Chapter Text
Bradbrad86: Bin waitin 4 u 2 cum ovr n sit w me ❤️❤️❤️❤️
Jake sighs through his nose and turns back to his professor at the front of the room, slipping his phone into his pocket, really trying not to laugh. As a rule, he tries not to look at it in class, but he's waiting to hear if his soccer practice got moved, and Coach always texts instead of emails. Instead, he's treated to yet another message on Snapchat, of all things.
As another rule, he doesn't communicate over Snapchat, because he's an adult (sort of), and can text like a human being. But there's something about Bradley Bradshaw that has him continuing to open the messages when his phone gives him the notification. Often, that something has him responding to Bradshaw, too.
It's not just that Bradshaw's an absolute smoke show, but that helps (and he is: dark hair that curls so perfectly out from under the baseball cap perpetually worn on his head, big brown cow eyes with those long lashes, a straight, wide nose; hell, even the mustache does it for Jake, though he'd never admit it). It's not Bradshaw's impressive ass in those baseball pants, or the fact that he's known for throwing the best parties in Alpha Beta Gamma (colloquially known as Alphabet, since the letters are in alphabetical order) history, or that his fastball is downright incredible. It's definitely not that their frats are rivals, either. Jake's not into the whole forbidden friendship/relationship thing that Fraternity Standards wants them to uphold. That's fucking dumb.
No, it's not any of that that has Jake continuing to entertain the little flirty Snap messages that Bradshaw has been sending him since freshman year when they were paired together for a project in one of their 101s.
It's his persistence.
Never once has Jake shown up to one of the parties Bradshaw has invited him to, or agreed to any of the dates he's been asked on, or even responded to the booty calls he's received, but Bradshaw's never wavered. And it's not, like, creepy. Or if it is, it doesn't creep Jake out, even though maybe it should.
In truth, Jake finds it… oddly endearing.
There's something kind of sweet about Bradshaw still messaging him at 2:49AM and saying "cum n get it gorjus" over Snap that will always have Jake typing out a "no ❤️ Drink some water!" in response before he falls asleep. He'll wake up to yet another message with some combination of heart emojis and kissy faces, and it always makes him smile.
Maybe it's just that: the weird messages always make him smile.
So this latest Snap has him fighting a grin in his lecture, squishing his mouth to the side so it doesn't widen. When Jake glances across the hall, he sees that Bradshaw isn't even pretending to pay attention. Instead he's fully staring at Jake, and his face breaks into a huge smile when he catches his eye. Like, open-mouth smiling, pleased and shocked joy written all over his face. Today, his UVA cap is backwards, curls poking out from the bottom. He's got on a gray t-shirt that makes his biceps look good, as well as black running shorts and flip flops. Jake hates those fucking flip flops. They're not at the beach, why wear the flip flops?
There's a cup beside Bradshaw's closed laptop, something bright orange. Bradshaw points to it, then to Jake, then to his phone. Not very subtle.
Jake slips his phone from his pocket once more, watches Bradshaw's bitmoji pop up as he types.
Bradbrad86: smuthie! mango n pineapl so my cum tastes yummy 4 u! ❤️🫵🏼
A laugh threatens to escape from Jake's chest. He's ridiculous.
Jake: ??? ew ???
Bradbrad86: 😔😔😔💔💔💔
Jake: Do u need me to send u the notes? Ur not even trying to focus
Bradbrad86: 😍😍😍❤️🩹❤️🩹❤️🩹🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️
This time, Jake does let the little smile spread over his face. He gives Bradshaw an indulgent eye roll, pointing to their professor at the front of the room. Bradshaw smiles back at him, dramatically opening his laptop and beginning to type. Based on the exaggerated movements of his hands, he's just typing gibberish.
Jake's still smiling when he turns back to his own notes. The rest of the lecture passes quickly, mostly introductions to the course information since it's still the first week of classes. When Jake finally receives the text he was waiting for from Coach Simpson, he's oddly disappointed that it's not another message from Bradshaw. Instead it confirms that practice is on the East field at 5.
They've got a game tomorrow at 4, and they're off from practice Sunday, so Jake will be in attendance to host Lambda Epsilon Omega's first party of the semester when the game is done. There isn't a theme for this one yet, but he has some pretty good ideas lined up for the rest of their throwdowns. Bradshaw and his Alphabet buddies have been known to show up to their house every so often for parties, even though technically they aren't supposed to party with other frats. But Jake doesn't mind; him and Bradshaw are both their frat presidents, so they can mostly skirt around the rules as long as Standards doesn't catch wind of their co-fraternization.
And plus, Bradshaw and his friends are pretty fun. Two of them, Mickey and Reuben, are on the soccer team with Jake, and they're good friends. Mickey always brings extra pong balls, and Bradshaw usually comes bearing extra of Jake's favorite boxed white wine. Bradshaw's also the only person who can really put up a fight against Jake at pong, pool, or keg stands. Jake's still the reigning champion for the longest keg stand in their year, but Bradshaw's usually pretty close.
Speak of the devil— Bradshaw is waiting for him at the door to the lecture hall with a huge, bright smile on his face. "Hi!" he says happily.
"Hey," Jake says back.
"You coming to the De Niro party tonight?" Bradshaw asks, walking with Jake down the hallway.
Jake holds in a laugh. "The what?"
"Y'know, the De Niro party! I texted you the invite yesterday," Bradshaw says, nudging his arm with an elbow.
"Is that what that was? I got hung up on the emojis," Jake confesses.
Bradshaw's laugh is genuine. "Look at it again, c'mon!"
So Jake pulls his phone from his pocket. He pulls up the message he'd received from Bradshaw the night before, already laughing at it. His name has been spelled wrong in Jake's phone since they exchanged numbers years ago, and he's always meant to change it but has never gotten around to it, so Brady it shall stay.
Brady Bradshaw: YOUR 🫵🏼❤️ invited! 2 2️⃣🥈 an Alphabet 🔠 party!!!! 🎉👌 Tonight's 😩🌑 theme is 😀💦 the 💡👏 man, 👨 the 🌊😱 myth, the legend: ☠ Robert De Niro 🤴🏽🤴🏽🤴🏽. Dress 👗 as a 🅰 character 🎭🎭👺👺 from a 🅰️ De Niro movie 🎞💯!!! Keg provided 🍺🍺🍺 but 🍑🍑 BYO if your 👉 picky 🍷🍸🥂🍾🥃 Starts ↔🏁🎬 at Alphabet 🔠 at 10 🕙!! 🔟 Be 🐝🐝🐝 there!!!
Jake's jaw hangs open, and he has to pull over on the side of the hallway, out of the flow of students, to read it properly and then look at Bradshaw incredulously. The emoji usage is honestly kind of impressive, and so is the theme idea. Maybe a little difficult to execute, but definitely creative. Jake and his social chair might just have to cook up something similar. They already have a party themed as the Bear coming up next week (Chef Whites or Skimpy Servers), but maybe an actor's filmography for the following week would be fun.
He has to hand it to Bradshaw, that's pretty smart. It's common knowledge that he's a fifth year senior, but Jake supposes that just also means he's had more experience with party themes. Plus, nobody's life exists on a set timeline. Bradshaw might be an idiot, but at least he's still trying to earn his degree.
"Did you come up with that theme?" he asks.
Bradshaw nods. "Sure did! I love the Intern."
"The Intern?" Jake repeats.
