The Jock and His Gay Best Friend
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Me, Hunter Calloway, the guy who led the high school football team to state finals two years running, the dude with the cannon arm and the abs that make cheerleaders forget their names, moving in with a gay dude? Yeah. My gay best friend Percy Vale. Sounds like the setup for some viral TikTok drama Sounds like a setup for some bad porno or a campus prank gone wrong, right?. But fuck it, we've been bros since we were stealing beers from his dad's garage. What's the worst that could happen? A little awkwardness? Nah, it'll be fine. I'm straight as an arrow, and he's... well, Percy. Always the dramatic one, always quoting lines from movies nobody else had seen, always the first to spot when I had a crush on a girl. And I was always the one dragging him to pickup games so he wouldn’t spend every weekend rehearsing monologues in his bedroom mirror.
So when we both got into the same college and the housing office paired us as roommates in the freshman dorms, I didn’t even blink. Percy texted me a string of rainbow emojis and a “prepare your straight-boy soul, Hunter,” and I fired back with a middle-finger GIF. Business as usual. I’m straight as a goalpost. He’s Percy. What could possibly go sideways?
Move-in day hits like a linebacker. I roll up in my dad’s old F-150, bed loaded with football gear, protein shaker bottles, a mini fridge I definitely didn’t need, and three duffel bags stuffed with clothes that mostly smell like Axe body spray and grass stains. Percy’s already there, of course. He beat me by an hour because theater kids apparently wake up at dawn to claim the best side of the room. I find him standing in the middle of our tiny double, arms wide like he’s welcoming me to his kingdom. He’s wearing these stupid tight black jeans that hug his legs and a cropped band tee that shows a sliver of stomach. His dark hair is messy in that intentional way, and he’s got those wire-frame glasses that make him look like he’s about to direct an indie film.
“Hunter Calloway,” he announces in this exaggerated announcer voice, “welcome to the palace of fabulousness and questionable life choices.”
I drop my first bag with a thud. “Dude. You already claimed the left bed?”
“Obviously. Closer to the window for dramatic lighting during my monologues.”
I snort. “You’re gonna monologue in here? In front of me? While I’m trying to sleep off a hangover?”
“Exactly. You’ll be my captive audience. It’s called method acting.”
I shake my head and start unpacking. The room is classic freshman hell: two twin beds shoved against opposite walls, matching desks that look like they were built in the eighties, a shared closet that’s already half-full of Percy’s colorful hoodies and scarves, and a tiny bathroom that smells faintly of bleach and old pizza. I toss my football helmet on the desk like it’s a trophy and Percy immediately picks it up, puts it on, and strikes a pose.
“How do I look? Ready to sack some quarterbacks?”
“You look like a theater kid trying to cosplay a jock. Take it off before you dent it.”
He laughs and sets it down carefully. “Relax, Mr. Ego. I’m not gonna ruin your precious helmet. I respect the sacred jock artifacts.”
We fall into our usual rhythm fast. I haul in the rest of my shit while Percy organizes his side like it’s a stage set. He’s got posters of old Broadway shows taped up already, a string of fairy lights draped over his headboard, and a little plant he swears is going to survive college. I’ve got my playbook, a stack of protein bars, and a poster of Tom Brady that Percy immediately rolls his eyes at.
“Really, Hunter? Tom Brady? In 2026? You’re living in the past.”
“Tom Brady is timeless, bro. Show some respect.”
“Timeless like your taste in women, apparently. Still chasing cheerleader types?”
I grin and flex one arm just to mess with him. “Jealous?”
“Of your predictable type? Hard pass. I like a little variety.”
We banter like that the whole afternoon. It’s easy. It’s us. Every time I catch him staring a second too long while I’m bent over unpacking, I chalk it up to him being Percy. Dramatic. Observant. Gay. No big deal. And every time I notice how his jeans ride low when he stretches, or how his shirt rides up and shows that smooth strip of skin above his waistband, I tell myself it’s nothing. Just noticing. Bros notice shit about each other. Right?
By evening we’re both sweaty from hauling boxes and the dorm AC is fighting a losing battle. Percy strips off his shirt without a second thought, tosses it on his bed, and starts fanning himself with a play script.
“Jesus, it’s a sauna in here,” he says. “You gonna stand there gawking or help me find the fan?”
I blink. His chest is lean, defined in that wiry theater-kid way. Not bulky like mine, but cut. Flat stomach, faint happy trail disappearing into those low jeans. My mouth goes dry for half a second before I snap out of it.
“Dude. Put a shirt on. You’re gonna blind me with all that pale skin.”
