Chapter 9
The Radnička faculty building loomed in the distance like a forgotten relic of a past ambition, its skeletal structure exposed to the elements, unfinished and forsaken. In the dim November night, its concrete pillars stood like broken teeth against the bruised sky, casting long, jagged shadows over the cracked pavement. I visited Novi Sad just a couple of months ago, and saw that a new building sits on the spot, an IT firm. It now has something it promissed back then—a future, a purpose—but at the time the story takes place, it was a ghost of its own potential, claimed by stray graffiti, shattered glass, and the whispers of countless teenagers who had come here to smoke, drink, and touch each other in the dark.
Young Petar was no different from those teenagers tonight.
We barely made it out through the training session.
The gym smelled of sweat and adrenaline, a thick haze of exertion hanging in the air. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed softly, their sterile glow reflecting off the padded mats where Andrej and I stood, circling each other like wolves testing for weakness. The room was nearly empty now—only a few other fighters lingering at the heavy bags, their rhythmic strikes a dull percussion behind the sharp focus between us. My heart pounded, a drumbeat against my ribs, not from exertion but from something deeper, something volatile. Andrej grinned at me, his hands raised in a loose guard, his stance cocky, teasing. The bastard always had that confidence, the kind that made him reckless, made him beautiful. I wanted to knock it off his face. I wanted to pull him closer.
We moved in sync, bodies weaving through the space like two animals bred for this—trained muscle, sharpened reflexes. I faked a jab, testing his reaction. He didn’t flinch. He never did. Instead, he smirked, his weight shifting ever so slightly before he lunged, aiming low. I barely sidestepped in time, my back foot skimming the edge of the mat as I adjusted, turning the feint into a counterstrike. My fist connected with his ribs—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that I wasn’t some easy target. He exhaled sharply, his body tensing, the muscles in his abdomen flexing beneath my knuckles before he retaliated. His elbow came up, brushing past my jaw, and for a second, we were too close, our breath mingling in the charged air between us. The heat of his body was intoxicating, the way his skin glistened under the fluorescent light, his scent—a mix of sweat, soap, and something unmistakably him—curling into my lungs like a drug. And I was an addict.
The sparring intensified. Every strike, every block, every grapple became something more than just technique. It was a conversation, a language spoken between two bodies that knew each other too well. My fists met his forearms, my shin clashed against his thigh, and every impact sent a shiver of something electric down my spine. I could feel his breath ghosting over my shoulder when he ducked under one of my swings. Could feel the heat of his chest against my back when he came in too close, trying to take me down. Our legs tangled, the friction of sweat-damp skin against skin making the movements slick, primal. The air between us was thick, charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.
Then he did it—he caught me. In one swift motion, he hooked my leg, pivoted his weight, and took me down hard. My back hit the mat with a dull thud, the impact momentarily knocking the breath from my lungs. Before I could react, he was on top of me, pinning me down, his forearm pressing against my throat just enough to remind me that he had the upper hand. Of course he had, he always had the upper hand. At that time, I was under the illusion that he didn’t. I struggled, but it was half-hearted, because fuck, the way he looked above me—his curly hair damp, chest heaving, lips parted—made my pulse hammer against my ribs. His thighs caged mine, his hips pressing into me with just enough force to make me feel how solid he was, how undeniably present. I should have thrown him off. I should have twisted my hips, reversed the position, done anything but what I did—I froze, just for a second, my hands gripping his biceps, feeling the heat of his skin beneath my fingers.
He must have seen it in my eyes, that flicker of something raw, because his expression shifted—just for a second, just barely. His hold loosened, the pressure of his body against mine becoming something else entirely. The world around us faded, the sounds of the gym drowning beneath the wild thrum of my pulse. I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my entire body thrumming with an energy that had nothing to do with the fight. He was still looking at me, that fucking smirk gone, replaced by something darker, something unreadable. And then, just as quickly as it had happened, he pushed off me, standing, offering a hand. I took it, but my fingers lingered against his palm longer than necessary. The match was over. But something else had begun.
—
We had been at the Radnička faculty building before, months ago, daring each other to climb to the roof, to test the limits of our fear, as many teenagers our age did. But tonight was different. There was no childish dares, no reckless laughter echoing up the unfinished stairwells. It was just us, just the silence, just the cold steel of anticipation threading through my veins as I followed Andrej inside.
I felt every step, the uneven ground beneath my boots, the damp air thick with dust and the stale scent of rotting wood. There was a part of me that hesitated, that whispered this was a mistake, that reminded me of every moral my family had tried to instill in me. But then I saw Andrej, his figure moving ahead of me, his presence anchoring me in something far more real than guilt. He turned, his gaze finding mine in the dim light filtering through broken windows.