"Yeah! The De Niro movie with Anne Hathaway? She's this badass CEO, he becomes her intern and her friend, it's so cute," he explains. "I cry like, the whole time I watch."
And that… is not what Jake was expecting.
A typical frat guy would've said, like, Taxi Driver, or Godfather 2, something suitably stereotypically masculine. Here's Bradshaw with a feel-good comedy where De Niro's well into his sixties. It's sweet.
"I've never seen it," Jake says.
"Wanna come over after practice next week and watch it? I know you have some home games this week, we'd make it an early night," Bradshaw asks, eyes practically sparkling with excitement.
Jake raises an eyebrow. "You keeping up with my schedule?"
"Of course! I'll be at all the games I can this season. Watching you kick the shit out of offenders is so hot," Bradshaw says. He's smiling, all of his sharp white teeth on display.
Jake's cheeks heat. "Oh. Uh, we'll see."
"Okay," Bradshaw says brightly, not at all discouraged by his non-answer. "Can I walk you home? You got practice tonight?"
They start walking towards the door out of the building and towards the parking lot. Summer in Virginia is a hot, sticky thing, and it's determined to make all of UVA's students sweat between classes. The humidity comes for them before they're even outside, hitting them with a burst of warm, wet air as other students push the door open on their way out. A red convertible idles by the curb just outside, top down, with a long, toned brown arm hanging from it.
"Hey! Get in, loser!" Javy calls, grinning.
Jake turns to Bradshaw, who is still smiling benevolently. "I've got a ride already, but thanks!"
"'Course," Bradshaw says. "So? Will I see you tonight?"
"Oh, right. Uh, can I let you know later?" he asks.
"Sure! Go on, don't make Machado wait!" Bradshaw nudges Jake gently. His skin is warm. "Snap me later?"
"Stop making me use Snapchat, I'm begging you," Jake laughs.
Bradshaw's pink mouth drops open a little. "What's wrong with Snap?"
"We're too old for that shit," he says, nudging him back.
"But we have such a long streak!" Bradshaw says. His pretty face is caught somewhere between joyful and offended.
"Bradshaw," Jake says, "I am too old to be caring about shit like Snapchat streaks. Can't I just text you?"
"Wow," he says, smile spreading over his face in full. "Texting. This is a big step for us."
That has a laugh bursting from Jake's chest, joyful and surprised. "I'm leaving," he says, so he doesn't tell him how achingly sweet that was. "Seeya soon!"
He turns and heads for Javy's car. Javy's grinning at him, eyebrows waggling. Music blasts from his speakers, and Jake knows enough about UVA's star pitcher Bradley Bradshaw to know that it's his batting walk-up song. Javy's an ass.
"Lookin' forward to it," Bradshaw calls after him.
When Jake climbs into the car, he looks to Bradshaw one last time to wave goodbye. Bradshaw is smiling so, so brightly at him. He's leaning up against the brick wall of the building, holding his backpack strap, one foot crossed over the other. Yeah, there's something about him, alright.
"You gonna give poor Brad a chance this year?" Javy asks as he pulls out of the parking lot. "And don't give me that 'I don't owe him anything' BS you say every time. The guy's obsessed with you. You know like, Barbie has a good day every day, but Ken only has a good day when Barbie looks at him? You're Barbie. Brad's Ken."
"And what—"
"Like, when you say hi to him on campus, he comes into practice, like, skipping," Javy explains.
Jake and Javy have been friends since their Accounting 101 class freshman year. They pledged Lambda together that first semester, and have been thick as thieves ever since. Additionally, Javy's on the baseball team, so Jake's always hearing about Bradshaw's antics. It also means Jake knows the baseball schedule.
"Mhm," Jake says, "and when he tells me to 'cum and get it,' spelled c-u-m, I should, in fact, go and get it?"
Javy laughs, pulling a uey out of the lot and onto the main drag. The two of them don't live in the main Lambda house, and their quality of life is better for it. That house contains very little studying, and far too much drinking and smoking and partying. Instead, they're two blocks behind it, close enough that Jake can get there quickly in case there's some kind of emergency that requires him to step in as president, but far enough that they can't hear the music on weekends. Their place is a little clapboard white home with a willow tree out front. Jake and Javy live there with three other guys: Logan, Billy, and Brigham.
The three of them are already outside on foldable beach chairs, each holding a Miller Lite. Billy's fully reclined, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it over and over.
Parking in Charlottesville is pretty bad, but they're lucky enough to have a driveway at the house. Javy parks the car and they amble out, greeting their roommates. All of them are in Lambda, and all hold a position as social chairs.
"And what, pray tell, are we up to?" Jake asks.
"There's a dog walker who comes past here at four," Logan says.
"Cutest fucking dogs," Billy calls. "She's this cute little old lady and she let us play with them last week, so we're waiting for her this week."
Jake and Javy stand over the other three, purposefully blocking the sunshine they're clearly trying to catch. Billy nails Javy in the stomach with the tennis ball, and all five of them dissolve into peals of laughter for a little while. By the time they recover, there is, in fact, a little old lady coming up the sidewalk towed by several dogs. All three of them are giant, fluffy white things, some kind of sled dogs. They love the attention, and the woman walking them lets the guys pet them to their hearts' content.
When she finally walks off, Jake heads inside to get ready for practice.
When training is done, and he's sitting spread-eagle in the cool grass, muscles pleasantly tired, Jake checks his phone and finds several texts from Bradshaw.
Brady Bradshaw: Hihi!!
Brady Bradshaw: honstly dnt evn wry abt a costum i'll mke sure u get in bby
Brady Bradshaw: u'll look gorjus in whatevr u ware
Jake: You sure?
Brady Bradshaw: OMG hi!!
Brady Bradshaw: Yayayaya noooooooo wories u cud cum naked n i'll get u in
Brady Bradshaw: wait plssssss cum naked
Jake is laughing at his phone, shaking his head as he sends a laugh emoji and shuts it off. His hair is damp with sweat, drops rolling down his neck slowly. Mickey tosses him a Gatorade from the cooler and he catches it easily, sucking down a few sips of cold Blue. When he's done, he tosses it back to Mickey.
"Mick," he says, "what's the deal with this Alphabet party tonight? De Niro themed?"
Mickey's eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, it was Brad's idea! We're all dressing as different De Niros. I'm going as Goodfellas De Niro."
Jake turns to Reuben, who's on an impressive juggling streak with a soccer ball. "Who's yours?"
"Meet the Parents," Reuben says, tongue poking out of his mouth in his focus. "Got a— oops— got a fake Jinxy Cat too."
"Impressive," Jake allows. "Y'all gonna let me in if I don't dress up?"
Mickey's laugh is loud. "You could come in an 'I Hate Alpha Beta Gamma' shirt and Brad would kiss you on the mouth just for showing up."
"That's my Plan B outfit," Jake says.
"What's A?" Reuben asks.
"Nude," he says.
"Jesus," Mickey says, whistling. "Trying to kill our poor Brad?"
"Maybe. What's his deal?" Jake asks.
For all the messages, and the handful of classes, Jake doesn't know Bradley very well. He's a fifth year senior, star pitcher, all that. But outside of that, Jake doesn't even know his major.
"Brad's great! Honestly man, you gotta let him take you out sometime. He'd seriously wine and dine you," Mickey tells him. "He's so funny."
"Yeah? We had a project together once freshman year, but we've never really, like, talked," Jake says.
