Pt. 1
Nico

The glow of the city poured through the windows, the skyline beyond lost in haze. Light flickered across Nico’s skin, but he still didn’t look, his arm still shielding his eyes. His thoughts raced, twisting around every possible reaction Jordan might have. He felt like he was waiting for a verdict he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear.

On top of him, Jordan didn’t move at first. Then came the faint sound of a breath leaving his nose, a subtle huff that could’ve been amusement, surprise, or both. 

“Wow. Efficient.”

Nico let out a strangled, mortified groan. “I’m gonna walk into traffic.”

Jordan’s short laugh was soft, maddeningly casual. Nico could feel the vibrations of it through the couch cushions, and somehow that made everything worse. 

“I’m actually going to die.”

“If you’re going to die, at least die with confidence.”

The stickiness in his boxers was suddenly unbearable. He felt sweaty and cold all at once, like his body couldn’t decide whether it wanted to explode or shut down. “Do you think if I jump out the window, I’ll land on something sharp?”

“We’re pretty high up. Odds are decent.”

Silence. Or maybe Nico’s brain just shut off for a second to spare him. And then, cutting through it, Jordan asked something that made Nico’s stomach flip with dread:

“How old are you?”

There couldn’t be a worse question. Not on this planet. Not in this galaxy. Not even in some distant, far-off corner of the universe. 

The humiliation still pulsed hot and steady beneath his skin, and his heart had barely stopped jackhammering. The couch shifted slightly under him. Jordan was moving. Probably standing. Maybe pacing and silently regretting every decision that led him to this exact moment.

“Old enough to know this is going to haunt me forever.” 

“That’s not an age.”

The comment should’ve been snide, but it was just dry. He heard the faint sound of glass being set down on the coffee table. Water, probably. He confirmed it when he risked a glance from beneath his arm.

Jordan returned to the couch and sat back down, like Nico hadn’t just imploded in the most personal and mortifying way possible. Nico flinched a little when Jordan grabbed his ankles, but Jordan just lifted his legs and draped them over his lap. He rested his hand on Nico’s thigh and began stroking it gently.

“How old are you really?”

Nico thought about lying. The words hovered, ready on his tongue. Something older, safer. But they tasted sour before he even said them. 

He sighed and slowly pushed himself up on his elbows, peeling his arm away from his eyes. Every muscle felt stiff, like shame had calcified in his bones. He forced himself to look Jordan in the face. 

“I’m turning eighteen in just a couple of months,” he said finally, realizing it sounded much worse than if he’d just given a number. His voice was low and unsteady, like it had to squeeze past the lump in his throat. “I’m not gonna tell anyone. You're not gonna be in any trouble,” he added quickly, almost rushing the words out.

Jordan looked as if his mind was buffering, and Nico’s stomach churned. He hated that. Hated the lag, the emptiness in Jordan’s silence. He couldn’t tell if Jordan was trying to find the right words, or if he’d already decided to say nothing at all. Did Jordan regret it? Was he disgusted? Angry? 

“I’m sorry,” Jordan said at last. “I shouldn’t have invited you over.”

The words didn’t land like a punch, Nico didn’t reel back or break. But they did cut, sharp and small, like paper slicing across the skin. Fast, almost invisible, but stinging all the same.

He swallowed hard, the motion thick and dry, like trying to force down glass. “Do you want me to leave?” 

Jordan’s gaze had dropped to his hands as they worked slowly over Nico’s thighs, like he was thinking something through. Not in a lingering or intimate way, but distracted, like his fingers were pacing while his mind worked through something complicated. Like this wasn’t a moment between two people, but an equation he was trying to solve in his head. 

Nico watched him, studied every line of his face for a clue, but Jordan’s look suggested he was already halfway out the door. 

“What about the song?”

Nico’s mind momentarily blanked. The sudden shift in subject knocked his brain sideways. The words didn’t compute at all at first, but were just sounds without context.