He smirks and flexes dramatically. “This is art, Hunter. Appreciate it.”
I laugh it off and dig through my bag, but my brain glitches. Why the fuck did I just stare? It’s Percy. My best friend. The same guy who cried when we lost the championship game senior year and I hugged him in the locker room like it was nothing. The same guy who used to sleep over and steal all the blankets. This is normal. Right?
We finally get the fan going, order pizza, and crash on our beds with the door open so the hallway noise drifts in. Percy’s sprawled out in just his jeans now, one leg dangling off the mattress, scrolling through his phone. I’m in gym shorts and no shirt because why bother. It’s just Percy.
The pizza arrives and we devour it like animals, grease on our fingers, laughing about dumb high-school memories.
“Remember when you tried to ask out Sarah Jenkins and puked on her shoes?” Percy says through a mouthful.
“Fuck you. That was food poisoning.”
“Sure it was. You were so nervous your stomach rebelled.”
I chuck a crust at him. It bounces off his chest. He picks it up and takes another bite like nothing happened.
“You’re disgusting,” I say.
“That’s why we are friends.”
We keep going like that until the pizza’s gone and the room smells like pepperoni. Percy stands up, stretches again, arms over his head. His jeans slip another inch. I see the waistband of black boxer briefs. My dick twitches. Just a little. Barely noticeable. I shift on the bed and pretend to check my phone.
Percy notices. Of course he does.
“You good, Hunter?”
“Yeah. Just tired from hauling your dramatic ass’s furniture.”
He grins. “You hauled one lamp. I did the heavy lifting.”
“Bullshit.”
He walks over to the closet, back to me, and starts shimmying out of his jeans. Right there. No warning. Jeans drop to his ankles and he kicks them off. Now he’s in nothing but those black briefs. They hug his ass perfectly. Round, firm. Fat and nice. Fuck. Why am I cataloging this?
He turns around, totally casual, scratching his stomach. “You mind if I shower first? I feel gross.”
I swallow. “Go for it. I’ll... unpack more.”
He grabs a towel and a change of clothes, then pauses at the bathroom door. “You sure you’re okay? You’re staring like I grew a second head.”
I force a laugh. “Nah. Just wondering how someone so skinny has a fat ass like that. Must be all the jazz hands.”
He cackles. “Jealousy is a disease, Calloway. Get well soon.”
The bathroom door clicks shut. Water starts running.
I sit there on my bed, heart thumping harder than it should. My dick is half-hard now. Not raging, just... interested. I stare at the ceiling and try to logic it out. It’s not like my dick knows that I am staring at a dude’s ass.
It’s just a body. Percy’s body. My best friend’s body. I’ve seen him shirtless a million times. Why does it feel different now?
Because we’re living together. Alone. No parents. No teammates walking in. Just us.
I run a hand over my face. This is stupid. I’m straight. I like pussy. I like cheer skirts and lipstick and girls who giggle when I flex and dramatically take my shirt off. I don’t like... whatever the fuck this twitch in my shorts is about.
The shower shuts off. Percy comes out a minute later in nothing but a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets on his shoulders. Hair damp and curling at the ends. He smells like that citrus body wash he always uses.
“Your turn, jock boy,” he says, flopping onto his bed. The towel parts just enough that I catch a glimpse of his smooth and toned thighs.
I stand up fast. Too fast. My shorts tent a little. I angle away so he doesn’t see his straight friend’s boner.
“Be out in ten,” I mutter, grabbing my own towel and bolting for the bathroom.
Under the shower, I try to wash the weirdness away. Soap. Shampoo. Deep breaths. But my dick stays half-hard, traitor that it is. I grip it once, give it a slow stroke, thinking about Sarah Jenkins or that blonde from orientation who was clearly giving me the eyes. But the image flickers and it’s Percy’s smirk instead. His ass in those briefs. The way the towel clung to his wet body.
I groan and punch the tile.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s just curiosity. Living with a gay dude for the first time. Seeing him naked-adjacent. It’s normal to notice. Doesn’t mean anything.
I finish showering, wrap the towel tight, and step out.
Percy’s under his covers now, reading some script on his phone, fairy lights glowing soft around him. He looks up.
“Feel better?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Much.”
I drop the towel and pull on boxers quick. He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t make a joke. Just smiles that small, knowing smile.
“Night, Hunter.”
“Night, Perce.”
I climb into bed. Lights out. The room goes quiet except for the hum of the fan and the distant thump of bass from some party down the hall.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, dick still traitorously interested.
Little did I know, move-in day was just the beginning. The real chaos hadn’t even started yet.