Some stories don't begin with forever, or even a kiss.
They begin with something lighter, a dare, a costume, a
night when the air smells like sugar and the streets glow
orange. Welcome to Men being too
intimate. An audio story series exploring
what happens when two men blur the emotional lines between
logic and laughter, between rivalry and something quieter. 8
episodes, 8 MBTI pairings, 8 moments where chemistry hides in
plain sight. In today's story, we meet an
ENTP, loud, daring, quick to make a game of anything, and an
INTP, reserved, precise, the kind of man who resists until he
doesn't. It's Halloween in Chicago.
One insists on a couple's costume, the other argues every
detail. But when the night turns into a
bet who can stay in character longer, it stops being about
candy or costumes or even the party.
It becomes something else. This is episode 2, the costume
bet. The apartment isn't much.
A 2 bedroom walk up in Lakeview, just north of Belmont, the kind
of place where the windows rattle in the wind off Lake MI
and the hardwood floors creak even when no one's moving.
It's early October, and Chicago is already flirting with cold.
From the couch, Ethan scrolls his phone with restless energy.
Ian sits in the armchair across the room, laptop balanced on his
knee, half watching a muted hockey game on TV.
They've been roommates for two years now, friends even longer.
Friends who cook together out of convenience, who argue about the
thermostat, who somehow always end up in the same room, even
when they swore they needed space.
Tonight, the talk is about Halloween.
Ethan throws it out first. Should we decorate like it's
nothing? But he's already picturing
orange lights in the window, plastic skeletons on the fire
escape. Ian doesn't even look up why we
don't get trick or treaters on the 3rd floor.
Vibe check. Ethan counters.
Festive seasonal. Waste of money.
Ian replies, scrolling the next volley.
Candy. Ethan insists they need it.
Ian says no one comes here. Ethan claims he will come here
every night looking for sugar. Ian just raises a brow.
You live here. I'll knock on your room for
trick or treat. Then it's pumpkins.
Who's buying them? Who's carrying them up three
flights of stairs? Ethan nominates Ian.
Ian vetoes immediately. The bickering isn't mean, but
it's endless, and under it, something else stirs, the kind
of charge that makes silence feel heavier than noise.
Eventually, the debate swerves toward costumes.
Ethan rattles off duos like it's a Brainstorm session.
Superheroes, vampires. Ironic meme fits.
Ian shoots each one down. Overdone.
So pre pandemic already cringe. Ethan groans, flopping back on
the couch. Fine, what's your idea then?
Ian doesn't have one. He just mutters let's take a
break and flicks over to YouTube.
The algorithm offers up a grainy black and white clip,
Frankenstein lumbering across the screen, arms stiff and
awkward. The sound crackles through old
speakers. The apartment smells faintly of
old wood and microwaved ramen. Outside, the wind off the lake
rattles the windows, but inside the warmth is louder. 2
roommates circling each other with words.
That's it even says, grinning. We go as Frankenstein and the
scientist? Ian raises A brow, unimpressed.
Obvious, done a million times. Classic, Ethan corrects,
Timeless. And just like that, the spark
ignites again. Not anger, but that familiar
charge between them. Ethan leans forward, quick,
insistent. Eon doesn't flinch, doesn't give
ground. Who gets to be the scientist who
gets stuck as the monster? Another round begins.
Ethan claims the mastermind role with a smirk.
EM refuses, declaring he's the only one with the brains for it.
The bickering turns kinetic. A shove, a laugh, and before EN
can retreat to safety, Ethan pounces.
Suddenly they're tangled on the couch cushions, limbs caught,
laughter spilling too loud for the hour.
Ian resists with logic, complaining about angles,
leverage. This isn't fair.
Ethan answers with momentum. In a final push, Ethan pins him
breathless, grinning from above. I'm the brain, he declares,
triumphant. You're the grumpy monster.
For a second, neither moves. The laptop hums.
The glow from the black and white film paints their faces in
flickering light. It's still a joke, still framed
as play, but the weight of Ethan leaning over Ian lingers too
long to be casual. And in that pause, just long
enough to notice, the line between roommates and something
else blurs. Weekends in Lakeview always feel
a little louder. Clark St. hums with strollers
and dogs, the smell of coffee drifting out of corner shops,
paper bats taped to doors that won't stay flat.