“Wh–what— Now?” he asked, brows drawing in. He felt off-balance, like he'd stepped onto a floor that wasn’t where he left it.

Jordan nodded toward the guitar leaning against the couch. “Well, the deal was you’d come play something for me, not squirt all over my couch. Now I feel like you definitely owe me a song at least.”

Nico felt his face go hot again, blood roaring back into his cheeks like it had been waiting for permission. He couldn’t tell if Jordan was joking or just pathologically unbothered. 

Before he could even begin to string a response together, Jordan leaned forward, snatched the crumpled shirt off the floor and tossed it at him without ceremony. The shirt landed in Nico’s lap with a soft thump. He caught it automatically, fingers curling around the soft cotton as he blinked down at it. It still held the warmth of Jordan’s skin, and the sensation made something in Nico’s chest tighten with discomfort.

“Thanks.” 

Nico lingered for a beat, unsure of what to do with himself. Finally, with a soft groan more of resignation than effort, he shifted, fumbling to clean himself up beneath the waistband of his boxers. The motion was stiff, almost robotic, every part of it awkward. There was nothing graceful left in the moment, nothing romantic. Nothing remotely sexy. Just a raw, humiliating kind of vulnerability, exposed and unflattering in the worst way. 

When it was done, he balled up the shirt and dropped it on the floor beside the couch with a kind of quiet finality. His eyes landed on his T-shirt, and he lunged for it like it might offer some comfort. He tugged it over his head in one smooth motion. As it settled into place, he felt a subtle shift, like armor sliding into place. Still raw, but a little less exposed.

He leaned forward, stretching across the couch toward his guitar in its stand. The instrument stood there, untouched and serene. Blessedly oblivious to the wreckage of its owner’s evening.

Nico sat down cross-legged on the couch, and he ran a hand lightly along the fretboard, grounding himself in the tactile familiarity of it. His fingers found the strings almost on instinct, and he let out a shaky breath as he plucked a quiet chord.

The sound was soft, tentative. Barely there at first, like it, too, was unsure of its place in the room.

Everything about this was absurd. He was sitting there, pantsless with messy underwear, in an apartment that looked like the furniture probably had a trust fund and security details. And now, apparently, he was about to give a private concert to a beautiful man whose last name he didn’t even know.

Nico couldn’t help but smile to himself at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.  

He strummed again. A slow, simple progression, something easy and loose. His shoulders started to unknot. The tension didn’t disappear, but it softened, fading at the fringes, dulled slightly by the music curling into the corners of the room.

Nico could feel Jordan’s eyes on him but he kept his own gaze locked on the guitar in his lap. It was safer there, among strings and frets and muscle memory. The pressure in his chest hadn't fully eased, but the familiar weight of the instrument gave his hands something to do while his mind tried to crawl out of the awkward wreckage of the last half hour. He let his fingers move, coaxing out soft chords like testing the air for stability. The notes vibrated against his ribs, a hum he could almost mistake for calm. Something started to settle inside him. Not peace exactly, but a rhythm he could ride.

Then, without quite meaning to, he found a melody. Simple, a little crooked, but still there. And then the words followed, not rehearsed or polished, but just pulled from the frayed nerves and messy warmth still echoing inside his head. And boxers. 

“Started out like lightning, full of spark
But zipped right past and landed in the dark
Zoomed too fast and had to go 
Hit the peak but forgot the show” 

His voice was low, half-sung, half-muttered, the kind of tone you used when telling a secret with a smile: 

“Awkward and shy 
Half dressed, wondering why 
Guess next time I’ll pace the race 
And maybe stick around for the whole chase” 

It wasn’t perfect, or even a full song. The melody was straightforward but solid, and the lyrics landed with more truth than he’d expected. Like something he hadn’t meant to share out loud but somehow needed to. 

“Didn’t mean to write my name in chalk
On marble floors I shouldn’t even walk 
Hoping I don’t look like a fool
Trying to make disaster sound kinda cool”