Breakfast at Diner 69 #1

Two days after their altercation, the rugby group chat is on fire, and Joe still hasn't told anyone the full story - except now he's sitting across from Anders at Diner 69, and Anders already knows more than he's letting on. This is the conversation Joe's been dreading and wanting in equal measure.

The scent of burnt coffee and maple syrup clung to the vinyl booths of Diner 69, a thick, familiar and comforting sweet haze that blurred the edges of the mid-morning rush. Outside, the parking lot was a sea of rain-slicked asphalt, but inside, the air sang with the clatter of heavy ceramic plates and weekend chatter.

The open sign in the window flickered, and the second six in the name, partially dead, swayed gently outside, leaving the establishment to lean precariously toward a suggestive identity that the regulars ignored with practised indifference. It was either laziness, foolhardiness or savvy marketing that led the owners to leave it in this state of disrepair.

Joe sat opposite Anders, his fingers drumming an impatient, uneven beat against the laminated Formica tabletop. He hadn’t touched his food:

‘Eggs Benny 69’ was so called as the hollandaise was replaced with cheese sauce, then festooned with crispy onions whilst the muffins were topped with onion relish and bacon - chef’s take on a classic

Anders, by contrast, looked relaxed and entirely at home. He leaned back in the booth, his broad shoulders more than their fair share of the space. He wore a tight white t-shirt that strained across his chest, and his thick thighs threatened to overflow the confines of the vinyl seat, the fabric of his joggers pulled taut over the massive curves of his quads. He was currently dismantling a stack of pancakes with a precision that Joe found both infuriatingly calm and odd given there were no stains on the brightness of that clean t-shirt.

“You’re tense, Joe,” Anders said, his voice smooth and low, without looking up from his plate. “If you keep that up, you’re going to shake the table right into the next booth.”

“I’m fine,” Joe snapped as he stopped his drumming. He shifted his weight, the vinyl sticking to his jeans with a wet, plastic sucking sound.

Anders finally looked up. His blue eyes danced with a mixture of amusement and something sharper - curiosity. He popped a piece of pancake into his mouth, chewing slowly, letting the silence stretch until Joe’s drumming fingers started once more to fill the void.

“Fine,” Anders repeated. “Right. That’s why you’ve been staring at that dish for ten minutes like it’s a crime scene. Want to tell me why the rugby group chat is currently melting down?”

Joe stiffened. He felt a prickle of heat climb his neck, the same suffocating warmth he’d felt against the iron beams of the bleachers on Thursday.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Anders let out a short, huffing laugh, accidentally spitting out some of his mouthful. Swallowing the rest quickly, he leaned forward, his elbows hitting the table, bringing him closer. The scent of him - clean laundry and something faintly metallic, like a gym - cut through the grease of the diner.

“Don’t do the ‘socially savvy’ act with me, mate. I’m the one who introduced you to half these people. The word is out. Something about a confrontation? A lot of shouting? A very public display of… tension?”

Joe closed his eyes tightly. He could still feel James’s hand on his throat, the possessive grip that had felt like a promise and a threat all at once. He could hear the ringing of the metal beam.

“He’s a prick,” Joe whispered.

“James?” Anders arched a blonde eyebrow. “He’s a lot of things. A prick is usually on the list. But he’s not in the habit of starting fights in the shadows of the stands. What did you do, Joe? Did you finally try to eat him alive?”

“I didn’t *do* anything.”

“The rumour says otherwise. The rumour says you two were practically glued together. Some people are saying it was a fight. Others are saying it was… something else.”

Joe opened his eyes and looked at Anders with a dark stare. He meant to look angry, but his gaze betrayed him. It slid down from Anders’s face, tracing the line of his throat, the swell of his pectorals, and then dropping lower to where those massive thighs were pressed against the underside of the table. Joe felt a sudden, sharp throb in his groin, a familiar, insistent ache that made the cramped booth feel like a pressure cooker.

“You’re doing it right now,” Anders noted, his voice dropping an octave. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Doing what?”

“Devouring me. You’ve got that look. The ‘I want to see what’s under the clothes’ look.”

Joe scowled, though he didn’t look away. “You’re an arrogant bastard.”