The city carries the season in small ways, but for Ethan and
Ian, the errand itself is the story.
Ethan has been ready since breakfast, sneakers tapping,
jacket already on, while Eon insists on washing 2 bowls
because coming home to a clean kitchen is not optional.
They step out into the chill, Ethan pointing at every
decoration like a tour guide EN calling each one a hazard until
the store finally swallows them. Inside, the air is sharp with
rubber and sugar fluorescence buzzing overhead.
A plastic witch cackles every time someone brushes her sensor,
which Ethan does twice on purpose.
Candy is first. Ethan doesn't shop, he builds a
tower. Peanut butter cups, sour warms
lollipops, bright as hazard signs.
He cradles them like treasure. Ian follows behind, wordless at
first, removing one bag at a time with the precision of a man
undoing a mistake. It takes Ethan a moment to
notice. By the 3rd subtraction, he stops
dead in the aisle. Excuse me?
He hisses, affronted. This is sabotage.
It's survival. Ian replies, eyes on the
ingredients list of something no one has ever read.
If you add one more, I'm skipping the party and handing
these out on the porch. The words land like a threat but
feel like a promise. Ethan freezes, wounded.
Then, with exaggerated solemnity, he replaces a bag of
sour worms. He keeps the peanut butter cups
fine, but history will remember this betrayal.
They move on Decorations next. Ethan runs commentary as if
hosting a tour. Net lights ambient, a skeleton
in a sombrero. Festive internationalism.
A fog machine with a skull staple to the box.
Elevated atmosphere, Ian vetoes each without slowing.
Orange and black, Ian adds. Finally, almost as a ruling, are
objectively the worst color pairing in existence.
They make furniture look I'll so one pumpkin.
That's it, Ethan cries, hands raised like a martyr.
One, Ian says, walking carved outside the door. 2 Ethan
counters instantly. Symmetry.
A long pause, then the sigh of resignation.
Fine, 2 but you carve them. Ethan locks an arm around his
shoulders, triumphant. At least bake me a pie, he
sings, voice too close to Ian's ear.
Ian doesn't shrug him off. Yes, he says flat, but we're not
buying pre made crust. The tension lingers, warm even
as they reach the last gauntlet. Costumes.
The racks are forests of polyester, wigs dangling like
weeds, masks grinning half melted under fluorescent light.
Ethan rushes in head first, parading options with mock
seriousness. A Cape, A pirate hat, A sequin
vest. No, Ian says again and again.
I said no. When a Cape swirls too close,
that one is a hate crime against fabric.
When Ethan holds up the vest like treasure, their voices
climb the aisle like a script they've rehearsed 100 times.
Two teenagers peek from behind devil horns.
A woman in a witch hat hides a smile.
Finally, Ethan brandishes a lab coat.
Couple costume. Efficient branding.
We are not a brand. Ian deadpans.
We're two men in an apartment who will regret photos of
ourselves later, guys. A clerk is materialized, arms
crossed, badge Askew. Keep it down, please.
They freeze. Silence stretches, then Ethan
laughs too loud, and Ian, against his own instincts, joins
in. The clerk shakes her head and
wanders off. The laughter lingers, thins into
something warmer. Ethan leans closer, his grin
still crooked. We're already the show.
He says, voice lower now. Ian looks at him as if
recalibrating A measurement. His mouth doesn't move, but the
edges shift. Then let's not get cancelled for
volume, which is Ian for. I'm not leaving yet.
And when Ian thinks the fight is over, Ethan proves otherwise.
He circles back to the racks, flipping carefully through the
clothes. Lab coats, patched jackets, torn
pants. For once, his chaos is
deliberate, precise. Ian checks his watch, impatient.
We already decided Frankenstein. And the scientist just pick.
Decided. Ethan says, but not perfected.
He studies stitches, tilts fabric in the light, frowns
until he finally nods. A set chosen.