"Come on," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
And I did. Because no amount of orthodox guilt or childhood ideals could outweigh the way my blood surged when he looked at me like that.
We didn't waste time. There was no prelude, no careful dance of hesitation. We had already crossed every line worth crossing. My back hit the cold, rough concrete of a support column, and his mouth was on mine, teeth clashing, hands ruthless. His fingers gripped the front of my jacket, yanking it open with a force that sent buttons scattering across the floor. I didn't care. I couldn't care.
His hands were everywhere—pushing, pulling, claiming. My body responded before my mind could catch up, before the last thread of restraint could weave itself into a coherent thought. There was nothing soft about it, nothing hesitant. He pushed my shirt up, his hands pressing against my bare skin, cold at first, then searing. I groaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his hips grinding into mine with a desperation that sent fire racing up my spine.
I pulled at his hoodie, dragging it over his head, and he barely let me breathe before he was on me again, our bodies colliding with the force of something primal. My fingers found his belt, trembling but sure, undoing it, pushing denim down just enough to feel him, hot and hard against my thigh. He exhaled sharply, a low curse spilling from his lips as he pressed harder, grinding, teasing, torturing.
Then he turned me around, my chest meeting the cold, unfinished wall. I braced myself, fingers splaying against the rough surface as he tugged my jeans down, his breath hot against the back of my neck. There was no tenderness, no careful whispers of reassurance. Just urgency, just need, just the sound of him spitting into his hand before slick fingers pushed inside me. I sucked in a sharp breath, forehead pressing to the wall.
"Relax," he murmured, voice husky, ruined.
I didn’t want to relax. I wanted to feel everything.
He pushed in, slow at first, then rough, relentless. Pain licked up my spine, sharp and searing, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming pleasure that followed, a tidal wave crashing through my body. He gripped my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, holding me in place as he set a punishing rhythm, each thrust pushing me further into the wall.
I moaned, raw and unfiltered, my breath against the cold concrete. His name tumbled from my lips in a broken plea, and he groaned in response, his pace faltering for a moment before he caught himself, driving harder, deeper. This wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was messy, reckless, desperate. It was everything I shouldn’t want but did.
I clawed at the wall, at him, at anything that could anchor me as the pressure built, coiling, tightening, until I was coming undone beneath him, muscles locking, mind blanking. He followed, a choked gasp spilling from his lips as he buried himself deep, fingers tightening, body shaking.
For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing, ragged and uneven, filling the empty space around us. Then, slowly, reality crept back in—the cold, the silence, the knowledge that we had just done something that couldn’t be taken back.
I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. Because the moment I did, I would have to acknowledge the truth that I had been avoiding for so long.
I had never felt more alive. And I had never been more afraid.
Novi Sad stretched out below us, a sea of amber lights flickering in the late November chill. The city pulsed quietly, its heartbeat slower at this hour, the streets nearly empty save for the occasional car gliding along the streets. In the distance, the Danube shimmered darkly, reflecting the glow of the Petrovaradin Fortress perched on the hill, its ancient walls bathed in golden light. From up here, on the exposed concrete of the Radnička faculty rooftop, the city felt distant, like a painting hung too high on a wall. I took a slow drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke curl lazily from my lips, dissipating into the night air.
Andrej didn’t stop moving. He paced along the edge of the roof, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his breath visible in the cold. He wasn’t looking at the city. He wasn’t looking at me. The adrenaline from what we had done still clung to us, a phantom weight pressing down on my limbs, but the moment was slipping away. The recklessness, the heat—it had burned bright, but now all that remained was the quiet.
I exhaled, tilting my head back, staring at the inky sky. A few stars managed to pierce through the glow of the city, but they looked faint, distant. "What are we doing?" I finally asked, my voice low, barely carried by the wind. The question had been gnawing at me for weeks, but here, on this rooftop, after what had just happened, it felt like the only thing left to say.
Andrej stopped. He turned slightly, just enough for me to see the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of hesitation in his expression. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before finally looking at me. "I don’t know, Petar," he admitted, his voice rough. “Fuck.”
He hesitated, as if weighing whether to say more. Then, he let out a small, humorless laugh. "It’s not like I planned for this to happen," he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced at me then, eyes searching, as if he expected me to have an answer he didn’t. "It just happens. And then it happens again."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a little more before finally sitting down on the low concrete ledge, elbows on his knees. "I don’t think about it when we’re doing it," he admitted. "I just… I don’t know what the fuck to do with it."