“And you’re a voyeur who got caught in the headlights,” Anders countered. He shifted his legs, the movement causing his thigh to brush against Joe’s knee. The contact was brief, but it felt like a discharge of static electricity. “So, let’s get to the meat of it. Did you actually get him to crack, or did he just scream at you to fuck off?”

Joe sighed, his shoulders slumping. The fight drained out of him, replaced by a hollow, echoing frustration.

“He cracked. For a second. He was terrified, Anders. He was absolutely shaking with it. And then he turned into a wounded animal and told me my life was a void.”

Anders paused, his expression softening slightly, though the teasing glint remained.

“Ouch. That’s a bit heavy for a Thursday afternoon. Did you tell him his footwork is sloppy?”

“It wasn’t funny,” Joe said, his voice trembling. “I felt… I felt like he saw everything. Not just that I like watching, but that I’m actually empty. Like I only exist when I’m looking at someone else.”

Anders watched him for a moment, the noise of the diner fading into a background blur. He reached out, his large hand covering Joe’s on the table. His palm was warm, his grip firm and grounding.

“Listen to me,” Anders said, his voice devoid of the usual mockery. “James is a mess. He’s a mountain of a man who’s terrified of a breeze. He doesn’t know how to handle desire, so he turns it into a weapon. He didn’t see into your soul, Joe. He just panicked because you held up a mirror he wasn’t ready to look into.”

Joe looked at their hands. The contrast was stark - Anders’s hand was weathered, the skin toughened by years of sport, while Joe’s looked pale and fragile by comparison. He liked the weight of it. He wanted more of it.

“There’s something else,” Joe whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I think someone saw. I mean, I know someone saw. There was this… feeling. Like the air had shifted.”

Anders’s grip tightened slightly. “A witness? That’s a problem.”

“A big problem. If it gets back to the coach, or if it spreads through the team… I can handle being the ‘weird guy’ who watches. I can’t handle being the catalyst for a meltdown in the middle of the season.”

Anders let out a slow breath, his eyes narrowing.

“If there’s a recording or something, it’s currency. Someone’s going to try to spend it. The question is, who wants something from James? Or who wants something from you?”

“I don’t have anything to give,” Joe said bitterly.

“You have a very unique talent, Joe. You know how to find the cracks in people. You know how to watch and wait.”

Anders withdrew his hand, but he didn’t move back. He leaned in further, his chest nearly touching the edge of the table. The proximity was dizzying. Joe could see the faint gold stubble on Anders’s jaw the way his pupils were slightly dilated in the dim light of the diner.

“Tell me the truth,” Anders murmured. “When he had you pinned against that beam… did you like it?”

Joe swallowed hard. His throat felt tight, the memory of James’s thumb pressing against his pulse point returning with violent clarity.

“I hated it,” Joe lied.

Anders smiled, a slow, knowing expression that reached his eyes.

“You’re a terrible liar when you’re aroused, Joe. Your pupils are practically swallowing your irises.”

Joe felt his face flush with embarrassment. He tried to pull back, but there was nowhere to go. The booth held them in a tight, intimate embrace.

“Why do you care?” Joe asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Because I like a challenge. And I like the idea of you being pushed. You spend so much time observing from the sidelines, Joe. I wonder what happens when the observation ends, and the action starts.”

Anders shifted again, and this time, he didn’t pull away. He pressed his thigh firmly against Joe’s, a heavy, muscular weight that anchored Joe to the spot. He began to move his leg in a slow, rhythmic grind, the fabric of his joggers rubbing against Joe’s denim.

Joe gasped, the sound lost in the sudden crash of a tray of glasses in the kitchen.

“We’re in a public diner, Anders,” Joe breathed, though he didn’t move to stop him.

“It’s mid-morning on a Saturday. Half the people here are hungover, and the other half are too busy with their kids to notice two lads having a ‘friendly’ breakfast,” Anders whispered.

Joe’s heart hammered against his ribs. The risk was exhilarating, a mirror image of the terror he’d felt with James. But where James had been a storm of confusion and rage, Anders was a steady, confident heat.

“You’re a prick tease,” Joe whispered.

“And you’re starving,” Anders replied.

Joe looked at him - really looked at him. He saw the confidence, the effortless masculinity, the way Anders occupied space without apology. He felt a surge of longing so intense it felt like a physical weight in his chest. He didn’t just want to watch Anders; he wanted to be consumed by him. He wanted to be the one pinned against a wall, the one whose pulse was being tracked by a thumb, the one who was stripped bare and known.