"Come by tonight! You'll seriously make his year," Reuben says. He loses control of the soccer ball and it hits Neil in the crotch. Neil doubles over, groaning. "Sorry! Oh fuck, sorry!"
When Neil has recovered, Reuben comes and sits by Jake and Mickey. "Seriously though," Mickey says. "You should come!"
"Maybe I will," Jake says, considering.
In the end, Javy convinces him to go.
They're sitting on the back deck, sipping on Millers and talking party themes and events for the semester. It's a warm night, and they can hear music from upstairs, probably the other guys getting ready to go out to the bars. Jake's got work at the library at ten tomorrow and the game at four, so it can't be a crazy night, but he's intrigued. Plus, he was already partially sold on the idea of getting into a party without having to dress for the theme, but he's also interested in seeing how Bradshaw rolls out the red carpet for him. In four years, he's never once been to an Alphabet party.
Even though Bradshaw said he doesn't have to dress up, Jake feels the need to put in a tiny bit of effort. There's a sweater in his closet that he wears for interviews that he pulls on over a button-down to look like De Niro in Meet the Parents. Reuben won't care that Jake uses his idea. In fact, he'll probably be excited about it. Already, Jake's smiling thinking about how Bradshaw's going to be pleased as punch to see him.
Jake and Javy put away a few beers as they get ready, and he's got a bit of a buzz going as they set out on their walk. Javy's dressed as De Niro in Heat, in a white button-down and gray suit jacket. Both of them have shorts and sneakers on bottom, though, and Jake's sweating through his costume. He figures he can ditch the sweater in Bradshaw's room if he really needs to. God knows Bradshaw would treat a piece of his clothing like Jake's given him a Fabergé egg to take care of.
The Alphabet house is the epitome of American frat life: a huge, imposing brick structure, A-frame roofing, and long, white columns. Large, black Greek letters spell out Alpha, Beta, Gamma on each column. The house is alive with people and music: the windows flash different colors, and there's a line out the door to get in. Jake spots several Taxi Driver style mohawks. Daft Punk is playing, floating over the front yard with bright synth and pumping bass.
Normally, frats impose some sort of sexist rule of who they let in: if they let in ten girls, they'll let in two guys, so the "ratio" of guys to girls at their party is more preferable for straight guys looking to pick up. This doesn't seem to be the case at Alphabet though: it seems, as they get closer to the front of the line, that the only criteria on being let in is the quality of one's costume. If it weren't for his connection with the frat president, or the fact that he is a frat president, Jake would be a little nervous about getting inside.
As it stands, though, Mickey's the one checking over costumes, and his face spreads into a pleased smile when he sees Jake and Javy. Both of them raise their beers (roadies) towards Mickey. Mickey's in a gray suit, De Niro's mole painted onto his face rather impressively.
"Oh, shit! What's good, Lambda boys?" Mickey brings them both in for a quick bro hug, and then pulls another brother aside to take his place as costume czar. "You look good! Let's go find Brad, he's gonna shit that you actually came, Seresin!"
It's not hard to find Bradshaw, once they get inside.
They pass through the crush of people and into the living room, where people are crowded around a pong table.
Bradshaw is in a full suit, actually kind of a nice one, over a pink dress shirt with a red tie. The suit fits well; Jake can tell despite the fact that the shirt and jacket are entirely unbuttoned. His sweaty torso is visible, tanned and dotted with little freckles and moles. Bradshaw's cheeks are flushed bright, blotchy red, and he's hollering something into an honest to god bullhorn.
Jake does not look at his abs, thank you.
"Who's next, who's next?" Bradshaw's yelling over the music. "Pong tournament, pairs of two, step right—" he spots Jake, and cuts off. His face breaks into a shocked, happy smile. "You're here!" he shouts into the bullhorn.
Jake's already laughing, shaking his head at the bullhorn. "Hey!"
Bradshaw steps off of the coffee table he was standing on. "Hi!" he says, still talking into the bullhorn. Jake winces, and Bradshaw's eyes widen. "Shit, sorry," he says, normally this time.
"Quite the party," Jake observes.
Bradshaw's smile is blindingly bright. "Thanks! You look great. Here, let's get you a drink," he says, swiping the empty can from Jake's hand.
Bradshaw tosses the beer into a nearby trash can and takes Jake's hand in his. His palm is big and warm, fingers lacing between Jake's like they've been holding hands for years. When he pulls Jake in the direction of the kitchen, Jake follows him, waving goodbye to a very amused Javy as he goes. People greet them both as they move through the house, and although no one comments on their joined hands, Jake notices a few interested looks.
The kitchen, when they get there, is busy. Bradshaw leads Jake over to the fridge, which is covered in caution tape and sticky notes that say "ALPHABET BROTHERS ONLY. DO NOT TOUCH!!". He swipes the tape aside and opens the door to reveal an impressive array of beer, seltzers, and several boxes of wine.
"I got you wine! You like Franzia, right? Mick said you're a crisp white wine guy," Bradshaw says, pointing to the box.
Jake is oddly touched. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, man. That's really nice of you."
Bradshaw smiles with a face like the sun. "Of course! Gotta keep you coming back, right?"
Jake accepts the solo cup that Bradshaw fills to the brim with cool, crisp, crappy wine. Bradshaw pours himself one too, and they do a little toast to Robert De Niro. Jake's hand feels weirdly empty without Bradley's palm in his.
"I like the pink," Jake says, motioning to Bradshaw's shirt with his cup.
"Oh," Bradshaw says. His cheeks flush the same shade as his shirt. "It used to be white. I washed a Phillies jersey with some whites and turned them all pink."
Jake snorts. "Very nice. Well, not the Phillies part. Are you from PA?"
"My dad's family is. Grew up a big Philly sports fan," Bradshaw explains. "You're from Texas, right?"
"Born and raised," Jake says, tipping an imaginary cowboy hat.
"That's awesome! I've only been there for baseball stuff, never anything cool." Before Jake can argue that traveling for sports is definitely cool, Bradshaw pushes forth. "Lemme give you the tour! Here, c'mon."
Taking his hand again, Bradshaw leads Jake through the crowd in the kitchen and back into the living room, narrating as they go. The Alphabet house is pretty similar to the Lambda house, as frats go. A living room filled with people, a dining room with the chairs cleared out and the table being used for a large, rowdy game of slap cup, as well as the music setup. Reuben is behind a huge set of speakers in there, fiddling with his laptop like he's a professional DJ. A stuffed cat sits on his shoulder. When he spots Jake, he gives a wave. When he sees that he and Bradley are holding hands, he shoots Bradley a thumbs up.
Jake says hello to some friends from his classes, even gets a hug from Natasha. She's an economics major like him, but is in a pre-law program as well. They study together a lot, but he's surprised to see her here. Dressed in a strappy tank, jeans, and sneakers, Natasha does not appear to be emulating Robert De Niro in any fashion.
"You two know each other?" Jake asks, motioning to Bradshaw. He's practically screaming to be heard over the music.
Nat nods, yanking Bradshaw into a hug as well. "We went to high school together in San Diego," she explains, reaching up to ruffle Bradshaw's hair. Bradshaw wrinkles his nose and lazily bats her hand away.
"Which is why Trace here thinks she doesn't have to dress up for my parties," Bradshaw grumbles. "Look, your friends are all dressed!" He points to a group of girls that do appear to all be dressed on theme.
"Eh, I knew you'd let me in anyway," Nat says, shrugging. "You giving Jake the tour?"
