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Win keeps looking at him weird at practice. Team hasn’t caught him at it yet, but he swears he can feel eyes on the back of his neck whenever he comes to the edge of the pool. No matter how fast he goes, though, whenever he gets his goggles off Win is always talking to Dean or pacing away or looking down at his stopwatch. And that’s the thing — it’s not unusual for Win to be looking at him while he swims. It’s part of his job, sure, but Win also does little things, a tiny wink or a barely-there smile just to show he’s paying a little extra attention, just to let it go to Team’s head.
So Win looks all the time, and he wants Team to know it, and the way he so pointedly doesn’t want that today is strangely upsetting.
After his final lap, Team drags himself up and over to the benches, shoulders protesting and legs like wet noodles. Win is all the way across the room.
It isn’t like before, Team reprimands himself. It isn’t. Win’s still here. He drove today, he wouldn’t just leave. He promised, he’s keeping it. Something’s just going on. Maybe Team’s time is getting worse again and Win just feels awkward saying it. It’s not like he’s ever missed a chance to make fun of Team, but it could be that.
Dean is close to the benches, going over a time set with one of the other first years, and when Team passes him he offers a nod and a small smile that immediately rule out that hypothesis.
Team frowns across the pool towards where he can see Win draped in his long blue coat. The senior members always finish faster, so they can observe at the end, and Win’s still damp and obviously chlorinated from his own practice, and yet he’s making no move to head towards the showers.
With a sigh of resignation, Team splits off from the ABC gang to pad barefoot the entire distance over to Win, wringing the water out of his hair with one hand as he moves. “Hia,” he calls, a little plaintive despite himself. “Hia Win.”
Win actually startles at his name, turning in a jerky movement to stare at Team with wide eyes. Surely there’s no one else here he’d be expecting to call him that, right? He looks tired, just as much as he had when they’d left that morning.
“Are you coming? Everyone’s done. I know you’re too fussy to shower like the rest of us, but you still have to change.” Team adopts his whiniest voice, staring up at Win through his lashes.
Blinking a few times, Win reaches out as if on autopilot to touch Team’s bare shoulder. His fingers are cold. “I just had a few notes to make. Calm down,” he says, in a tone so close to his normal one that Team almost believes it.
Something is wrong.
Team frowns, his eyes narrowing. He isn’t like Win, who always seems to know when Team feels bad and exactly how to make him admit it. He has been in a position to take care of vanishingly few people in his adult life, and those few who’d count have never been the type to hide when something’s wrong. Not about something serious. It had been why Pharm’s inexplicable misery had terrified him so, despite his brave face.
But Win doesn’t talk about things that bother him, not when it’s just about him. He’ll talk about his concern for his brothers, sure, or yell at Team when he’s worried, or anything else, but he won’t say if it’s just for his own sake. Team isn’t used to looking for signs like this, and he definitely isn’t used to wanting to.
He resists the urge to take Win by the hand to drag him back to the showers, an impulse so strong it startles him into frowning harder. “Come on, hia,” he says. Considers. Tries a different tack. “I’m tired.”
Win raises an eyebrow, but starts to walk over, and that’s good enough. They go back to the locker room together and separate to rinse off. Team’s too lazy to do much besides get his hair with shampoo stolen from Bee, but it’ll still take him longer than Win, who only uses the showers here if his hair got noticeably wet under a swim cap, and even then only to rinse.
Sure enough, he’s waiting when Team emerges. He looks distracted, appearing to be half-listening to something Phruek is telling him. The second Team comes over, though, Win’s eyes snap to him. He pretends (to himself, who he isn’t fooling) that having Win’s attention like that isn’t a shot on par with tequila.
“Do you need to finish anything here?” asks Team, glancing at Phruek and shifting his backpack higher up over his shoulders.
“I thought you were ‘tired, hia,’” responds Win, his voice going all high-pitched in a way that Team’s definitely never does. He reaches out and bats at Win’s arm in retribution, but only half-heartedly.
“I’ve got it,” says Phruek, raising both eyebrows at them in an expression Team definitely doesn’t deserve. He’s probably going to gossip to Manow, the traitor.
He supposes he ought to be grateful, though, because it gets Win out of the club building and them on the way home. It’s a hot day even in December, tempered a little by the sun dropping below the horizon, and he can feel himself sticking to Win a little when he climbs onto the bike and presses against him.
The trip is uneventful. Team is basically used to the bike by now, even when Win intentionally fucks with him by weaving a bit too much, and he lets himself just drift for a bit and watch the buildings pass. He could almost fall asleep if it weren’t for the moving deathtraps both under and surrounding him.
Win unbuckles Team’s helmet for him in the dorm’s garage even though he knows perfectly well how to do it himself, and they go in together, Win’s arm slung over his shoulder despite the heat.
