Cleo's was a contradiction in neon--a seedy sort of upscale if there was such a thing. The kind of place with overpriced cocktails served in chipped glassware, where velvet ropes guarded peeling leather couches, and everyone looked too good or too tired to care. The music pounded through the space like a second heartbeat, lights strobing in violent color across smoke machine haze and sequins on the far stage. A drag queen with impossibly long lashes lip-synced to a pop anthem, hair teased to heaven, commanding the room but Seth and Oliver sat almost too quiet on the far side of the bar.
Seth leaned against the bar, one arm slung casually along the back of the booth where Oliver sat, looking smaller than usual in the riot of sound and movement. At 5'4", with slight hair dusting his arms and collarbone, Oliver looked like he might vanish if the lights hit him wrong. He stared into his drink--a whiskey sour, barely touched--and blinked at the chaos like it was happening through the glass.
Seth, broad-shouldered and sure in the way only someone built like a god could be, smiled sideways at him. Jet-black hair slicked back, shirt tight over his chest, he looked like he belonged here--or at least knew how to fake it. He hadn't missed the way Oliver had been retreating into himself lately, too quiet, too polite, too still. He was a contented husband now and hadn't been out in the three years he had been with Alexander. But the man was out of town for the weekend and the friend decided to finally drag him out, tossed him something vaguely fashionable to wear, and steered him into the heart of Cleo's with the determination of a man on a mission.
He nudged Oliver's knee under the table. "You're not gonna break if you have a little fun," he said, barely audible over the music but loud enough to make Oliver glance up.
Seth sipped his tequila and let the beat buzz through his chest, eyes scanning the pulsing crowd with the casual ease of someone who still knew every trick in the book. He grinned, more to himself than anyone else, then leaned in toward Oliver, their shoulders brushing.
"Remember when we used to tear up places like this every other weekend?" he said, voice raised just enough to cut through the noise. "Back when we thought three hours of sleep and a questionable Uber ride home was just part of the fun?"
Oliver let out a quiet laugh, his eyes soft. "Yeah. And when you thought mesh shirts were a personality."
Seth barked a laugh. "Still do, babe."
Oliver's smile lingered, but his gaze stayed low, swirling the melting ice in his glass. "Things change. I'm not that guy anymore."
"Sure!" Seth said, nudging him again. "You can still have fun. You're allowed to look around, you know. Married doesn't mean blind."
Just then, the bartender reappeared--a tall, glistening man in microscopic booty shorts, the kind that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. He slid two fresh drinks onto the table with a wink and a flourish, then disappeared into the crowd with the ease of someone constantly watching.
Seth raised his glass in salute. "I mean, come on," he said, gesturing broadly to the crowd. "It's basically raining men in here."
Oliver followed his gaze. The room was a buffet of tight shirts, suggestive dancing, tattoos, stubble, and cologne hanging thick in the air. It was impossible not to notice.
He chuckled, a bit more relaxed now, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Okay, yeah. That one's definitely not wearing underwear."
"There he is," Seth said, clinking their glasses together. "Still got a pulse."
Oliver shook his head, but he was smiling now--real, this time. The kind that reached his eyes.
Out on the dance floor, the crowd moved like one heaving organism--grinding, swaying, grinding again. Shirtless men with glistening torsos and tight waists bounced to the beat under strobe lights, some caught in rhythm, others lost in each other. A muscular guy in leather harnesses and tight jeans danced with abandon, arms lifted, tattoos snaking across his chest and disappearing under the straps. Not far from him, a bearded man with a soft belly and thick chest hair wore a mesh tank that did nothing to hide the sweat rolling down his sternum. He looked like someone's fantasy came to life--solid, grounded, sensual.
A cluster of twinks dominated the center of the floor, all skin and cheekbones, moving with high-energy chaos, laughing too loud and dancing too fast. They seemed to float just above the music, limbs loose and eyes wide, glitter smeared across their collarbones. One of them wore bunny ears, another had eyeliner smudged down his cheek like war paint. They danced in a circle, breaking off to flirt with whoever dared to make eye contact.
And then, like some unspoken shift, a few peeled away from the crowd and headed toward a shadowy archway behind a velvet curtain to the left of the DJ booth. The back room. No signs, no rules--just a look between men and a parting of fabric.
Oliver instinctively reached for his phone, thumb already flicking up his lock screen. A message? A missed call? Nothing. Just the glow of the screen and that photo of him and Alexander in a vineyard last fall--sunlight, soft smiles, a moment too perfect to be anything but real.
Seth noticed. Of course, he did.
"Oh my god, again?" Seth groaned, snatching Oliver's wrist lightly and pushing the phone down. "He's at a conference, not lost in the Andes."
Oliver shrugged. "I just thought maybe..."
"What? He's boring. He's probably asleep"
"He's not boring!" Oliver protested.
Seth stood, grabbing his wrist with more intention now, his grin wide and wicked. "Nope. You're done. C'mon! No more screen time, time to sweat it out."
"Dancing... I thought this was just drinks," Oliver whined, not moving. But he was already being pulled to his feet, Seth's grip firm and familiar.
"Why go to the hottest gay dance club and not dance," Seth shot back over his shoulder. "You used to dance all night. You once ground on a bouncer just to get free water."
"That wasn't dancing, that was desperation," Oliver said, but he was already following, the music dragging them both toward the crowd.
They pushed into the pulse of bodies, the world narrowing to light, bass, and motion. Seth spun, looping an arm around Oliver's waist, pulling him in just enough without crowding him. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't a pickup--it was muscle memory, an old rhythm between them. The kind you never really forgot.
Oliver hesitated for one beat, then let the music catch his hips.
On the dance floor, bodies moved in a haze of light and heat, rhythm guiding them like instinct. Seth led with ease, his hips rolling, arms lifted, sweat catching on his collarbones under the low lights. Oliver, at first, danced with a guarded kind of grace--smiling but small, keeping his movements tight and precise, tucked in close to Seth's orbit.
Then came the two men--cutting through the crowd like they owned it.
Brad, with a shaved head and a tight black tank clinging to his wide chest, stepped up first. His chest hair was thick and wild, curling out around the low neckline, and his arms and thighs looked like they could break furniture. He moved with a grounded confidence, the kind that said I know exactly who I am and what I want.
Next to him, Jack had a thick, muscular frame under a shimmering black mesh top that clung to his sweat-damp skin. His buzz cut and beard gave him a sharp, masculine edge, but his smirk softened it just enough to make it dangerous. He slid into the space beside Seth like he'd been invited, close but not crowding--yet.
Oliver noticed them instantly, stiffening just a little, eyes flicking between the two. Brad started dancing nearby, close enough that his presence was unmistakable. Jack, meanwhile, was already syncing up with Seth's rhythm, their bodies catching the same tempo, close enough to share heat.