"Sure am! We're very busy, so bye!" Bradshaw says breezily, taking Jake's hand and leading him away.
Both Jake and Nat laugh at that, and Jake waves at her as he's tugged gently through the crowd once more. The music and bass pound through the house, reverberating through the floorboards and up into Jake's spine. They head through the kitchen again and out an open sliding door, where they escape the oppressive heat inside and breathe in cool (cooler, at least), clean fresh air.
They're standing on a big wooden deck. There's a small crowd of people gathered smoking both weed and cigarettes, by the smell of things, but other than that it's quiet out there. Past the deck is a large lawn. A kiddie pool sits in the middle of it, filled with water. It's so hot out that Jake is tempted to go stick his feet in it. Instead he settles for sipping from his wine, listening to Bradshaw as he babbles on about the deck.
"I like it out here a lot," Bradshaw is saying. "Plus, it's nice to get a break from the party for a sec, y'know?"
Jake nods. "Sure. It's a nice place. You’ve been to our parties, right?"
"Sure have." Bradshaw says. "Lambda looks a lot like this."
"Yep. No deck, though. Just yard. I live a couple streets over, on Grady Ave."
"You gonna let me in if I try and crash a party?" Bradshaw asks, quirking an eyebrow at Jake.
Jake feels a smile spreading over his face. He takes a tip of wine to cover it. "Just don't call it crashing and you'll be good."
"Aw, but crashing's what makes it fun. Bring some Alphabet boys to show you Lambda guys how it's done," Bradshaw says.
"Oh, I see how it is. You've never seen Lambda party when I throw one, so you think we can't get down, I get it," Jake says, nodding. "Hurtful, Bradshaw."
Bradshaw's eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. "Wait, no, that's not— Oh! You're kidding. Oh, hilarious," he grumbles, shoving gently at Jake's shoulder. "Did you— Um, do you wanna go back in? Or we can, like, sit out here? I don't wanna keep you from your friends. I mean, I do, but I won't if you wanna hang with them."
"I think I wanna put my feet in the kiddie pool," Jake says, pointing to it with his cup.
"Oh! Uh, sure, go for it," Bradshaw says. "It's probably not cold, but. Go ahead."
Jake starts for the stairs down to the lawn, and then looks back to Bradshaw. He's standing there and shuffling his feet, holding his drink, watching Jake. The lights from inside illuminate his face in different colors: red, blue, purple, back to red. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth. He is not, Jake thinks, unattractive. He's damn handsome, actually.
"You comin'?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
The surprise on Bradshaw's face is comical and sweet. "Yes! Yeah, yes, lead the way."
It's a classic kiddie pool, the kind from Walmart that lasts a month or two before it inevitably gains a hole somewhere and sadly deflates, and always leaves behind a patch of soggy, dead, yellow grass in the rectangular shape of it. Two deck chairs have been dragged out to sit beside the pool, as well as a beach chair. Jake can just imagine Bradley and some other brothers sunbathing out here, sipping on beers and soaking up the sunshine like lizards in the Virginia heat.
When they reach the pool, Jake sits in one of the chairs and toes off his sneakers. He tucks his socks inside, and Bradshaw does the same. Bradshaw's still folding his suit pants up, but Jake doesn't wait for him. Instead he scoops up his wine and steps right into the water. As Bradshaw predicted, it's not very cold, but at least it's colder than the temperature of the air.
Jake takes a swig of wine and looks back at the Alphabet house, alive with color and sound. He turns when he hears Bradshaw stepping in with him, and laughs when he splashes some water up at Jake. It hits Jake's legs, and he kicks a foot up and splashes some back at Bradshaw.
"Feels good," Jake says, nudging a rubber duck towards Bradshaw.
"Mhm," Bradshaw agrees. "You look really hot, by the way. Did I say that already or was I just thinking it?"
Jake laughs. "You said it, but thanks. You don't look too bad yourself."
Bradshaw's blush is cute. "Thanks! This is my job interview suit."
"So you just, what, watched the Intern and decided to make tonight's theme?"
"Yep! You've gotta watch it," Bradshaw urges. "It's so cute. We could make a date out of it!"
Jake laughs again, his turn now to shove at Bradshaw's shoulder gently. "Slow your roll there, Bradshaw. I don't date other frat guys."
Bradshaw's smile doesn't fade in the slightest. "I'm not like other frat guys!"
"You're exactly like other frat guys. C'mon, the smoothie thing today?" Jake reminds him.
"Okay, that might've been a step too far," Bradshaw concedes. "But you laughed! I saw it!"
Jake rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you're hilarious."
"I know." Bradshaw preens at the praise. "I'm empty. Can I get you a refill?"
Jake downs the rest of his drink and places the cup in Bradshaw's outstretched hand. "Sure. Thanks."
Quickly, Bradshaw hops out of the pool and jogs through the yard to get them more drinks. While he waits, Jake checks his phone, idly pacing the pool as he texts Javy to see what he's up to and with who. The music from inside floats down across the lawn, and when Bradshaw returns, he's singing along to it.
It happens when Bradshaw comes back over to the pool and hands Jake his wine.
Jake steps over to accept it, and the damn slippery bottom of the pool takes his feet right out from under him.
He goes down with a yelp, slipping right into the water. Immediately he's soaked, splashing around trying to stand up and get his phone from his pocket, slipping a few times more as he does it.
"Oh my god!" Bradshaw exclaims, putting the drinks to the side and stepping back in.
Jake accepts the hand that Bradshaw offers to help him up, but he slips again, this time fully submerging. It stands to reason that two Division 1 athletes should've been able to work together to pull him out, but instead Jake's sputtering and laughing hysterically as he finally stands and gets out his phone to check that it's okay.
"Are you alright?" Bradshaw asks, putting two big hands on his shoulders. He looks genuinely concerned, brows knitted together, all traces of joviality gone from his face.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Jake assures him, still laughing.
"Okay, are you sure? Do you need CPR?" Bradshaw wiggles him by the shoulders a little. "Wait, lemme give you CPR, c'mere—"
Jake cackles as he shoves Bradshaw away, finally checking on his phone. It seems fine, but he pulls up one of those "get water from your speakers sound" videos up on YouTube, and does manage to get a bit out. Satisfied, he rests the phone on the chair, grabs what's left of his wine, and flops down to sit in the water with his legs crossed. Now that he's submerged, he's actually cooled off quite a bit. He sips on his wine and pushes his wet hair back, watching Bradshaw watch him.
"You getting in?" he asks.
Bradshaw tilts his head as he considers. "Well, I can't let you drown in there. These are my good pants though…"
"Bradshaw, if you want to take your pants off in front of me, be my guest," Jake says. "I know how those baseball asses look."
A big grin spreads over Bradshaw's face. "I'm not that kind of girl, Seresin! Actually, that's a lie. I'm totally that kind of girl, but only for you!" he says, raising his voice as Jake starts cracking up. "Plus, soccer thighs are far nicer than baseball asses. Every day I'm grateful that you like a short inseam."
"You're nuts," Jake says, shaking his head.
He watches as Bradshaw puts his drink down and reaches for his jacket and shirt to pull them off. With more care than Jake would have expected, he drapes them both over the back of his chair. Then he yanks the tie out from around his neck and over his head, ruffling his curls. The wine in Jake's body has him continuing to watch even when Bradshaw's hands go down to his crotch, deft fingers undoing the button and zipper.