They head toward the counter, but halfway there, Ethan stops
short. The makeup section glows with
rows of paint sticks and cheap pallets.
He crouches, scanning, until he finds it.
A wicked witch makeup kit, perfect green tucked inside.
He grins, holding it up like a trophy.
This will do. Green is the new black.
Ian mutters. You're impossible.
Then only winks, tossing the kit onto the pile.
You'll thank me later. By the day of Halloween, the
pumpkins on the landing had already hardened into grin
mouthed guardians, Ethan's handiwork, clean cuts, sharp
teeth, eyes just mischievous enough to look alive.
Inside, the apartment smelled of spice and sugar.
Ian moved with steady precision in the kitchen, pulling a pie
from the oven like it was an exam he'd studied for golden
crust. Steam curling upward, he slid it
onto the counter with quiet satisfaction.
Ethan was already dressed, or half dressed.
The lab coat swished as he hovered, sleeves rolled up,
black gloves tucked in his pocket.
He circled the kitchen like a restless crow, eyes darting
between the pie and Ian's face. Best roommate ever.
He declared, snatching a fork and cutting in before the pie
had even settled. Ian muttered something about
cooling times, but Ethan only grinned, talking around the
bite. Unbelievable.
You're wasted in accounting. This is Michelin star.
Ian tried not to look pleased, which only made him look more
so, but Ethan's focus shifted fast, as it always did, high,
abandoned. He held up a brush like a wand.
Now my creation awaits. Ian gave him a flat look.
I'm not your creation. You are tonight.
Ethan tapped the brush against his palm.
Impatient, almost giddy, Ian disappeared into his room with
the bundle of thrifted clothes, pants sagging, shirt torn,
buttons mismatched. When he reemerged, the
transformation was half complete, ridiculous, shapeless,
a parody of himself. Ethan nearly jumped to his feet.
My prodigy, He exclaimed, arms wide as if presenting him to an
invisible crowd born of scraps stitched together by genius.
Ian sighed, but didn't move. When Ethan swooped closer, the
first touch of paint was cold, dragging green across his cheek.
Their eyes met, held the brush, hovered for a beat too long
before moving again. Silence hummed under the sound
of the fridge, under Ethan's two bright jokes.
Hold still, he murmured, brushing along Ian's jaw, over
his temple, down the curve of his neck.
Each stroke required closeness. Each closeness lingered.
When the brush traced lower across his collarbone, Ian
flinched just slightly, enough to be noticed.
Ethan laughed too quickly, covering it with bravado.
What, am I making you nervous? The words landed heavier than he
meant. His grin faltered, but he didn't
take them back, didn't apologize.
He just kept painting, quieter now, each stroke slower.
Ian didn't answer, but something shifted.
His chest rose sharper. His body stayed still, but not
relaxed. Ethan leaned in to paint the
curve of Ian's shoulder, brush steady, grin tilted.
That's when he noticed the shift.
His gaze dipped lower, caught it before he could stop himself.
You getting hard on me? He blurted, half a joke, half
too honest. Ian froze, eyes darting down as
if he could will his body into stillness.
He shifted his stance, hands lowered, trying to hide what was
already obvious. Ethan's first instinct was
regret, but instead he threw his arms wide, brush held high like
a conductor's baton. Of course my creation is a man.
He announced in a mad scientist flourish, voice loud enough to
rattle the cupboards. It's alive, it's powerful, it's
rock hard. It works.
Ian groaned, dragging a hand down his painted face, muttering
you're impossible. But there was the faintest pull
at the corner of his mouth, the ghost of a smile he didn't want
to give away. The tension didn't vanish, not
really. It only shifted, tucked into
laughter that wasn't quite safe. Ethan returned to his work,
quieter now, but every brush stroke felt different, every
line between joke and truth thinner than before.
The party is already chaos when they arrive aloft near
Wrigleyville, pulsing with base, the air thick with beer and fog
machine smoke. Every corner is a collage of
costumes, angels with glittered wings, vampires dripping red
syrup, superheroes clinking cans.
No one is out of character. Ethan thrives in it instantly.
