Blake Hart
patreon
Roomies in Arms - Part 6
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 20:00:07 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
The flat smelled like vodka, vape juice, and ambition.
Nick and Jax were hosting again—which meant I was cleaning again. The living room had been transformed into a cheap student version of Studio 54, complete with LED strips, a questionable playlist, and an even more questionable bowl of “punch” that looked like it could legally dissolve a coin.
Lex, naturally, had opted to stay in his room, headset on, fingers flying over his keyboard. Occasionally, he'd yell something unintelligible that might’ve been about hentai or headshots. Hard to tell. Either way, I was solo-scrubbing red Solo cup rings off our communal counter while someone in the hallway drunkenly shouted “free Palestine” and sneezed at the same time.
Charming.
By the time I’d finished corralling beer bottles into an empty laundry basket, the party was in full swing. Someone had already passed out on our Ikea rug, and I was halfway through constructing a protective pillow fort around them.
Then I saw Asher.
He stood just inside the front door, watching the chaos with the kind of detached amusement that made him look painfully hot. Effortlessly composed in a dark hoodie and jeans that should’ve been illegal, he caught my eye and smiled.
“Hey,” he said, raising his voice over the bass. “Can we talk? Just us? Maybe... take a walk?”
My chest did that thing again—the annoying flutter. The one that meant something had been waiting to be said.
Asher rolled his eyes and mumbled about seeing me outside, as Lex appeared.
“Sebby,” he said, already half-grinning, “wanna dip? I downloaded the uncensored version of Seishin no Tentakuru. First ep has a deleted scene where Kazuya dual-wields—if you know what I mean.”
I looked at him, “Maybe, I’ll see.”
He nodded at me and then closed the door again. I blinked.
Both stood at opposite ends of the hallway. One near the door, offering a quiet escape. One leaning against his own doorway, offering... well, hentai.
They were both looking at me.
Waiting.
I turned halfway between them, indecisive. Asher. Lex. Hentai. Emotions. Headphones.
Then the front door opened.
“Seb, babybro.”
I froze.
The voice was unmistakable—smooth, American, with a smile baked into every syllable.
“So this is your little attempt at peasantry. A boy in cashmere playing pauper. That’s rich.”
I turned.
“Bryson?”
Bryson, my older brother, looked like he’d stepped off the cover of an aggressively curated travel magazine. Bronze skin, perfectly styled dark-blond hair that said ‘surfboard optional,’ and cheekbones that could cut diplomatic red tape. His white button-up was unbuttoned just enough to be illegal in most public offices, and his black jeans looked custom-fit to make a statement.
He stepped into the flat like he owned it, designer weekender slung over one shoulder, aviators still on despite it being 9PM.
"Daddy dearest insisted I check in on you before I join him in London. Apparently, I'm now a humble embassy trainee—his latest move after buying himself an ambassadorship. Supposedly my final shot at redemption... or whatever. I’m staying for the weekend."
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Bryson smirked.
“Miss me?”
I cleared my throat, regaining some shred of social posture. “Everyone, this is my brother—”
“Half-brother,” Bryson corrected smoothly, flashing that diplomatic smile that had probably talked at least three Ivy League deans into ignoring certain scandals. “Same father, different life decisions.”
Before I could introduce him properly, Nick wandered over, already halfway through a red cup and an ill-advised body shot.
“Wait, wait—are you Bryson Tucker?” he asked, eyes going wide.
Bryson grinned. “Depends. Who’s asking?”
Brady—clearly intrigued—appeared from behind a curtain of vape smoke. “Dude. I love your work.”
Bryson raised a brow. “You mean the tape?”
Brady looked smug. “I mean the performance. Legendary.”
Bryson gave a mock bow. “Glad to inspire the youth.”
He dropped his bag near the couch and glanced at me. “I was going to get a hotel. Somewhere with real sheets and fewer sticky surfaces. But Father insisted I check on you. Said if I didn’t, you’d probably die of the plague.”
He looked me up and down. “You do look a bit pale.”
I deadpanned. “That’s the custom setting.”
“Sebby?” Lex’s voice drifted down the hall, followed by the slap of socks on tile. He emerged from his room, hoodie half-on and headset hanging around his neck. “What the hell, did someone actually die, or did you just evaporate mid-hentai commitment?”
Then he noticed Bryson.
“Oh. Who’s Abercrombie & Fitch?”
“Lex, this is Bryson. My—”
“Half-brother,” Bryson cut in, again. “Let’s not confuse the branding.”
Lex looked him up and down. “Of course you are.”
Before I could say anything else, the front door swung open again.
Asher stepped inside, eyebrows pinched. “Is everything okay? I thought we were gonna talk?”
He clocked Lex, me, and then Bryson, who had draped himself across the back of the couch like an off-duty Bond villain.
“Oh,” Asher said. “Bryson?”
“Yes, so officially. Everyone,” I said, forcing a smile, “this is my half-brother, Bryson. He’s staying the weekend.”
There was a pause. Not hostile—just thick with silent judgment.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I muttered, and walked off to furiously stress-wash a stack of already clean mugs.
◆◆◆
By the time the awkward party thinned out and the last drunk voice faded into the hallway, I’d calmed down enough to change into my silk pyjamas and grab an extra pillow. Bryson, naturally, had claimed my bed and sprawled across it like a centerfold for political nepotism.
He patted the narrow mattress beside him. “Egyptian cotton. Nice. You always had great taste in sheets. This is just like old times.”
I slid in stiffly, hugging the far edge. “The thread count is important to me. And we’ve maybe shared a bed six times in history. You grew up in New York. I grew up in London—or whatever boarding school Mum or Father decided on that year.”
Bryson yawned and folded his arms behind his head, unconcerned. “Still. Comfy. You’ve got the good pillows too. This almost makes up for the plague den you call a living room.”
Lex, Asher, and now Bryson is here too. What’s next? The King of England popping by to check on me at Father’s request? Honestly, I wouldn’t even be surprised.