They lock eyes as Bradshaw slides his pants down his long legs, and Jake feels a raw sort of energy crackle through the yard. Lightning through his veins.
Now, clad only in boxer briefs, Bradley Bradshaw stands there in all his glory. Jake's eyes are caught on the curly hair on his pale thighs, the corded muscles over those long legs. He's all sharp angles and hard-earned muscle, tan lines and freckled skin. Jake kind of wants to pour wine down his chest and drink it from the valleys of his abs, his pecs, the dip of his hips.
"Too bad I didn't wear a jock tonight," Bradshaw says.
Jake's brain takes a long time to come back online after that image fills his synapses.
By the time he's regained the power of conscious thought, Bradshaw's stepping into the pool with him. He whoops a little as he sinks into the cold water, dropping to sit beside Jake. Their knees touch, warm skin on warm skin. Jake finds his eyes coming to rest on the soft rolls of Bradshaw's belly from sitting down. He wants to sink his teeth into him.
The music inside keeps on thumping along, and the lights keep on flashing out from the windows. The little circle of smokers has retreated back inside, leaving just Jake and Bradley in the yard. A breeze unsettles the leaves of the big oak trees that dot the lawn, and Jake feels his skin break out into goosebumps. He looks up, seeking stars. He finds them interspersed between oak leaves, bright white and shining in the dark sky. It's not as many as he could see back home, but it still makes him think of his parents' house, of his sister.
Does Bradshaw have siblings? Again, Jake is reminded of how little he knows about him.
If someone had asked him how he'd expected to spend the first Friday of his senior year as president of Lambda, he'd have said he'd be lording over the pool table at the house and reveling in the early weeks before pledging season. Jake definitely would not have guessed that he'd be at the Alphabet house for a party with such a funny theme, and definitely not that he'd be in a kiddie pool with Bradley Bradshaw.
"Sorry my kiddie pool ruined your De Niro costume," Bradshaw says after a moment, breaking through the calm silence.
Jake snorts. "I'm more upset I lost half my drink."
"I have three more boxes in there," Bradshaw says, pointing a thumb towards the house.
"Do I want to know why you've got four boxes of my favorite boxed wine in your house, Bradshaw?" Jake asks, raising an eyebrow. He puts a hand in the water and splashes some towards Bradshaw, who splashes him right back.
"Just in case, y'know?"
"Uh, in case I decide to black out and die at your house?" Jake asks flatly.
Another splash. "I dunno! You've never come here! I didn't wanna have you finally come to one of our parties and then have a shitty time 'cause I don't have your shitty wine."
Jake gasps dramatically. "Do not," he says, "call my sweet baby girl Franzia shitty."
Bradshaw just laughs brightly. Jake kind of wants to bottle the sound up and drink it instead of wine. "Oh, come on! That shit sucks."
Jake holds out his cup. "Take a sip and tell me it's bad. What the hell do you drink? Wait, no, lemme guess. PBR guy?"
Bradshaw wrinkles his nose. "Ew. This is a Budweiser, thank you. Here, swap."
Jake reaches across the scant space between them to hand Bradshaw his cup. Their fingers brush, and Jake catches Bradshaw smiling at the casual touch. They each tip their solo cups up to take a sip, and their eyes meet over the rim as they do it. Cold, fizzy beer fills Jake's mouth. It's nothing special; he often feels that most beers are the same the world over. He takes a few sips, wiping away a stray drop that escapes from the cup down his chin.
"Not bad," Jake allows.
"This is… fine," Bradshaw says.
Jake scoffs. "You don't get it. Franzia is where it's at."
"Gimme my beer," Bradshaw pokes at Jake's side, fingers finding the soft part of his waist.
Jake squirms and laughs, twisting away. Bradshaw laughs too, and the sound of it echoes through the yard. He's got a nice laugh, loud and genuine, all ha has, throwing his head back and exposing the long column of his throat. They swap drinks again, and when Jake sips from his wine, he wonders if the lip of the cup is wet from Bradshaw's mouth, the wine, the pool, or a combo of it all.
There really is something about him, Jake thinks. He can't think of many other guys their age who would buy someone's favorite wine just in case they came over. Frankly, most guys their age are shitty to people they're interested in: he knows guys on the soccer team who treat girls like they're disposable, football and lacrosse players who talk about girls as if they're less than human.
But here's Bradshaw, buying Jake's favorite wine just in case, climbing into the pool with him without hesitation, offering to walk him home from class. Yeah, the weird overtly sexual Snapchats have come through, but Jake's sure Bradshaw never actually sent that shit thinking Jake would respond. It's just silly. He's ridiculous with it on purpose.
"So you're on the baseball team," Jake begins, "but, uh, I don't know much else about you. What's your major?"
"Mechanical engineering! I'm in the coolest program right now," Bradshaw says, and he explains something that Jake's wine-drunk brain doesn't really comprehend, but he's vaguely impressed with. "You're econ, right?"
"Yup," Jake confirms. "And you— Nat said you're from San Diego?"
"Yup!" Bradshaw nods. "I grew up in Ocean Beach. It's this little neighborhood right by the—"
"Ocean?"
"Yup!"
"Yup," Jake repeats, laughing a little.
"Y— Okay, okay, I get it. But it's all these cute little houses and beach cabins and stuff. I used to surf like, every morning before school."
"You weren't worried you'd throw out that special pitching arm?" he asks.
Bradshaw gives a shrug. "Eh, I'd say it turned out okay."
"I'll say. You miss it out there?"
"Definitely. Have you been to California?"
"Nope."
"Oh, man," Bradshaw says, shaking his head. "It's, like, everything. Mountains, beaches, deserts, it's got it all. And the food out there is so amazing. Best sushi around, taco trucks that win crazy awards, all that."
"Sounds pretty nice. Texas has the Gulf, but it's nothing like the ocean. Lots of rivers, though," Jake says.
"You don't really have an accent," Bradshaw tells him.
Jake grins. "Aw, darlin', you want me to talk all Texan?"
It's fascinating watching Bradshaw's cheeks turn red in real time. It's visible even in the sem-darkness of the yard. "Oh. Wow. That's— Yeah. There it is." It makes Jake laugh again. "Dude, you have the best laugh."
"Oh." Jake's turn to blush. "Um. Thanks?"
"I really like you, y'know," Bradshaw says, voice quiet.
Jake looks at him. Really looks.
In the dim lighting from the house, Bradshaw is watching him with those huge brown eyes. Little scars cross his chin and the side of his face, and Jake spots one on his neck, too. He wonders what it's from. There's also a constellation of little beauty marks and freckles across his tanned skin. His cheeks are blotchy and ruddy with a flush and he's sitting here in a kiddie pool with Jake instead of hosting his big party, undressed because he wanted to keep Jake company but had the forethought to take care of his clothes.
There's something so sweet and so painfully earnest in the way he's looking at Jake, eyes wide and shiny and hopeful.
"I'm getting that," Jake says quietly. "I don't— You barely know me, though."
"I want to," Bradshaw says. "I really, really want to."
Since freshman year, the baseball guys in Lambda have been trying to get him to give Bradshaw a chance.
Maybe he ought to take their advice.
Jake doesn't know many guys who'd jump into a pool with him just to keep hanging out.
"Why me, though? Like, all this time you've been into me, I've never heard about you hooking up with anybody else, all you do is Snap me ridiculous shit, we've had like three classes together," Jake says. "I don't get it. What is it about me, Bradshaw?"
