Chapter Text
Pat barely feels the pain reverberating up his leg. Instead, he feels the searing heat of humiliation travelling up his neck that renders his face and ears red. The heat of the midday sun was already getting to him, and just now, with that devastating fall that he's sure totally benched him, he feels as if he's going to explode with the heat. Or faint.
He wants to go with the former-- at least no one would have to see him be carried to the benches just a mere 20 minutes into the game despite the fact that he'd spent backbreaking WEEKS practicing his ass off if he just combusted on the spot, but he's pretty sure fainting sounds more realistic and achievable, so he entertains the notion of faking unconsciousness right then and there while his face is still planted on the grass. However, a firm hand grabs onto his arm and rolls him over before he has the chance to play dead.
Ah, shit.
Out of all the people in the goddamn field, he really has to come face to face with the bane of his existence.
"Pat?" Pran has the gall to look concerned as he looks over him. Pat thinks the tiny butterfly attempting to flutter in his stomach can drop dead.
Also, fuck that ugly ass rock sitting in the middle of this shitty field, trying to be so inconspicuous and sneakily tripping players into an early retirement.
"Why aren't you getting up? You okay?"
"What do you think? My ankle's mangled, dude." Pat thinks he's done a great job spitting the words out angrily, but the sentence comes off as more petulant and childishly dramatic.
Distantly, he hears a whistle and the footsteps of his teammates running up to him. He groans.
Pran's furrowed brows relax a bit and-- the fucking nerve-- honest to god smiles. Like, watching Pat writhe in pain after having fallen victim to this atrocious calamity is a goddamn joke to him. Pat thinks he's a relatively funny guy, but he's not here to make anyone laugh at the moment and the severity of the situation shouldn't be taken lightly.
Pat curses his traitorous heart for even attempting to skip a beat at the sight of those dimples.
Pat's thoughts are cut off as he feels the gentle touch of Pran's calloused fingers assessing the degree of injury.
"Nothing looks broken. Probably just a sprain," Pran says, shaking his head almost exasperatedly. "You'll live."
Pran is suddenly yanked away.
"What are you doing!? Get off him, you dick!" Korn, the ever hot-headed, impulsive bastard that he is, pushes Pran down to the ground.
Now, Pat's confused as to how Korn seems to have settled on the idea that Pran did something to him, given that one, said man was clearly only touching his leg, and two, the ball was nowhere near within their vicinity and therefore, tackling Pat would be an absolutely useless decision. Then again, Korn has the special ability to make the tiniest issues into giant problems, so there's that.
It comes as no surprise that in retaliation, Wai shoves at Korn's chest. He gets all up in his face, growling at him menacingly. "Hey! Are you looking for a fight!?"
"What's going on?" the referee asks.
"He hurt Pat!" Korn accuses.
He absolutely did not, but Pat, right at this very moment, is too dumbfounded and surprised by the sudden scuffle that he's unable to voice out that he had, in fact, only tripped over a rock.
"Actually, I--"
"Well, this is a very physical sport, you know. If he can't take getting hurt, then he shouldn't be playing in the first place. Pussy," Wai spits out viciously.
"Wai!" Pran gets up to his feet and tries to push the rest of his bristling teammates away from the other players.
Pat feels his skin prick with fury. He sits up, blood boiling.
"Hah! That's rich, coming from someone with sub-par skills," he snorts. "You're just chicken-shit. All of you in the architecture department."
"Pat, shut the fuck up," Pran says menacingly.
"What?" he responds, smirking. "It's true!"
The collar of his jersey is jerked up violently, but he doesn't so much as blink at the sight of the other man's vicious glare. He pretends the heat building in his gut is all thanks to the sun and the fury he feels.
"You..."
"Boys, stop this. You still have a game to play," The referee tries to interfere, but his voice goes unheard, drowned out by another voice.
"We're chicken-shit!? Well, the engineering department's full of fuckboys... And they still have no game! LOL that's embarrassing!"
It's unclear who started punching who first, but within a span of a few seconds, there's an all-out brawl that lasts a whole 2 minutes before they're finally dispersed by field staff.
Pat and Pran just continue to sit there, glaring daggers at one another.