I took another drag of my cigarette, letting the silence stretch between us. I knew what he meant. I felt it too. The way everything made sense when we were tangled up in each other, only for that clarity to dissolve the moment reality seeped back in.
"You don’t regret it," I said, watching him carefully.
He didn’t answer right away. He looked at the city instead, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against his knee. "No," he said finally. "That’s the fucked-up part. I don’t."
Was that the fucked-up part?
—
In retrospect, this night was particularly difficult for me. I reflect upon it even now, all these years later, with the clarity of someone who has lived a few more lives, worn a few more skins. Back then, I had written in some abandoned draft of this story that this was the night everything between Andrej and me began—but that wasn’t quite true. With time and distance, I’ve learned to look back on our story with softer eyes, eyes no longer choked by guilt or the trembling shame of a boy who loved where he wasn’t supposed to.
It didn’t begin here, on this rooftop, though that’s what I believed at the time.
It began the moment I saw him beside me at the MMA center, shirtless, his chest rising and falling with every breath, beads of sweat tracing the edges of his muscles like a map. That moment cracked something open in me. This night was just escalation.
The city below buzzed gently, almost unaware of the chaos running through my blood. I looked at him again—now seated on the ledge with the kind of posture that looked relaxed but was anything but. He was always holding something back. Always carrying the weight of something he didn’t know how to name. And God help me, I wanted to carry it for him.
I pulled out my phone and texted my mom that I was staying over at Andrej’s grandma’s place. It wasn’t a lie. Not technically. We had done that dozens of times, long before any of this. She’d smile through the receiver and say something like, “Pozdravi je—say hello to her,” even though she hadn’t seen Andrej’s grandmother in months.
When we got to the apartment, it was quiet—always was. She was already asleep in the back room. There was something sacred about that silence, like stepping into a church. Even though it was nearly midnight, I felt wide awake, my pulse still singing from the rooftop, from the sex hours before, from the unspoken things hanging between us.
We didn’t talk much. He let me go to the bathroom first. When I came back into the bedroom, he was already sitting on the mattress in his boxers, the glow of the streetlamp outside painting soft shadows across his body. He looked at me, and I knew.
There was no prelude this time.
No need for games or glances. The moment I sat beside him, his hand found the back of my neck, and his lips pressed against mine—not urgent this time, not demanding. Just present. A tether pulling us into each other with something that felt dangerously close to care.
We kissed like we had time. Like we’d be allowed to have more.
But something shifted quickly. Maybe it was the weight of everything we hadn’t said. Maybe it was just the nature of us. The kiss deepened, hands roaming with renewed hunger. His palm slid under my shirt, fingers spreading across my ribs like he needed to anchor himself there. I moaned into his mouth, and he quickly, silently hushed me with a grin and a single finger across my lips.
“We’ll wake her,” he whispered, voice low, thick with arousal. “And she’ll think I’ve finally lost my mind.”
I grinned, breathless, and he took the distraction to push me back onto the bed, hovering above me.
It was different this time. Slower, but not gentler. More deliberate. Like we knew now exactly what we wanted from each other.
He entered me with more care, but once he was inside, the rhythm built quickly. The thrust of his hips carried weight and precision, like a language we were still learning but already fluent in. I clenched the sheets, biting the inside of my wrist to keep quiet, to avoid calling out his name into the shadows of the room. His fingers splayed over my chest, pressing into my skin, tracing along my collarbone. My thighs wrapped around him instinctively.
He leaned down, his forehead pressed to mine, and we moved together like that—breathing in tandem, our sweat mixing, our bodies fusing in a rhythm that made the rest of the world disappear. His lips brushed my cheek, my temple, my jaw. The moments of tenderness startled me as much as the ferocity of our need.
There were moments I thought I might cry.
Not from pain—but from the staggering intensity of it all. The confusion. The joy. The fact that I didn’t know where this was going, or if it could ever survive outside the heat of a bed. But in that moment, I didn’t want it to end.
And when he finished, he buried his face in the crook of my neck and stayed there, breath hot against my skin, hand still holding mine.
I came in silence, my body shaking, overwhelmed, unable to do anything but cling to him and hope this feeling wouldn’t vanish in the morning.
But it did.
Even now, when I revisit that night, I remember not just the pleasure, but the fragility of it all. Like holding fire in your hands and pretending it won’t burn. Like pretending the world wouldn’t ask us to choose—between the truth of what we felt and the lie of what was expected.
That night, though, we didn’t choose.
We just let it happen.
And when we finally slept, our legs tangled and the sweat on our skin drying slowly in the night air, I couldn’t tell anymore where his body ended and mine began.