Bradshaw's mouth curves into a small, sweet smile. "Ask me again the next time we hang out like this, and I'll tell you."
"Oh, come on," Jake whines.
"I mean, it's not that exciting, don't get your hopes up too high. But I gotta get you to hang with me again somehow, don't I?" he asks.
"Ugh." Jake downs the last of his wine. "Fine, fine fine. We're hosting tomorrow, though, and I'm gonna be runnin' around doing president shit, so if you come by I can't really hang. Which, speaking of, how come you aren't doing president shit?"
Bradshaw shrugs. "I wanted to hang out with you," he says simply.
"Oh."
"Was that an invite to your party tomorrow?" Bradshaw raises his eyebrows, smiling more broadly.
"You gonna come by?"
"Duh!"
"Then yeah, I guess it was."
A breeze floats through the yard once more, and Jake shivers. Bradshaw notices, and Jake is honestly surprised he doesn't reach over and put an arm around his shoulders. He watches as Bradshaw unfolds himself and gets to his feet instead, long legs taking up all of Jake's vision. It's a very good view, even if he does end up sitting at eye level with his crotch.
Or maybe because he ends up at eye level with Bradshaw's crotch. Whatever.
Bradshaw extends a big, long-fingered hand. Jake takes it and lets Bradshaw haul him to his feet. Water splashes as he gets up, careful not to slip again and take them both out this time around. They're standing close by when Jake straightens up, feet between one another's, Jake's hand still in Bradshaw's. There's a few inches between them, and Jake has to look up just a bit to meet Bradshaw's eyes. From this close, he can see every one of his long eyelashes, every little freckle and mark on his face. He smells warm and spicy, some kind of cologne that Jake likes.
"No towels out here," Bradshaw says softly. Jake feels his breath ghost over his face. "Gotta do a run through the house up to my room."
"Think anyone will notice that we're wet?"
"They might notice that I'm not dressed," Bradshaw says, nodding. "Might think I'm about to bring you upstairs to have my way with you."
Laughing, Jake shoves Bradshaw away with the hand holding his. "You're annoying."
"I think you like it," Bradshaw says.
Jake thinks he might.
"C'mon. Lend me some clothes?"
"Only if I get to jerk off to the ones you wore here!" Bradshaw hops out of the pool and takes off across the lawn, laughter echoing across the yard.
Jake finds himself laughing too, following after him at full speed.
He leaves his drink; he's got a game tomorrow, and he's got enough of a buzz going to be fuzzy at the edges but won't feel crappy in the morning.
Up on the deck, Bradshaw is waiting for him, standing in a puddle as he drips off. When Jake gets close, Bradshaw bends over and shakes his hair out like a dog, drops of water flying all over Jake. It has Jake cringing away, yelping and hopping to the side. Bradshaw's laugh is loud and joyful, and Jake is finding that he likes the sound of it quite a bit.
When he straightens, Bradshaw holds a hand out for Jake again. He quirks a brow, like he's challenging Jake to walk through the party holding his hand once again. Jake's not one to back down from any kind of challenge, so he puts his hand in Bradshaw's and lets him lead him through the house.
Inside, it's sweltering hot once more. Jake's already wet, water dripping down his body from his hair and clothes. No one really notices the two of them, all too caught up in their own inebriation and dancing to pay attention to the two frat bros stepping in the house soaking wet and scantily clad. Or, half scantily clad.
Jake guesses it's a testament to the culture Alphabet has cultivated with their parties that no one gives a shit.
His shoes are outside, and he comes to the horrifying conclusion that he's about to walk through a crowded frat barefoot.
He doesn't even go through his own house barefoot. He's got a pair of Birkenstocks that he's labeled as his house slippers, and he slides them on whenever he's not in his room. It's not that the other guys are dirty, exactly, but there's something about it. Jake looks down, seeing dirt mixed with beer mixed with god knows what else. He makes a face, tugging on Bradshaw's hand to stop him.
It's incredibly loud in there from the people and the music, so he pulls Bradshaw close to speak directly into his ear. He settles his hand on the back of Bradshaw's neck, fingertips brushing against the hair at his nape. Bradshaw bends towards him.
"I'm not walking through here with no shoes on," he hollers.
Bradshaw straightens, looking to Jake's feet, then the floor, then back up to Jake. He turns, squatting down, arms spread, bare back on display. Jake swallows around a dry throat, watching the muscles in his back move and flex. He has freckles on his shoulders.
When Jake doesn't move, Bradshaw glances back and shouts something over his shoulder. Jake can't hear him, but he can guess he's saying that Jake should get on his back. And although it's insane, Jake isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bradshaw's a big guy, easily over 6 feet and buff like the D1 athlete he is. It stands to reason that he'll be able to lift Jake easily; he's sure that, like himself, Bradshaw lifts heavier weights at the gym.
So Jake hops up onto Bradshaw's back, plastering his wet shirt to his wet skin. Immediately, Bradshaw's hands wrap around his thighs, hooking under his knees, holding him steadily. Jake yelps, winding his arms around Bradshaw's neck, laughing as Bradshaw hitches him up so his legs are around his waist, resting on his hips. His feet dangle a little, and he tucks them into Bradshaw's thighs.
Jake presses his cheek into the back of Bradshaw's head, holding tight to him, still laughing a little as he begins to walk them through the house. Bradshaw's skin is warm through Jake's wet clothes, and his arms are strong where they're holding Jake close.
As they pass through the kitchen and living room, Jake keeps an eye out for Javy, but doesn't spot him. His phone's still outside. Maybe he can send Bradshaw back for it once they reach his bedroom. It seems, based on what Jake's heard tonight, that Bradshaw would do anything for him. It's interesting, and also kind of hot. And also a little worrying; Jake still isn't sure what he's done to deserve this apparent devotion.
The music in the house is loud, bass thumping so much that Jake can feel it in his chest. He knows the song, so he sings along softly to it, knowing he's right in Bradshaw's ear with it. A few Alphabet brothers spot them and whoop good-naturedly, likely cheering Bradshaw on for… whatever it looks like they're up to.
When they reach the stairs, Bradshaw hitches him up again, hands locked at his chest to hold Jake securely. Then he carries Jake up the stairs, each step bringing them further from the pounding music and crowd of people. There's no evidence of struggle in Bradshaw's grip on him, no shake in his legs despite carrying another large man on his back.
Upstairs, the music is muffled, the laughter and hollering of party guests lessened to a dull roar. Bradshaw carries him down a long hallway and stops at one of the several white doors. He turns the knob and they slip inside.
Warm and comfortable on Bradshaw's back (if dripping), Jake takes a long look around his bedroom. There's a navy rug on the floor, one corner curling up towards the ceiling a little. The bedspread is a grayish blue, and Jake is surprised and amused to see that Bradshaw has a nice little collection of matching throw pillows on there. The walls are decorated with baseball posters, medals, and a jersey with Bradshaw's name on it. The jersey hangs above a desk that's cluttered with papers, notebooks, pens, and an open laptop. A half-empty mug of coffee acts as a paperweight.
A big window looks out to the yard, to the scene of Jake's slippery crime.
Bradshaw steps onto the rug and deposits Jake gently onto his feet.
"Uh, lemme get some towels, hang on." And then Bradshaw's gone, slipped into an attached bathroom, allowing Jake time to snoop.