The game gets cut short, and it becomes apparent no one thought of the consequences of partaking in "violent" behaviour on campus grounds. Those who took part in the brawl are reprimanded by the referee, who, after having been reduced to a background character, finally exercises his devastating rights and influence over the teams and has them picking between getting banned from playing, or doing community service for 2 months.
As expected, everyone goes with the latter.
It's now been an hour since the fateful match and practically everyone has gone home to wallow over the day's events, with those involved tending to their bruises and hurt egos by talking shit about the other team and whatever.
Pat stays behind because although he didn't directly participate in the fighting, he still did sprain his ankle, and so he has to get it tended to by the on-site medical team. He groans as it's sprayed and then wrapped tightly.
Across from him, he sees Pran frantically trying to explain something to the referee, and their eyes meet. Pran frowns.
"Pat! You okay?" His friends come up beside him. "Does your feet still hurt? We'll help you get home."
"Ah, no," he waves them off. "My foot's fine. It doesn't hurt that much now after they sprayed it. You guys go on home."
"What! We can wait for you!"
"Nah, it's fine. I've gotta talk to the ref about something. Plus, I need a hot shower first."
"Dude, it's cool, we can wait!"
"I swear, I can go back by myself, you guys!" Pat says. "Anyway, it's the weekend. You hurry on home. Ah, look, Korn has a giant black eye. You better ice that quick."
"Ugh. I took that punch for you, man."
Pat grits his teeth. I didn't ask you to.
They finally go on their way and Pat turns towards Pran and the referee.
"I said I didn't do anything. His teammate just started accusing me."
"Okay, but your actions still ended up causing the fight. You are responsible for your teammates' behaviour and you barely did anything to stop them."
"I was surprised! And they were aggressive! You really think I'd hit Pat out of nowhere? He fell on his own!"
"That's right, sir," Pat finally cuts in. He bows apologetically. "I fell first. It was my fault. I didn't speak up and my teammates just assumed the worst."
The referee scowls. "Right. But you didn't stop them either. In fact, you practically encouraged the animosity earlier. This rivalry between your faculties is ridiculous. Where is your sense of sportmanship? You need to learn to mediate conflicts between yourselves. You're all grown adults. You can't keep fighting like children."
At that, both Pat and Pran are flustered at the admonishment, and they lower their heads in embarrassment.
"Reflect on your behaviours."
After another round of apologies, they watch the referee turn around and continue writing on his board, no doubt making a detailed report on what happened.
Pran turns away abruptly and heads towards the locker rooms. Pat follows suit, hobbling around slightly because of his injury.
They're both quiet as they enter.
Pat steals glances as he makes his way over to his locker and watches as Pran grumpily opens his own and harshly pulls out his bag. He takes his towel and a zip-loc bag filled with toiletries. He wraps his towel around his waist to cover himself as he pulls his shorts and undergarments down, puts them away, then marches away towards the communal showers, ignoring Pat as he passes by.
Frowning, Pat petulantly takes out his own set of toiletries and towel. He undresses himself the same way, and is about to enter the showers when he realises he's not supposed to get his foot wet. He rummages inside his bag for an extra plastic bag and struggles to put the plastic around his ankle. Once it's secured on and he deduces that he's done a relatively decent job at waterproofing the area, he finally (and clumsily) enters the communal showers.
He sees Pran already settled and washing himself up in the farthest stall, and he's taken aback.
Due to their different schedules and practice hours, they've never really been able to catch each other in the field, moreso in the lockers and especially in the communal showers. Hence, it comes as a surprise that Pran's washing up at Pat's favourite shower stall-- the one nobody in his team ever uses except for him.
Unlike the other stalls, it's the only one with an actual rack at the corner where he can conveniently hang his towel (instead of leaving it at the bench near the entrance) without the risk of it getting wet or mistakenly used by someone else. The stall also has a tray and soap holder bigger than the others, therefore there's ample space to place his toiletries and other skincare products that a chad like him requires to maintain his glass skin, silky straight hair and his dashing good looks.
Honestly, he doesn't know what the fuck he's slathering onto his face and body--he just knows he has a random assortment of expensive products, albeit stolen, from Paa.