In the elevator, Team watches Win’s face closely. He’s still tucked under Win’s arm, close enough to count the piercings if he wanted. (He doesn’t have to — he’s got them memorized.) But for now, he’s just hunting for signs again, checking for that wrongness from before. Maybe he’s just - looking too hard, but he’s sure something isn’t right.
He finds it only when the bell rings for his floor. “Thank you for the ride,” Team says, and takes a step away.
They don’t have a reason to stay together after practice today. The tutoring that meant they’d been stuck together every moment of Win’s free time is done now that exams have passed, and although they both know Team will be sleeping there this close to an upcoming competition, it’s not going to be time for bed for a while. There’s no tangible excuse to stick around.
The moment Win’s arm falls away, Team watches Win’s mouth open like he wants to say something, then slam shut. A moment later, his face is back to a normal, mysterious little smile as he waves Team goodbye and the elevator door closes.
That should be the end of it. Right? Maybe he’s just tired after practice, and being home and resting will help. Team fiddles with the straps of his backpack as he walks to his room. He doesn’t really have any work to take care of so soon after the end of exams, but there is a new movie on streaming that Pharm had recommended to him and he’d promised to at least try.
Team gets changed, comfortable, and fifteen minutes into staring blankly at the beginnings of yet another horror movie (he likes them well enough, honestly, but a change would be good now and again) before the thought of Win sad and alone just one floor above him drives him crazy enough to start talking to himself.
“What is me being there even going to do for him?” Team mumbles, rolling over on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. “If he’s upset, shouldn’t I leave him alone?”
Team thinks of a promise Win didn’t know he was awake for, of eyes on him at every moment except while he’s paying attention. Maybe Win wants space but won’t leave because he’s too — worried, overprotective, whatever. Because he promised not to disappear. The thought sits like a stone in Team’s chest.
He tries to shake it off. Win had been so clingy today, touching at every given opportunity and looking just so briefly upset when Team let go. It seems weird that someone who didn’t want to be paid attention to would do that.
Right?
With a groan, Team puts his face in his hands. He’s been reduced to pining for a boy whose bed he sleeps in almost every night over a half-baked suspicion he might be sad.
That is a thought, though, about sleeping there. He has the key to Win’s room now, kept safe in a small plastic holder he’d bought special in the school store. He could just — go over. He’s expected later tonight anyway, right?
Team turns back over and stares blankly at the TV for another twenty minutes before sighing just a moment too long, pulling an oversized shirt on, and padding out into the hallway barefoot and carrying just his phone. He’ll just — see if Win’s busy. Yeah.
Using Win’s keycard definitely feels like an illegal activity. He glances up and down the hallway first before even trying it, like a criminal, and when it unlocks like it should he feels like he’s trespassing.
Team tries to compose himself before entering, look more like he’s as sure of himself as he always is when monopolizing Win’s time. He straightens out his shoulders and opens the door and finds —
Win, asleep sprawled across the top of his bed. He hasn’t changed out of his school uniform past unbuttoning the shirt, and the position of his neck looks frankly uncomfortable. His phone is on the bed near his outstretched left hand, a long set of text notifications just visible onscreen.
From the doorway, Team takes a breath. He was just tired, then, and that’s why he was acting weird. It makes sense. Team should leave him alone, let him rest without a demand on his time for once.
But.
Every practice night, Win takes his actual shower. He uses a bunch of fancy hair products that Team has seen on his bathroom counter, because (and he will tell you at length if prompted) keeping bleached hair nice is already difficult without the added stress of chlorine. Every night, without fail, no matter when Team comes to his room, Win actually falls asleep at 11:30 pm and wakes five minutes before 8. It’s an ability that Team would kill for.
Seeing him passed out, half-dressed and uncomfortable at barely even 9 p.m., after a day of that odd avoidance…
It’s the thing they won’t name between them that’s causing this stupid uncertainty, Team thinks bitterly. If Win were his boyfriend — strange even to think the words — there wouldn’t be a question. It would be easy to assume that Win would want him there for his low moments. Easy to push his way in without a doubt the way Team does about lesser things.
Without a name, Team just has to rely on his memory and his heart, both of which are frequently questionable. Is it really that Win was clingy, or does he just want it to be true?
Team steps into the room and stares for an unguarded moment at Win’s sleeping face, at that one hair he leaves out and the lines of his jaw and the shadow of his eyelashes, and reminds himself. He does want it to be true. So badly.
So he should do something about it.
Moving to the bed, he places a gentle hand on Win’s shoulder. “Hia,” he says, starting soft but ready to escalate. It usually takes some shaking if he wants to wake Win before the appointed time.
This time, he jolts upright the moment Team touches him. There’s an audible pop of upset joints at the sudden position change that makes Team wince in sympathy. Win looks at him with a sleepy, unfocused gaze, almost squinting.
“Team?” he hazards, after a second. He sounds a little rough, voice scraping on the way out.
“It’s me, hia.”