He rifles through the surprisingly organized notes, sniffs at the coffee (smells like vanilla), examines the medals (all Bradley's various baseball accolades: a no-hitter championship, a shutout game, and a few other feats that Jake doesn't know enough about baseball to recognize), and peeks his head into Bradshaw's small, messy closet. All in all, it doesn't look unlike Jake's own room. Replace the baseball paraphernalia with soccer stuff, and take away the mug (ew), and their rooms are pretty similar.
A moment later, Bradshaw's back, holding two fluffy gray towels. "Here," he says, wrapping it around Jake's shoulders. "Let's getcha warm."
"Surprised you don't wanna use body heat," Jake quips.
Bradshaw ruffles Jake's hair with the towel, smirking at him. "Well, you do need to lose the wet clothes if you ever wanna get warm."
"Oh, I'm sure," Jake agrees emphatically.
Laughter. "It's true! C'mon, I'll turn away, get you some dry clothes."
True to his word, Bradshaw does, turning on a heel to rifle through his dresser drawers. Jake peels off his sweater and lets it slap to the floor, then pulls himself out of his button-down and shorts.
"Um," he starts, unsure of how to phrase his question, "boxers?"
Bradshaw doesn't turn, but Jake swears he can see his cheeks move with a smile. "You wanna borrow my underwear?"
"Yeah, got any super sexy pairs with holes, or like—"
"Stop!" Bradshaw exclaims, laughing. His shoulders shake with it. "Yeah, boxers, you menace."
"Oh, I'm the menace? Gimme the clothes, you freak."
A flurry of fabric begins to fly over Bradshaw's shoulder. Jake scrambles to catch them, giggling. A t-shirt, shorts, a pair of black boxer-briefs. He takes advantage of Bradshaw's turned back to lift the clothes to his nose and inhale: clean laundry detergent, different than the one Jake uses. They smell good.
"Now you turn, and I'll get dressed," Bradshaw instructs.
"But you're still wet!" Jake says.
"Oh, right. Gimme the towel."
Tossing the clothes on the bed, Jake steps forward and wraps the towel around Bradshaw's shoulders. A shocked little gasp falls from Bradshaw's mouth, audible in the room even with the lingering music from the party downstairs. Gently, Jake rubs him down, drying his long limbs, even squatting down to get his legs. Since he's still in the boxers, Bradshaw will have to dry his own crotch, and besides: Jake doesn't think they're there just yet.
When he straightens, he brings the towel up to scrub through Bradshaw's hair, making his wet curls look even crazier.
"There you go," Jake says softly.
"Wow. Thanks," Bradshaw murmurs.
"Relax, I'm not gonna look at your boner," Jake drapes the towel over his head and turns away.
Bradshaw squawks indignantly, but Jake knows he's right when he doesn't protest. Chuckling, he turns around to peel off his wet underwear and pull on Bradshaw's, resolutely not thinking about the level of intimacy they've somehow been forced to develop during their first-ever hangout. The shorts Bradshaw loans him are a little big, as is the t-shirt. Jake notices with no small amount of amusement that the shirt says "Bradshaw" in bold letters on the back.
This guy's about as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Once he's dressed, Jake sits on the edge of Bradshaw's bed, folding his legs under him, watching the flex of Bradshaw's back as he pulls on a t-shirt. Bradshaw sits in the wheeled desk chair and spins to face him. Jake's both a little glad and a little disappointed that he didn't join him on the bed; he doesn't want this to go anywhere below the belt tonight, and sitting on the bed together implies more than he wants to give tonight.
Opposite him, Bradshaw's in an Alphabet long-sleeve and shorts. When he sits, his thighs spread in an enticing sweep of curled hair and pale skin, and Jake has a harder time than he'd like to admit at breaking his gaze.
Conversely, Bradshaw gives him an obvious once-over, mouth curling into a smile. "You look hot in my clothes."
"I'd bet fifty bucks you'd say I look hot in anything," Jake says.
"Would I be wrong?"
"Nope," Jake concedes, laughing.
It feels like he's spent the whole night laughing.
"This has been really fun," Jake says, because it has been.
Bradshaw's eyebrows go up, his mouth opening a bit. "It has?"
"Mhm," Jake confirms. "I'm glad I came."
"You are?"
"You gonna just keep doing that?"
"Am I?"
"Enough," Jake groans, reaching out to nudge Bradshaw's knee with his foot.
Bradshaw catches him by the ankle, fingers wrapping around the fine bones. His hand is warm and large, rough from lifting weights and pitching baseballs. Jake is aware that they've touched before this— hell, he was just pressed all along Bradshaw's back not five minutes ago— but this feels more significant. It's more deliberate: Bradshaw's touching him on purpose.
"You've got a game tomorrow, right?" Bradshaw asks. His voice is low, his thumb stroking back and forth over the bony jut of his ankle.
Jake nods. "At four."
"Well, I'll be there," Bradshaw tells him. "And I'll drop your clothes at the dry cleaner's tomorrow morning."
"Oh, no. Just gimme, like, a plastic bag for them, I can wash 'em."
"Nope!" Bradshaw chirps. "Plus, this way I can jerk off to them before I give 'em back."
"Dude."
He yanks his foot from Bradshaw's grip to kick at him again, this time doing it hard enough to send him wheeling away a bit. The smile on Bradshaw's face tells him he's not really serious about it. Besides, Jake doesn't think he'd really mind if he was serious; it's kind of flattering.
"You'd be better off stealing my jersey when it's all sweaty," Jake continues.
Bradshaw's mouth drops open. "Oh my god, can I have it?"
"No, I need to wear it!"
"Ugh, come on, gimme somethin' here," Bradshaw whines.
"I've given you the first Friday night of our senior year, isn't that enough?" Jake raises an eyebrow at him.
Bradshaw, who had been twirling side to side in the chair, stops and stares at him. "That… is so sweet."
Jake stares at him for a moment, waiting for him to crack, to laugh, to indicate that he isn't serious. But Bradshaw keeps on looking at him with stars in his eyes, like he's hung the goddamn moon. His eyes are huge, lighter than Jake thought they were now that they're not outside in the dark. More hazel than brown; there are flecks of gold and green in there. He blinks at Jake with those long lashes, and Jake can see how easy it would be for Bradley Bradshaw to be come a bit of a problem for him.
In the silence, they can hear people rushing up the stairs. It's just two sets of footsteps, followed by giggling, a door opening and closing. One of the Alphabet brothers bringing someone upstairs for a hookup.
Jake can't help but compare his experience here to what he imagines that hookup must be. He might be off with his assumptions, but he can just see it: a frat bro finding a girl to flirt with, maybe someone from one of his classes, and taking her upstairs. They'll have mediocre sex, and then she'll either sleep over or head home, and either way the brother will be asleep when she leaves. She'll text once or twice, but if he responds, it's only ever for another hookup.
Or maybe he's just had bad experiences sleeping with other frat guys.
But this time he's spent with Bradshaw tonight feels nothing like that.
"Uh," Jake starts, scratching at the back of his neck, "I think I left my shoes and my phone outside."
Bradshaw straightens up, awestruck look fading into one of contemplation. "Oh! I can go grab them. Hang on."
When he stands, it causes the rolling chair to spin in place. Bradshaw slips into a pair of boat shoes and then leaves, closing the door behind him.
Alone in Bradshaw's room, Jake flops backwards onto the bed, then scoots up so his head is on the pillows. He rolls onto his stomach, pressing his nose into one of the pillows, inhaling deeply. It smells like fresh shampoo and that same detergent from earlier, and Jake is starting to like it. He's also starting to get tired. It's always hard coming back to school after summer, even if he's been back for several weeks for preseason. The first few days of class are exhausting.