He doesn't think she minds, though; their shared bathroom is so close to overflowing with her endless collection of beauty and skincare products, that he's basically doing her a favour by actually using the ones she barely touches before they pass their expiration date and are forced down the bin.
He's pretty sure he also has an age-defying, collagen, aloe vera and tea tree-infused retinol cream with SPF from Mount Everest or some shit shoved in his bag. He doesn't want to touch it though, because its consistency is akin to that of a specific viscous fluid that so happens to rhyme with "hum".
The speed and temperature of the water raining down from the showerhead in that stall also happens to be the best in Pat's opinion-- the rest are either too weak, too strong, too cold or too hot.
Hence, it's only natural that it's Pat's favourite stall.
There's this urge to go up to Pran and demand he go shower somewhere else, but it never really occured to Pat to display a giant neon sign over the showerhead with his name on it, nor did he put a ring on it, therefore, he has no claim to it.
He also deduces that he's no longer 5 and should not be so possessive of a goddamn shower stall.
Pat chooses to shower in the one directly next to it instead.
After begrudgingly placing his towel on a bench, he limps over to it. He turns the shower knob, careful to avoid the cold water that immediately sprays out from the showerhead. He waits a moment, testing the temperature with his hand, then ducks under the showerhead when it's finally hot enough.
A huge, blissful sigh escapes his lips as the heat cascades down his body, and he basks in the feeling of his tense muscles finding immediate relief. It's a little too hot than what he usually prefers, but it feels heavenly once he adjusts to it. He lets out a quiet groan.
He fails to notice that the person in the other stall has stopped moving.
Pat concentrates on washing himself, minding his wrapped leg. He tries to minimise the amount of water dripping towards it so he lifts it slightly before reaching for soap.
He lathers himself up until his body is covered with bubbles and hums a little tune. At the corner of his periphery, he notices Pran huffing in annoyance, turning away from Pat as he shampoos his hair.
It's silent, and he hadn't realised it at first, but it's unbearably awkward, worsened by the fact they're showering literally right next to each other, naked as the day they were born.
He's got no problem with nudity, given it's the communal showers and everyone gives each other the privacy and respect they need; eyes politely averted from sensitive areas. He also doesn't mind if someone's line of sight happens to drift lower, and he doesn't blame them; Pat's pretty proud of himself and his package is a sight to behold. Sometimes his eyes stray too, but more out of accident and sometimes, curiousity, but no one really cares that much either. It's not that big of a deal.
Well, it shouldn't be that big of a deal, but... Pat finds himself avoiding looking at Pran's general direction, not even chancing a glance lest... Something unwanted happens. He feels... Shy.
He turns the knob to rinse himself, but the sound of the water hitting the floored tiles from Pat's stall is embarrassingly loud, and he's sure Pran must be pissed off at the fact that, out of all the places he could have chosen to bathe in, he had to choose the one next to Pran. Like a creep.
This revelation has him completely mortified, and this causes him to abruptly slap his hands over his face. It echoes loudly.
FUCK!
"...Damn mosquitoes," he murmurs, trying to save face. Why does he suddenly start acting like a bumbling fool in his most vulnerable states? Does the universe hate him?
Pran says nothing for a while, but Pat's pretty sure he hears the mocking roll of eyeballs through the other man's eyesockets.
"I'm like, apalled. It was flying around my cheek so I..."
He eventually hears a snort, and then a breathy, "Okay."
Pat tries to understand and at the same time, vehemently ignore the way his cock suddenly twitches at the sound of the other man's voice. He frowns, and he bites his lip, thinking of something else to say.
"Hey Pran, about earlier, I just wanna say that I..."
Pran unexpectedly starts walking past Pat, and he's so surprised-- why didn't he notice that he was already finished?-- that he gawks for a second before he attempts to stop him by reaching for his arm.
He forgets that his balance is currently impaired due to him lifting his sprained leg, so he finds himself falling forward.
Pat expects to collide with the wet floor face first, but instead, he feels Pran's hands on his chest and he's cushioned by the body now suddenly beneath him. They land in an awkward position and Pat, face red with embarrassment, quickly tries to get up.