“What happens if James finds out about this?” Joe asked, his voice shaking.

“James is a ghost,” Anders said, his leg continuing that slow, torturous pressure. “He’ll haunt himself long enough for us to forget he exists. Besides, if he’s as terrified as you say, he’ll be too busy hiding to worry about what we’re doing in a booth at Diner 69.”

Joe let out a shuddering breath. He reached out, his hand trembling, and rested it on Anders’s thigh. The muscle was rock hard, a pillar of strength beneath the fabric. He squeezed, his fingers digging in.

Anders let out a low chuckle, his eyes closing for a brief second. When he opened them, the playfulness was gone, replaced by a raw, focused hunger.

“You’ve got a grip on you, Joe,” Anders rasped.

“I’ve been practising,” Joe whispered.

“Is that right? And what else have you been practising? Watching me in the showers? Imagining what it feels like to have me actually touch you?”

Joe didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The air between them had become thick, humid, like the atmosphere on the pitch just before the rain broke. He could feel the heat radiating from Anders, a physical wall that shut out the rest of the diner.

“I think,” Anders said, his voice dropping an octave, “that you’ve spent enough time in the audience. Don’t you think it’s time you stepped onto the field?”

Joe’s grip tightened on Anders’s thigh. He felt a dampness at the top of his own leg, a desperate, aching need that drowned out the noise of the crowd and the fear of the recording.

“Where?” Joe asked.

“My place. Now,” Anders replied.

He pulled away suddenly, the loss of contact leaving Joe feeling cold and exposed. Anders stood up, his massive frame unfolding with a fluid grace. He reached into his pocket and tossed crumpled notes onto the table, more than the cost of the untouched eggs and the devoured pancakes.

Joe was momentarily struck by the way Anders tossed away that money; he would have had to check his banking application at least three times before buying anything.

“Coming?” Anders asked, glancing back over his shoulder.

Joe sat there for a second, frozen to the spot. He looked around the diner - the fogged windows, the flickering neon, the oblivious strangers, anywhere but Anders. He thought of James, the anger, the void, and the rumour currently doing the rounds.

Finally he looked up at Anders, who was waiting by the door, his silhouette framed by the grey light of the morning.

Joe stood up, his legs feeling like jelly. He didn’t look back at his plate. He didn’t think about the rumours. He followed the broad shoulders and the heavy stride of the man who just promised to turn the observation into reality.

As they stepped out into the rain, the cool air hit Joe’s face, snapping him back to the present. But as Anders draped a heavy arm across his shoulders, pulling him close, Joe realised that for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to be the one watching.

He wanted to be the one being seen.

They walked toward the parking lot in silence, their boots splashing through puddles. The tension from the diner hadn’t dissipated; it had merely shifted, condensing into a hard, sharp point of anticipation.

“You know,” Anders said as they reached the car, his voice light again, “if that recording actually gets out, you might as well lean into it.”

Joe paused, looking up at him. “Lean into what? Wait, what recording?”

“The reputation. The ‘freak’ who gets the rugby players worked up. It’s a powerful position to be in, Joe. Knowledge is power, but desire? Desire is leverage.”

Joe felt a flicker of the old Joe - the socially savvy connector - return. He smiled slyly.

“I think I can handle that,” Joe replied.

Anders laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed across the lot. He opened the car door and ushered Joe inside. The scent of the interior - leather, old gym bags and something else - wrapped around them like a blanket.

Anders started the engine, and the car roared to life. Joe leaned back into the seat, closing his eyes. He could still feel the ghost of the diner booth, the pressure of Anders’s thigh, and the lingering heat of a confrontation that had changed everything.

The void in his chest was still there, but as he felt Anders’s hand find his under the centre console, squeezing tight, Joe decided that maybe the void wasn’t something to be filled. Maybe it was just a space waiting for the right kind of chaos to move in.

The car pulled out of the lot, leaving Diner 69 and its flickering neon sign behind them, disappearing into the grey curtain of the rain, heading toward a place where the watching finally stopped, and the feeling began.

Joe’s spent too much time on the sidelines.

Next: what happens when the observer becomes the main character and whether James’s Thursday deadline catches up with either of them first.

Until next time,

Magnus

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