He must drift off a little, or otherwise get lost in his own head, because he comes to a moment later when the door opens and closes once more. Bradshaw doesn't say anything at first, and Jake doesn't either. After a moment, Jake turns his head the other way, opening one sleepy eye and looking at Bradshaw.
Bradshaw's expression is both relieved and disappointed. "Oh, man! I thought you fell asleep and I was gonna be stuck on the floor for the night."
Jake snorts. "Blanket hog?"
"Body hog, more like. Too clingy."
Jake doesn't agree with how Bradshaw's saying that like it's a bad thing, but he doesn't press it. In one hand, Bradshaw holds his phone. The other has two fingers hooked into the back of Jake's shoes. Jake reaches out for them both. The phone goes right into his hand, and Bradshaw tosses the sneakers to the floor so they're in the right direction for Jake to put on. He pulls himself upright and swings his legs off the bed.
"I gotta get going," Jake says, standing.
Bradshaw is leaning with his shoulders against the door, watching Jake. "Can I walk you home?"
Jake steps forward, reaching up to push back an errant curl from Bradshaw's forehead. His fingertips brush against Bradshaw's warm skin. Bradshaw's lashes flutter a little at the touch.
"Don't you need to do president stuff? 'If you're not a brother or sleeping with a brother then get the hell out,' that kind of thing?" Jake asks, lowering his hand.
"Well, I don't think I care about anyone sleeping with a brother if it's not me," Bradshaw says cheekily.
Jake rolls his eyes. "I have a feeling you'll just follow behind me if I try and walk home without you."
"Great idea! So you should probably just let me."
Jake gives in.
He lets Bradshaw take his hand again (this is a lot of hand-holding for a first hangout, Jake thinks), and lead him back through the party. According to Jake's Find My Friends, Javy is at the Pizza Pie, the late-night food joint not far from their house. Jake's kind of glad for it; he didn't want to walk home with both Javy and Bradshaw, fielding Javy's teasing questions on one side and Bradshaw's sweetly earnest answers on the other.
They leave through the front, saying goodbye to Mickey, Reuben, and some others as they pass. At the stairs, Bradshaw hops down all of them at once and extends a hand dramatically, waiting to escort Jake like he's some kind of knight. Jake indulges him, reaching out to let Bradshaw help him down the stairs.
People are still milling about on the lawn, dressed in various De Niro getups and clutching red solo cups. Jake says hey to a few Lambda underclassmen he recognizes. They reach the sidewalk when Jake remembers his wet clothes, strewn about the floor in Bradshaw's room.
"Listen, about the clothes," he starts, squeezing Bradshaw's hand to get his attention, "just don't shrink 'em or turn 'em pink, that's all I ask."
"So I can—"
"Whatever else you do with them is none of my business, okay?" Jake's voice breaks as he starts laughing.
"Yippee!" Bradshaw says, voice all falsely high. "Fuck, I wish I still had the bullhorn. I'd tell all of Charlottesville. Hey everyone, Jake Seresin's letting me—"
Jake claps a hand over Bradshaw's mouth before he can shout something about jerking off.
When he starts to laugh, Jake feels the warm air of Bradley's exhalations on his hand, and it has him shivering, goosebumps puckering over his skin. Bradshaw wraps a hand around Jake's wrist to pull his hand away, revealing his bright, sweet smile. In the dim glow of the streetlights, Bradshaw's lips are pink and soft-looking, the curve of his Cupid's bow smoothed out with his smile. Just like before, he looks at Jake like he's the best thing he's ever laid his eyes on.
Jake doesn't know what to do with this sort of devotion that's apparently been bestowed upon him.
So he just pushes gently at Bradshaw's shoulder and then takes his hand again, starting off down the sidewalk towards his house. The wine is still making him feel light and airy, and it has their surroundings looking prettier than Jake remembers: the trees sway dreamily with the light breeze, the stars are bright and beautiful in the deep, dark sky, and there's a boy holding his hand and walking him home.
He'd been serious when he teased Bradshaw about spending his first Friday of senior year at a rival frat's party, but it's been pretty fun, all told. Jake would never admit it, but he kind of wishes he'd taken up Bradshaw on some of those invites sooner.
"Who do you play tomorrow?" Bradshaw asks, drawing Jake from his thoughts.
"VMI," Jake says. "Military Insitute."
"Ew." Bradshaw wrinkles his nose. "They any good?"
Jake gives a shrug. "We beat them last year, but we've had some roster changes since then, so. We'll see."
"I still think it's fucked that you aren't captain this year," Bradshaw grumbles.
Jake snorts. "I was captain last year!"
"Yeah, so shouldn't you be this year too?"
"I let it go, actually."
"I didn't know you could abdicate team captain," Bradshaw says, frowning.
"Abd— Bradshaw, that's for royalty," Jake points out. "Like, one prince steps aside so the other can be king, or whatever."
"Hm." Bradshaw looks over at him, then nods. "Still works, king."
Jake is caught between sputtering in disbelief and laughing out loud. The noise that comes from his mouth is somewhere between a bark, a honk, and a snort. Bradshaw looks delighted at the sound, and then he's laughing too, tossing back his head. The sound seems to echo through the quiet street, even though there are other groups of students on the sidewalk up and down the road being just as rowdy.
"You sure I can't borrow a jersey for tomorrow?" Bradshaw asks as they turn onto Grady Ave.
Jake bumps him with his shoulder. "Yeah, I'll wear your baseball jersey for my game," he deadpans.
Bradshaw's eyes widen. "I know you're kidding, but that sounds so hot, oh my god—"
"Dude!" Jake exclaims, bumping him again.
"My affection can't be contained, dude."
"Somehow ending that sentence with dude makes it less affectionate."
"Shit. Uh, my affection can't be contained, babycakes?"
"I guess that's better," Jake concedes. "But this is me, so."
Jake motions to his house, coming to a stop at the end of the walkway. The willow tree our front sways with the breeze. The light on the second floor is from Billy's room; he must be up gaming again.
"Well," Bradshaw begins, "I had a lot of fun with you, Jake. It's— I'm really glad you came by."
Jake can't hold back a smile. "I had fun too. No booty call Snaps tonight, okay?"
"Ugh," Bradshaw groans. "But it's so cute when you remind me to drink water or whatever."
"Okay, here: make sure you drink some water or grab a Gatorade before you go to bed. Does that work?"
Bradshaw smiles at him. "Sure does." He shifts on his feet. "Um, so I'll see you tomorrow?"
"You know where to find me," Jake says. "On the—"
"On the field, yeah. I got that. I could spot those thighs anywhere."
"Oh my god. Goodbye, Bradshaw."
"Bye, Jake!"
Jake punches in the code and heads inside, waving to Bradshaw once more before closing the door behind himself.
In the shower, Jake receives a few texts in quick succession.
Brady Bradshaw: I m soooooo gld u came!!!!
Brady Bradshaw: Best nite of my lyfe fr
Brady Bradshaw: I thnk we r soalmates ❤️❤️❤️
Brady Bradshaw: C u 2mrw bbycakes!!
Best night of his life? Maybe not, but a memorable one for sure. He can't remember the last time he laughed so much with a guy trying to hit on him.
Jake goes to sleep in Bradshaw's t-shirt and boxers.