The sky, which had been a bruised purple, finally buckled. At first, it was just a few heavy, solitary drops that splattered against the motorcycle's windshield like liquid lead. But within seconds, the clouds tore open, unleashing a relentless, silver sheet of rain that blurred the world into a grey smudge.
The wind whipped the water into Mel's face, stinging his eyes. He tightened his grip on Derrick's waist, his fingers digging into the leather of the jacket. The fabric was already slick and cold.
"Derrick!" Mel shouted over the roar of the engine and the drumming of the downpour. "We should find shade! We're going to get soaked!"
Derrick didn't slow down. If anything, he leaned further into the curve of the road, the bike tilting dangerously low. "What's the matter, Mel? Afraid of a little water?" His voice came back through the wind, sounding unnervingly exhilarated.
"You'll get sick!" Mel cried out, his teeth beginning to chatter as the moisture seeped through his school shirt, pinning the thin fabric to his skin.
"I won't," Derrick barked back, a jagged laugh lost to the wind. "It's good to wash in the rain once in a while. Feels like you're actually alive, doesn't it?"
Mel didn't feel alive; he felt terrified. He felt the raw power of the machine beneath him and the terrifyingly solid body of the boy he was clinging to. As they reached a fork in the road—the path that led toward Mel's modest neighborhood—Derrick didn't turn. He veered left, heading toward an older, more industrial part of town where the buildings leaned against one another like tired giants.
They pulled up in front of a weathered brick complex. Derrick killed the engine, and the sudden silence was filled only by the heavy, rhythmic splashing of the rain.
"This isn't my house," Mel whispered, sliding off the bike, his legs shaking.
"No," Derrick said, pulling off his helmet. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, droplets of water tracing the sharp lines of his jaw. "But I told you—you wanted shade. My place was three minutes away. Yours is ten. You'd be an icicle by the time we got there."
He gestured toward a narrow metal door. Mel hesitated at the threshold of the building, the dim yellow light of the hallway looking like a trap.
"What are you doing?" Derrick asked, pausing with his hand on the doorframe. He looked back at Mel, his eyes dark and unreadable in the storm. "What are you afraid of now? I don't bite, Mel. At least, not unless I'm provoked."
Mel swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the rain. He stepped inside, following Derrick up a flight of creaking stairs to the very top floor. Derrick fumbled with a key and pushed open a door to an apartment that was jarringly small. It was a bachelor's cell—a bed in the corner, a small kitchenette, and stacks of sports gear. It felt cramped, intimate, and smelled intensely of Derrick.
"It's small," Mel noted, trying to find a spot to stand where he wouldn't drip on the hardwood.
"It's mine," Derrick replied. He shut the door and leaned against it, watching Mel. "And for the record... I've never brought anyone else here. You're the first."
Mel's heart performed a slow, heavy roll in his chest. "Why? You don't even know me, Derrick. We met this morning."
"I told you," Derrick said, stepping closer, his presence expanding to fill the tiny room. "You're my friend. Isn't that what friends do? They share their spaces."
"That's... that's a very shallow reason for someone you've known for eight hours," Mel whispered, unable to look away.
Derrick didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the hem of his drenched leather jacket and peeled it off, tossing it into a corner. Then, his hands went to the buttons of his shirt. Mel's breath hitched. He wanted to turn away, to be polite, to preserve his own sanity, but his feet felt rooted to the floor.
Derrick moved with a casual, predatory grace, shedding his wet clothes until he stood stark naked from the waist up.
The sight was devastating. Derrick wasn't just an athlete; he was a masterpiece of functional muscle. The rain had left his skin glistening under the dim apartment light, tracing the deep grooves of his abdominals and the broad, powerful swell of his chest. He looked like something forged in a fire, then cooled in the rain.
Mel felt a wave of heat crash over him that had nothing to do with the weather. His face went a deep, burning crimson. He jerked his gaze toward a poster on the far wall, his hands trembling at his sides. He was a closeted boy in a tiny room with a half-naked god, and the walls felt like they were shrinking.
Derrick didn't comment on Mel's distress. He walked to a small dresser and pulled out a bundle of grey fabric. He tossed it at Mel, the heavy cotton hitting Mel in the chest.
"Change," Derrick commanded. "Those are my gym clothes. They'll be big on you, but they're dry."
Mel clutched the clothes—a pair of oversized sweatpants and a thick hoodie. He looked at the closed door of the tiny bathroom, then back at Derrick, who was currently drying his hair with a towel, his muscles rippling with every movement. Mel wondered if Derrick expected him to just strip right there. The thought made his head spin.
Derrick caught his look and pointed a thumb toward the small door in the corner.
"Go on," Derrick said, his voice dropping into that low, humming tone. "Use the bathroom. Unless you want to stay in those wet clothes and catch the fever you were so worried about."
Mel didn't wait. He bolted for the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against it, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He could hear Derrick moving around in the main room, just inches away. He looked down at the clothes in his hands. They were huge, smelling of the same cologne and clean laundry that defined Derrick's scent.
As Mel began to peel off his own soaked uniform, he realized with a sinking, terrifying certainty: he wasn't just in Derrick's apartment. He was in his world. And he had no idea how he was ever going to leave it.