"Ow! Oh god, Pran, I'm so--"
"Is falling on your face your hobby or something?" comes Pran's disgruntled voice. "If it is, can you leave me out of it? Shit."
Pat's ears heat up as he hops back up on his feet.
"It was just an accident..." He looks down, and feels himself choking on his own saliva. Pran is glaring up at him through the wet curtain of his bangs. His face is slightly flushed--from the heat of the shower, embarrassment, or something else, he's unsure-- and the water from his hair is dripping down towards his neck and chest, where they continue to trail down to his perked nipples. The towel wrapped around his waist has come almost completely undone, exposing his milky thighs salaciously.
Pat almost stops breathing entirely. He can't even describe how fast the image burns into his retinas, every detail preserved and archived to be stored alongside his core memories. He can already tell, he's gonna be wanking his dick raw to this sight for months.
Before he can stop himself, the blood that coloured his face in embarrassment, rushes down to make his cock jump shamelessly.
Pran notices Pat's wide-eyed gaze, and because he's still sprawled out on the floor, gets on his knees to stand up and finds himself within eye-level of the other man's dick.
Pat quickly covers himself with his hands, but it's too late. Pran jerks in surprise and looks up, sputtering as Pat's blushing face comes into view. he quickly tries to get up and re-secures his towel around his waist, looking frazzled and wronged.
"You fucking perv--" he spits out and marches away as fast as he can.
"I-- no! Pran! Wait," Pat fumbles over his words and tries to hobble after Pran, but the floor is too slippery, so he slips and falls again. Pain reverberates up his leg and he curses as he realises the plastic he'd tied around it has come undone.
"Ah... Shit."
He clenches his teeth and wallows in his misery, angrily cursing his traitorous cock. All the while, the shower continues to spew out hot water, and he finds that his wrapped injury is starting to get wet.
Suddenly, the water stops running and he's grabbed by the arms, and he finds himself unexpectedly standing upright. His own towel is thrown towards him and he stares at Pran, who resolutely refuses to look back at him.
"I can go walk by myself--"
"The floor's all slippery. At this rate, you're going to hit your head and suffer brain damage with how frequently you keep falling."
At that, Pran grabs Pat's elbow, supporting him as he hobbles back towards the locker rooms. He's made to sit on one of the wooden benches, and Pran kneels down to grab his foot and inspect the soaked bandages.
"It's wet."
Like, duh. "It'll dry."
"Do you have muscle spray?"
"No."
Pran goes towards his locker, rummages through his bag and takes out a spray and his own compression bandage before he returns to Pat and undoes the wrap. He sprays the now already swelling ankle and wraps it with the compression bandage.
Pat is silent the entire time.
Not just because it's uncomfortable and awkward, but also because he's trying his best to will his dick down. Seeing Pran kneeling like this in front of him, wrapping his ankle carefully and almost delicately with only a towel wrapped around his waist isn't really helping his touch-starved cock.
He tries to think of something else, but inappropriate thoughts seem to be the only thing occupying every corner of his brain, for example: If he inconspicuously stretches his foot, even just a tiny bit, to you know, ease up the aching, and if he flexes his toes forward to relieve the stiffness in them, he'll find himself 'accidentally' brushing his big toe against Pran's deliciously erect nipple.
"Earth to Pat," Pran suddenly huffs. Upon snapping out of his reverie, Pat lets out a dumb, "Huh?"
"I asked if it's too tight." he prods at the bandage.
"Um, no, it's fine," he says.
"Does your foot still hurt?"
"No, not that much. It's a little stiff, but it's not anything I can't handle."
"Okay, good." He says, then pauses. His eyes narrow for a moment, before he suddenly blurts out this damning observation:
"Your feet are big."
At that moment, Pran's eyes zero in on Pat's covered cock, sees the outline of it against the towel, and gulps.
Pat chooses that moment to be speechless, noticing Pran's eyes go all shifty as he ogles his semi-hardon. He watches the way the man bites his lip, dimples making their appearance. Pran's adam's apple bobs, and he leans forward awkwardly as he adjusts his towel. Pat looks down, his pupils dilating at the sight.
"Oh."