Char’s aim was off, perhaps deliberately, painting half the Zabi’s face in white warmth. With one eye covered, he looked like a cyclops or those military machines he spoke of; dangerous and stunning. The kneeling heir swept the stickiness off, involuntarily winking in the process. “How eager,” he said breathlessly, as he took in his partner, now only metaphorically. The two were prime sportsmen, using the facilities for recreational purposes even in the after-hours.
“This is nothing more than a bonding exercise, ok?” Char returned the gaze as though his spine wasn’t zinging from arching against tile or that his expression had never been half-lidded in his entire life, much less now. His fingers continued carding their way through purple, before moving to the prince’s lips, wiping his own wetness away. “You know you’re the best at raising my, morale.” His voice echoed in the damp walls of the shower room, rebounding off their bodies and into oblivion.
Garma kept leaning into the thumb against his lower lip, fuck drunk enough to be dangerously relaxed. “Can we switch, uh, sparring positions?” He was easy enough to satisfy, but he did have a point: one roommate had yet to taste the other. Char half-heard, busy studying if his hair color was natural or dyed head-to-toe in that regal shade. Even nude, it was hard to tell. He might lose his own bet with himself.
“At our next practice,” he responded with the gentle pour of a rinse-bucket. Garma the well-groomed, going without shampoo. With a few sloshes, the liquid evidence of lust pooled down the drain, out of sight. Practice was all this really was, no? Garma had an eye for girls.