Work Text:
"What the fuck."
Bradley stops in his tracks. In front of him, right in the middle of the locker room, is Hangman, down to his boxer briefs. Bradley doesn't miss the pattern printed on them. Not something he would accuse Hangman, of all people, of.
Hangman raises a brow. "Like what you see, Bradshaw?" he asks and Bradley's eyes immediately flick up. Has he been staring at Hangman's crotch all this time?
Bradley blinks, then furrows his brows.
"Not what I meant…" He gestures vaguely, then bites his lip and unzips his jeans and pushes them down his hips. He pushes his groin up to make a point.
"Dude," Payback warns, reminding him that there are, in fact, other people in the locker room with them. "Get a room or something. A broom closet, for all I care. Just… take it somewhere else."
Bradley rolls his eyes at him.
"Not funny." He pushes his jeans further down his legs and, with some dose of crazy delight, notices Hangman looking. His gaze, dangerous but not telling, slides down his thighs and calves, down to the very ankles, where the pants are now pooling.
"Man, why do I feel like I'm interrupting a strip show, somehow?" Fanboy mumbles and Bradley sends him a sideways glare.
"The shorts," he says in his best 'duh, obviously' tone.
He must have miscalculated, though, cause there are now five people staring at his or Hangman's dick. Okay, he might have miscalculated big time.
He catches Jake's stare — amused and unsurprisingly peacocky. Jake cocks his head to the side, his eyes saying, "Like what you've done, then?" and Bradley kind of hates that he's now an expert on Jake's body language.
And yeah, even if Bradley wanted to blame Jake for it, he couldn't — he wasn't even supposed to have a hop today. He just stopped by to grab some forgotten stuff from his locker but was hit in the face with this sight instead:
Jake, naked as the day he was born, save for the pair of boxer briefs Bradley would never accuse him of.
Because he'd never accuse Jake of going for anything else than his beloved, boring, black or white Calvin Kleins. Definitely not a deep blue pair with strawberries, lemons and plums that he has on right now. To make matters worse, Jake doesn't even have to turn for Bradley to know what's written across the butt.
Juicy 'n' fruity.
Juicy 'n' fruity written in an ugly font, and Bradley knows because he's wearing the exact same pair, just in a different color. He bought them in a six-pack on a Target sale.
Before he can say anything else, he hears Omaha snorting. "That's a hell of a statement to make, Rooster."
"Yeah, Jake, that's a hell of a statement," Coyote echoes after him, quieter, meant only for Jake, but Bradley catches it. Neither does he miss the shit-eating grin Jake casts Javy, self-satisfied and content.
"What? I buy all my underwear at Tesco." Jake shrugs, unperturbed, and grabs his flight suit from the bench.
Bradley just sighs, pulls up his pants and goes for the locker.
---
The doorbell rings. It's getting late, and Bradley's front porch is already bathed in the streetlamps' yellowish glow.
"Someone's got sticky hands, huh?" Bradley says instead of a greeting as he opens the door.
"Well, the next time you put something in my laundry basket, consider it lost forever, Bradshaw," Jake tuts as if he didn't almost blow their cover earlier today. He looks gorgeous when he puts his hands on Bradley's shoulders and pushes him deeper into the house. Even stumbling backwards, Bradley finds Jake's hips instinctively, and when Jake kisses him, he can't help the thought that, yeah.
He might be lost forever, too.