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Water beads on the end of Colin's nose, and he rubs his already-soaked sleeve over it.

Standing quietly off to the side between takes, he watches as the normally oh-so-professional Bradley's composure cracks further and further with each take of this godforsaken scene.

They're both soaked through with faux rain, and Bradley's heavy chainmail must be an exhausting burden.

Bradley swings his sword to and fro, water splashing from its blade in tiny bursts, the metal mail clinking and grinding with every pass of his arm.

"Hurry up," Bradley rasps under his breath, shooting an evil glare at the crew, and a spike of excitement slices through Colin's gut.

The fake rain plasters Bradley's hair to his cheek, and even in this unpleasant cold, the red flush of exertion glows on his skin, like roses high on his cheeks.

Colin can't look away.

Quietly, he prods the bees' nest of Bradley's mood. "They're taking forever," he almost-whispers, watching with darkened eyes as Bradley beats the living shit out of the practice dummy. 

His breath comes faster as Bradley grunts hoarsely, voice breaking with the effort.

They can take as long as they want, Colin thinks, digging his fingers into the wall at his back, while Bradley slices the air with deliciously hot anger.

As long as they fucking want.