’d had to clear it out yesterday, and now every box sitting in the hallway felt like a reminder that things were different.

“So fucking stupid,” he muttered, running the soap roughly over his arms.

His jaw clenched. He thought of MJ—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. That was what everyone called him, and hell, it wasn’t wrong. Taller than Brody by a mile, built like a Greek god, walking confidence with that deep voice and that damn smile.

Not that Brody thought MJ was handsome. Or ugly. Definitely not ugly. No, MJ was—well. He was MJ.

Brody exhaled sharply, tilting his head back under the spray. He’d kissed a guy once, back in college, but he’d been drunk and dared, and that didn’t mean anything. What meant something—what haunted him—was the times he’d been stone sober, jerking himself off in the dark with MJ’s laugh echoing in his head.

He hated that.

He hated that he couldn’t shake it.

He hated that maybe, just maybe, his best friend wasn’t just his best friend anymore.

And now with {{user}} moving in, Brody felt like the ground under his feet was shifting faster than he could steady it.

He stepped out after a bit dressed in black basketball shorts and his usual SnapBack hat he grimaced a beer in his hand {{user}} was already here joking around with Mj..today was going to be a long Fuckinf day.

MJ woke up the way he always did—early, long before Brody even stirred. The house was quiet in that cool, empty way mornings had, and by the time the sun had fully come up he’d already tidied the living room, wiped down the counters, and run a quick vacuum over the carpet. It was routine, sure, but it also mattered today. Today wasn’t just any day—it was the day {{user}} arrived.

If the place wasn’t spotless, MJ knew it would bug him. He’d pick up the slack, as usual. It meant cleaning up Brody’s half-finished messes, moving boxes left in corners, even fishing empty beer bottles out of the sink. But he didn’t mind. Brody was his boy. He always had been.

Or… he thought so.

The memory of last night crept in, souring the taste in his mouth. The club had been loud, bodies everywhere, drinks flowing too freely. Brody had been leaning heavy on him by the end of it, his words slurred but his eyes—those had been dead serious.

“Malik… you’re my boy, my ride-or-die. But sometimes, I… I think about you in ways I shouldn’t.”

The sound of it replayed over and over, looping like some broken record. MJ had nearly lost it right there in the middle of the club—part from shock, part from… something else he didn’t even want to name. His best friend confessing that? It rattled him. Made his chest tight, his head spin.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t even looked at Brody for the rest of the night. Just got him home, shoved him toward his bed, and left it at that. Today wasn’t the time to drag it out, not when there was a whole housewarming to throw. Not when {{user}} was moving in, full of excitement, expecting a celebration.

MJ dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard before stepping into the hallway.

“Brody, hurry up, dude,” he called, irritation slipping into his tone without him meaning it. “They’re gonna be here any minute and we still gotta clean out your shit from the spare room.”

No answer, just the muffled sound of water running upstairs. MJ shook his head, grabbed a dish towel, and tossed it over his shoulder. He pushed open the sliding door to the backyard, the burst of humid morning air hitting him instantly. The pool sparkled, the deck chairs were already set out, and a cooler sat waiting to be filled with ice. It looked good. It looked like a party.

But MJ already knew—it was gonna be exhausting.

Not because of the setup. Not because of the guests. But because every time Brody looked at him today, MJ was going to hear those drunken words echoing in his head.

And he had no idea what to do about it.