At the start of it all, Kent's Power City Gym wasn't just a place—it was a cult, and Matty? The unholy mascot, the lightning rod for every wild rumor and daily disaster. His six-month obsession with Arslan was less "adoration" and more "full-contact emotional wrestling," complete with wardrobe changes that defied reason and flirtation that violated several known laws of physics.
When Matty finally blurted out the date invite, the gym exploded like someone set fire to a keg full of protein shakes. Every member pulled out their phones like it was the second coming of pop culture history. Contacts at restaurants were called. Reservations cancelled. Everyone cleared their calendars to witness the disaster-slash-glory of Matthew and Arslan's first "official" date.
Fast forward to 6:58 PM. The streets of Kent hummed with gossip and anticipation, and rumors ran wilder than Matty's latest questionable fashion choice.
The couple stood at the door of a Chinese restaurant that was either the chicest place in Kent or the only one with a table left for a date of this magnitude. Arslan—still a walking contradiction wrapped in muscle and mystery—leaned casually, somehow radiating 'I own a nation but can't be bothered to ask for a menu.' Matthew, sparkling like a cocktail of glitter and chaos, tugged at Arslan's sleeve, his grin wide enough to blind small children.
"Bottom taking top on a date," someone whispered in the street. A bold move, but hey, power dynamics were never just about height or gym reps.
The restaurant's door swung open like the gates of a secret kingdom. Inside, the scent of soy, garlic, and something suspiciously like hope filled the air. Matthew scanned the room, already planning his running commentary for every course. Arslan, silent as a bomb, just flexed a smile tight enough to send the entire Cantonese menu into submission.
Tonight wasn't just dinner. It was an event. A turning point. And Kent had front-row seats.
The betting board back at Power City looked like a Wall Street meltdown had a threesome with Eurovision and a telenovela. There were literal screams in the sauna when Arslan asked for dessert. Dessert. The man had just devoured enough calories to make a nutritionist file for bankruptcy and now—dessert?
The odds had shifted seventeen times since they sat down.
"Arslan smiles before the fortune cookie: 50 to 1."
"Matthew accidentally flirts in Mandarin and proposes: 10 to 1."
"Chef enters with cabbage soup: no one saw that one coming."
Meanwhile, back at the restaurant, Matthew was on his fifth giggle loop, twirling his straw like it was a scepter of gay authority. His leg had found its way to rest against Arslan's under the table, and Arslan didn't move it. Which, for Matthew, was like being canonized by a silent daddy demigod.
Then the doors to the kitchen opened like it was a boss fight.
Out came a chef in a pristine white jacket, eyebrows like calligraphy, holding a steaming bowl of something ancient and reverent.
He approached like a monk approaching a shrine. "For you," he said in Mandarin, placing the bowl in front of Arslan with both hands. "My grandmother's cabbage soup. It means… you are a man of honor and appetite."
Arslan nodded once. Just once. The entire restaurant fell into dead silence like someone muted reality.
Then he took a sip.
And said, "很好." (Very good.)
Matthew nearly passed out. The livestream chat back at the gym EXPLODED:
"HE SPOKE AGAIN OMG OMG THAT'S EIGHT WORDS TOTAL"
"IS THE CHEF FLIRTING TOO WTF"
"THIS IS BETTER THAN MY WEDDING"
"HE'S GONNA PROPOSE OVER DESSERT I CAN FEEL IT"
Matthew leaned forward, slapping his hand on the table dramatically.
"So like—what's the verdict, oh stoic protein pope? Do I make the cut or are we just two ships passing in the soy sauce?"
Arslan looked up. Just slightly. Locked eyes with Matthew.
Then picked up his spoon, sipped again, and said—
"Seven p.m. Tomorrow. Your place."
The chef dropped his ladle. Three gym members fainted. Matthew's soul left his body, came back, and immediately scheduled a bikini wax and deep carpet cleaning.
Power City was now officially on fire.
By the time 6pm hit, Power City was one collective aneurysm. There were grown men sobbing in the locker room like someone had just cancelled protein. A woman with three mortgages and a gambling problem screamed, "I bet he'd wear blue—HE WORE GREY. HE'S WEARING GREY SWEATPANTS." A guy who'd bet on "Arslan saying nine words today" was now outside in the parking lot threatening to fight God.
And Matty? Oh Matty. He was floating.
Floating in some glittery astral plane where the air smelled like expensive cologne and forbidden protein bars. His pupils were dilated, his collarbones glistened like polished marble, and his grin looked like it had committed several crimes and gotten away with all of them.
People tried to grab him—"Did you know?! Did you plan this?! What the hell did you put in his cabbage soup!?"—but Matty just twirled out of their grip like a Disney princess on ketamine and vibes.
Arslan? Meanwhile?
Home. Showered. Clean. He'd towel-dried his hair like the wrath of Poseidon then proceeded to put on a black fitted t-shirt that cost more than Matty's rent and grey sweatpants that were responsible for 84% of Kent's current confusion about their sexuality.
