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The rustling of clothes is loud in the empty changing room. Telling, too. Like a quiet declaration of where exactly he is.
Cha Eugene walks over to the man standing before an open locker and immediately presses himself against the broad back. His sticky hands toy with the hem of a white t-shirt before slipping beneath it with practiced ease. Chest to back, skin to fabric, heat to heat—Eugene feels the subtle way Ryu Chungwoo’s shoulders tense up.
He fits himself neatly into the curve of Chungwoo’s neck, like a puzzle piece slotting into place. The tips of Chungwoo’s hair, still wet from his shower, brush against Eugene’s cheeks as his eyes flutter shut. He inhales deeply.
“You smell good,” Eugene mumbles, fingers inching higher, dragging the fabric up along with them. They stop over Chungwoo’s sternum, his heartbeat pulsing steady and strong beneath Eugene’s palm.
“I know I told you no one else would be coming in today,” Chungwoo sighs, a mix of exasperation and resigned fondness threading his voice, “but that doesn’t mean I gave you permission to do this.”
He turns, pulling away just enough to face Eugene. But with his shirt still hitched up, Eugene barely registers the pointed look he’s given—too busy silently thanking god for the view.
“I don’t know what you mean, Chungwoo-hyung,” he replies, even as restless fingers betray him by giving Chungwoo’s pec a soft squeeze. “I’m not doing anything.”
Large fingers brush against the nape of his neck, playing with the fine baby hairs there. Eugene hums as Chungwoo traces lazy circles against his skin with a calloused fingertip, the roughness strangely comforting. Those fingers tangle in Eugene’s messy hair, gently coaxing his face upwards.
“My eyes are up here.”
“Sorry, hyung,” Eugene says, tone far from apologetic. His gaze is still unabashedly glued to Chungwoo’s chest. His apology, flimsy as it is, paves the way for his next confession. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about your chest for like the past hour.”
Chungwoo chuckles. “I finally let you sit in on one of my practice sessions and that’s what you focus on? My chest?”
“It’s not my fault. It was practically in my face,” Eugene whines, voice lilting into something more plaintive. With a flick of his thumb, he grazes a nipple, then lets his nail drag lightly over the sensitive skin. “Every time you took a breath before drawing your string back and letting the arrow fly, your chest would rise—just like it’s doing now.”
His eyes stay trained on that slow, deliberate rise and fall.
A soft murmur: “I didn’t think archery could be this erotic.”
As if pulled by instinct, Eugene leans in and runs his tongue over the perked bud, fingers pressing into the shallow grooves between Chungwoo’s ribs. A grin tugs at his lips when a sharp gasp escapes from above, and then he closes his mouth around the tip, teeth grazing just enough to make Chungwoo groan. It spills out, low and guttural, like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deep and reluctant, but unmistakably real.
And yet—despite every chance to stop him, despite the strength in those arms to push him away—Chungwoo’s fingers stay buried in Eugene’s hair doing anything but that. They even unconsciously pull him in.
“It’s not—hahh—meant to be erotic…” Chungwoo manages, biting down on his bottom lip in an attempt to muffle the next sound that threatens to break free.
Eugene’s hands are already on the move again, sliding lower, curling possessively at the base of Chungwoo’s spine to haul him closer. Chungwoo responds without a thought—his body arching into the contact, breath catching. He gives in like clay pressed too hard in careless hands, shaped more by pressure than precision.
Eugene wedges a knee between his legs to pin the older man to the locker, but laughs under his breath when he feels the proof of Chungwoo’s arousal, firm against his thigh.
“Well,” he says, grin sharpening as he looks up, “everything about you seems to be erotic, hyung.”