His lab coat flares with every spin, his gloves snapping and
dramatic gestures. He plays the part of mad
scientist to the hilt, laughing too loud, pulling people into
photographs, proclaiming Ian his creation to anyone who'll
listen. But it's Ian who stands out.
His green skin catches the light in a way that makes him look
more statue than joke. The ripped clothes hang just
enough to suggest not hide. The deadpan he carries so
naturally becomes a performance in itself, magnetic, without
effort. People notice.
They laugh at his one liners, lean in too close and Ian,
awkward but steady, doesn't retreat at first.
They move together, Ethan dragging him onto the makeshift
dance floor, their shoulders brushing their rhythm, clumsy
but shared. Drinks appear, disappear, refill
themselves. The heat of the room grows, and
somewhere in the middle of it all, they get separated.
Ethan disappears into a knot of old friends, hugging, dancing,
throwing his arm over shoulders with that reckless charm that
makes him impossible to lose in a crowd.
He thrives on the chaos, fueled by every laugh, every drink
passed into his hand. Ian, meanwhile, drifts.
He isn't searching for attention, but it finds him.
Someone tall, sharp grin, costume indistinct in the haze,
pulls him aside with a hand on his arm, starts asking
questions, starts leaning closer.
So who's the scientist? The stranger asks, nodding at
Ethan across the room. Ian shrugs.
Just a roommate. The words aren't cold.
They're simple, flat, as if stating a fact.
But in the noise, in the wrong ears, they sound like
permission. Because one of Ethan's friends
hears them, half hidden behind a mask, drink in hand, catching
the exchange like gossip in motion.
The Feren peels away from the crowd and cross the room to
where Ethan is laughing mid story.
Tap him on the shoulder, lean in.
Hey. He says, low but pointed.
Your monster just gave someone the green light.
The words slide through Ethan like a switch.
His grin freezes, then falters. The music doesn't dim, but
suddenly it feels too loud. His glass tilts in his hand,
forgotten. His eyes find Ian across the
room, cornered, smiling faintly. Someone else leaning closer than
Ethan wants to see. And just like that, jealousy
blooms. Ethan can't stop watching the
way the stranger leans in too close, the way his hand brushes
Ian's sleeve, then stays there. The way Ian goes still, not
resisting, not inviting, just frozen in that quiet way of his.
Something sour twists in Ethan's chest.
He lifts his beer, drains it in one pole, the glass clinking too
hard on the table. His laugh is gone.
His gloves creak as he clenches his hands.
Then he steps forward. The room tilts a little with
each stride, alcohol blurring the edges, but his focus doesn't
waver when he reaches them. The words come out rougher than
he planned. He's my creation.
And before Ian can react, before the stranger can even blink,
Ethan leans in and kisses him. It isn't a soft kiss.
It's messy, fierce, tasting of beer and bravado.
For a heartbeat, Ian doesn't move.
The stranger's hand hovers awkwardly, as if ready to
intervene, until Ian's arm lifts, palm settling against
Ethan's face, Not pushing, not pulling, just there enough to
make the stranger back off, muttering, disappearing into the
crowd. The music keeps pounding, people
keep dancing, but the world has narrowed to two.
Ian's hand lingers one second longer, then he presses, gently,
pushing Ethan back. His voice is low, steady,
cutting through the haze. You're drunk, let's go home.
Ethan stumbles, his knees giving way as he nearly hits the floor.
He laughs once, hollow, scrambling back up.
His coat flares, his hair is a mess, and his eyes shine too
brightly. Yup.
He says, breathless, almost grinning.
Definitely drunk. And with that, the night tilts
again, away from the crowd, toward the door, toward the
quiet waiting outside. The taxi ride is a blur of neon
bending across wet pavement. Ethan leans heavy against the
window, laughter thinning into a low hum.
Ian keeps a steady arm across his chest, catching him each
time the car sways. By the time they reach the third
floor, Ethan is half leaning, half hanging on him at the top
of the stairwell. Their pumpkins wait by the
apartment door, One tall, one round, carved clean with hollow
grins. In their stumble, Ethan's
shoulder knocks the taller one. It wobbles, tips and rolls down
the hall, bumping against the wall with a dull thud before
coming to rest on its side. The round one stays where it was
placed, steady by the door. Ian exhales alongside through
his nose, but doesn't go after it.
