PATBRI RIVALS WITH HOMOEROTIC TENSION
JSHDAS I HATE HOW I COULD ONLY THINK ABOUT THAT ANIME OLYMPIC RIBBON DANCING BIT FROM GNG GOD
“Hey, Gill, good job out there.”
Pat stiffens ever so slightly as Gilbert approaches, the gentle tapping of his bare feet against the disgusting locker room floor, the even gentler swishing of his uniform brushing against bits that Pat really shouldn’t be thinking of.
“Not so bad yourself, Gilbert,” Pat replies. He slams his locker closed and flips some hair out of his face, moves to grab his bag off the floor. But, on the way, his hand brushes against Gilbert’s as he motions to grab his own bag.
The fuck are you playing at? Pat thinks, narrowing his eyes.
You shouldn’t have done that, Gilbert seems to reply, his own eyes narrowing. They both stand in unison.
Gilbert swings his bag over his shoulder and crosses his arms. “Have a good day.”
Pat sniffs and turns his head aside, closing his eyes if only to not have to look this man in the face. Any longer, and Pat would be dead meat in more ways than one. “Yeah. Whatever.”
“What did you just say to me?” Gilbert growls. Pat can hear another step closer, the leathery crinkle of his gloves as he clenches his fists. “Speak up, Gill, can’t hear you over the amount of bullshit brewing in this room.”
“Only bullshit in here is from your mouth, Gilbert,” Pat responds. And then he’s being slammed against the lockers, and his head knocks back and he lets out an oof of a breath, and Gilbert’s hands are bunched up in the front of his shirt. They’re shaking.
Pat opens his eyes and looks down at Gilbert maybe a bit more tenderly than he’d ever be willing to admit. Because maybe this is his one weakness, being thrown around like one of Pat’s own ribbons. He knows he looks like a total fool, mouth open pathetically and eyes wide.
Gilbert’s face is red, but Pat’s suddenly not sure if it’s from the unfortunately good performance he just pulled off out there. Something about the way his mouth is set, the tilt of his eyebrows, his shaking hands. How he can’t seem to stop looking at Pat’s mouth.
The room is silent. Outside, Pat knows there’s plenty of noise. Fans going wild, the camera crew fucking around on their lunch break, another performer warming up with their coach in the room next door. But in here, it’s just Pat and Gilbert’s breaths and the faint hum of the electric lights above them.
Pat swallows and gently, too gently, shoves Gilbert away and smoothes down the front of his shirt. Gilbert staggers back looking at his hands like he burned them.
“See you later,” Pat says. He flips his hair again and grabs his bag.
Gilbert snaps out of it and sneers and looks to the side, still mostly red. “Yeah, whatever, Gill.”
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