He didn't rush. Didn't check his phone. Didn't flinch when the doorbell rang even though it was 6:48pm.
He opened the door to a Matty who looked like a final boss in a queer RPG. Platform boots. Painted nails. A mesh top with precisely zero fucks. And the same grin he'd worn when he handed over that chastity cage remote like it was a love letter wrapped in chaos.
"Hi," Matty said, breathless, like he hadn't rehearsed it a thousand times.
"Hi," Arslan replied. Ninth word of the day. Somewhere, someone won £2000.
He stepped aside, and Matty twirled in like he owned the lease.
Power City's livestream camera—hidden inside a potted fern at Matty's place because OF COURSE IT WAS—cut to black as the door shut.
And somewhere, in the heart of Kent, a man clutched his betting sheet and whispered:
"I think I just witnessed God in grey sweatpants."
[08/07, 2:39 am] Arslan Toto: Matthew woke up face-down in a pillow he didn't own, smelling like sin, sweat, satisfaction, and someone else's body wash—Arslan's to be specific, which was unfairly luxurious for a man who drove a car older than TikTok. The scent was called something stupid like Winter Woodsmoke & Male Regret, but it clung to Matty's skin like a confession.
He didn't remember all eleven rounds, just vague flashes of furniture displacement, one table collapse, and him crying "I'm a chandelier!" somewhere around the fourth position.
He groaned into the mattress.
"Am I alive or am I now gay Jesus?" he mumbled, naked and tangled in a sheet like laundry with trauma.
In the kitchen, Arslan—of course—was already dressed, hair perfect, flipping eggs like the past eight hours were just light cardio. A fresh T-shirt, loose joggers, a jawline that could file your taxes. He didn't look at Matty when he walked in, still limping like a pilgrim returning from the holy mountain.
There were pancakes. There were scrambled eggs. There was fruit that looked cut.
Matthew blinked.
"You cook?" he whispered, like Arslan had just revealed he had wings or a podcast.
Arslan finally looked up. One nod. No words. Just acknowledgment.
Matty almost fell to his knees again.
Meanwhile, Power City Gym had not closed. Not because of the schedule, but because every gym member had turned it into a 24-hour viewing party. Some dude brought a projector. Live commentary was now running in four languages. Somebody's aunt was taking bets via WhatsApp.
Hashtags were trending.
#DaddyDidIt
#MatthewSurvived
#PowerCityAfterDark
#ArslanTheAnnihilator
#ElevenRoundsAndOneBiteOfToast
The gym was thriving.
Back in the student apartment, Matthew sat down slowly, tried not to wince, took a bite of pancake, and then, in the quiet voice of a man who had been spiritually rearranged, whispered, "You made breakfast after that? You're actually a domestic top? You're the final boss. I'm marrying you."
Arslan blinked once. Picked up his coffee. Took a sip.
Didn't say a word.
Because he didn't have to. The silence said:
You already did.
Matty walked into Power City on Friday like Jesus entering Jerusalem if Jesus had glitter under his eyes, a limp with character, and screamed "I HAVE SEEN THE MOUNTAIN AND THE MOUNTAIN SEES YOU BACK!"
The gym went silent for a full three seconds before exploding into a chorus of cheers, gasps, and the sound of one middle-aged auntie fainting near the smoothie bar. Someone dropped a barbell. A protein shake exploded on impact like a tribute to fallen heroes. Bets reopened. Odds realigned. Sinners re-evaluated their choices.
He wore sunglasses indoors. His shirt said I Got Dicked Into Enlightenment. There was a faint purple bruise in the shape of Arslan's jawline on his collarbone, and he made no effort to cover it.
"I'm not saying I'm pregnant," Matthew began, grabbing the mic someone handed him—why did the gym have a mic? Who knows? "I'm saying if divine conception was a thing, I'd be in the New Testament."
The crowd screamed.
He turned to the dumbbell racks like they were a camera and yelled, "Mary walked so I could ride!"
Chaos. Actual religious panic. A priest somewhere in Kent sneezed and had no idea why.
Arslan, who had been mid-deadlift with weights heavier than moral responsibility, paused.
Just paused.
A visible twitch. A flinch. His first in months. Someone in the back screamed "WE GOT A REACTION!" and threw their protein bar like a bouquet at a wedding.
Matty pointed at him dramatically, hips cocked, sunglasses lowering just enough to reveal the glint of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
"Your boy got wrecked. And he's THRIVING."
Someone cried.
Someone lit a candle.
A guy in the corner muttered, "I'd let Arslan spiritually restructure me too," and got seven high-fives.
And Arslan?
He dropped the barbell with one hand, wiped his palms with a towel, and left the floor.
No words.
Just silent, terrifying intent.
Matty squeaked. "I—I didn't mean now, babe, I'm still—"
Too late.
The mountain moved.