His hand never loosens from Ethan's arm.
Inside, the apartment smells faintly of spice, gone cool.
Ian steers Ethan toward the sofa, lowering him with careful
patience. Ethan lands in a sprawl of lab
coat and laughter, hair must, gloves long gone.
Ian straightens, ready to step back, but Ethan's hand closes
around his wrist, pulling him forward, down, closer.
I think. Ethan's voice is rough, soft but
certain. I like you.
The words hang in the air, heavier than the night.
Then he pulls Ian in and kisses him.
It's messy, tasting of beer and urgency.
Ian stiffens, one hand braced against the cushion, but Ethan
clings harder, refusing to let him slip away.
Ian breathes finely, lips barely brushing his.
His voice is steady, measured even now.
But you're drunk. Ethan only shakes his head,
kisses him again, fiercer this time.
The sofa shifts under them as their bodies pressed closer,
heat and laughter tangled with silence.
The night folds around them, clumsy and real, breaking open
into something neither of them can take back.
Just outside the door, One Round Pumpkin still sits upright,
steady in its glow, while it's taller twin lies tilted against
the wall, it's grin knocked sideways in the dark.
Dawn in Lakeview is quiet. The streets below are muted,
delivery trucks idling at corners, a stray siren muffled
by distance. On the sofa, 2 bodies lie
tangled, Ethan shirtless, half sprawled, one arm draped across
Ian's chest. Ian stirs first, the cushions
digging into his ribs, the weight of another body pinning
him down. For a moment he doesn't move,
just listens to Ethan's slow, uneven breathing, the kind that
follows a night blurred at the edges.
Then, carefully, he slips free. The room is pale with dawn,
coats thrown over chairs, shoes abandoned near the door.
Ian pauses, looks at Ethan for a long second, bare, defenseless,
hair messy across his forehead, then pads quietly toward his
room. When he returns, washed and
changed, Ethan hasn't moved. He sprawled deeper into the
cushions, one leg tangled in the blanket like he lost the fight
with it. Ian exhales softly, then heads
for the kitchen. The motions are automatic,
chicken simmering in broth, ginger shaped thin noodles
softening in steam. Coffee drips steady into a pot.
The smell fills the apartment, warm against the brittle air
outside. By the time it's done, Ian
carries a bowl back to the sofa. He crouches low, touching
Ethan's shoulder. Wake up, he murmurs.
Ethan groans, eyes cracking open, face creased.
Can't eat, He Mumbles, voice thick, but then his gaze lifts,
catches the steam curling from the bowl, the set of Ian's jaw,
the effort behind it. Slowly, he props himself up,
takes the spoon. The first taste is small, the
second larger. By the third, he sighs, long,
soft, something loosening inside him.
He sets the spoon down and looks at Ian.
I meant it last night, Ethan says quietly, no laugh behind it
this time. I meant every word.
I am ready. Are you?
The words are bare for once, not wrapped in performance.
Eon doesn't answer right away. He leans in, and Ethan meets him
halfway. Their lips brush, then hold,
steadier than the night before. When the kiss deepens, Ethan
shifts closer. The blanket falls, the space
between them disappearing. His body betrays him, urgent,
alive, undeniable. Ian pulls back just enough to
smirk, breath ghosting against his lips.
You getting hard on me? Ethan laughs, half embarrassed,
half relieved, and the morning carries forward, heavier and
lighter all at once. ENTP and INTP, the spark and the
stillness. 1 restless, reckless, always chasing the next idea.
The other, quiet, measured, holding back until he can't
anymore. Together they bickered like
oxygen, every fight another way of staying close, every argument
another step toward the same truth.
What began as jokes, as costumes, as a night too loud to
remember, ended with something neither of them could deny.
That's what happens when men are too intimate, when the lines
blur, when a kiss says more than logic ever could.
This was Ethan and Ian, a story of play and resistance, of
jealousy and confessions and the morning after, where even in
hangovers they finally admitted what had always been there.