Win just keeps staring for a long moment, still looking disoriented. Then, just like he’d bolted awake, it seems to snap into place, and his face twists into something open and anxious. “Wait, Team, what time is it?”
“It’s just nine,” Team tells him quietly. “I don’t think you slept that long. Don’t worry.”
Watching some of the tension in Win’s shoulders slip away because of something he said is a power he’s immediately kind of addicted to. Team sits on the edge of the bed, close enough to touch if they wanted to, and looks at Win with what he’s sure is a disgustingly transparent expression. “You never go to bed this early.”
“No, I— I didn’t mean to,” says Win, fumbling now for his phone and scrolling through the notifications with a faint frown. “I was talking with Hia Waan and I just lost track of things, I guess.” Rubbing at his eye with his free hand, he adds, “Shit.”
Some of his hair has slipped out of the ponytail holder and is sticking out. He looks utterly disheveled. (It is unfair that it doesn’t even impact his overall attractiveness, honestly.)
Team gathers his courage, leans in, and asks, “Are you okay, hia?”
Win glances up from his phone to meet Team’s eyes. There are little frown lines at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he says.
“Liar.”
Raising an eyebrow, Win puts his phone down and gives Team his full attention. “I’m okay, really.” When Team doesn’t budge, he adds, “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Team scowls. He has no idea how Win ever has the patience for this. “I know,” he says. Clearly too many people have already taken ‘you don’t have to’ as an indication that they shouldn’t.
In the small space between them, Win’s eyes dart back and forth across Team’s face like he’s trying to memorize it, like it’ll disappear if he doesn’t catalog every detail fast enough. He doesn’t answer immediately.
“Hia,” Team murmurs, softer. He lets his hand cross the gap on the bed, brushes his fingers against Win’s.
Win doesn’t move for a long moment of silence, still looking at Team with that dark, searching gaze. It’s become common enough for Win to get into his space and just be there, staring at him, looking for a kiss or a reaction or just closeness, that Team thinks he’s getting used to it. He can wait this out.
“Hia Waan is having trouble with our father again,” Win says finally, gesturing towards his phone. “They’re not arguing anymore, but he says he’s being — weird. It’s probably my fault after talking to him before.”
Team is about to take that as an admission, try to say something supportive, when Win continues, voice so thready Team’s not sure he didn’t imagine it.
“And today, at practice, I was — worried.”
“Worried?”
Win starts to respond, but shuts his mouth again. His eyes still look like they’re searching, but Team is starting to wonder if he isn’t just a little lost.
“Yeah,” Win finally answers. “Worried.”
Considering their general track record, Team feels as if that might be the best he can do for now. He won’t push it. There’s another angle he can take.
It becomes a literal angle as he shifts on the bed to sit slightly behind Win, up on his knees for height.
“What are you doing?”
Team answers by gently petting a hand over Win’s hair. It’ll probably never be one hundred percent silky after all the bleach and chlorine, but Win does his absolute best to keep it fluffy and soft and healthy. Team likes the texture, likes to twist his fingers through it, to hold on.
Today, Team combs through it with both hands, gentle as he knows how to be, loosening the sections of Win’s ponytail before tugging the tie out and placing it around his own wrist. Carefully, he eases Win’s bangs back down around his face with the barest pressure against Win’s scalp. This elicits a noise that Win shouldn’t be allowed to make, and Team tugs a little to reprimand him, which results in a worse noise.
No, no, this is not the mission here, no matter how good it looks when Win sways slightly into him, chasing his hands. He can’t get distracted.
“Mm,” mumbles Win, blinking slow like a cat. A moment later, with dawning glee, he says, “You’re being so nice to me. You came here way before you usually sleep. You wanted to see me that bad?” Leaning back, Win rests the top of his head at Team’s collarbone and looks up with a smug little grin.
“Absolutely not,” says Team, like a liar, and gently flicks him on the forehead.
That little smile grows into a real one, with teeth. Win’s looking up at him, hair down and soft and face unguarded and happy, and Team wants this so bad even as it’s staring him in the face. He wants this all the time. He already knew, of course, but it’s a certain sort of exquisite ache to be reminded.
“You should shower,” Team tells him abruptly, made shy in the face of all that brightness. “You have to do your whole routine thing.”
Win raises an eyebrow at him. “But you came here just to see me. You want me to ignore you? Leave you all lonely?”
Infuriatingly, Team is sure his ears are turning red. “Go,” he says, pushing at Win’s back.
“But Team,” Win singsongs at him, leaning his whole body back into Team and nearly tipping them both over on the bed. “What will you do all by yourself in here? Won’t you miss me?”
Two can play at this game. Hopefully. Team curls a little further over him, getting into his space. “If you’re so worried about me being alone, then take me with.”
For several glorious seconds, Team is treated to Win silently staring up at him, mouth open and cheeks pink.
(Maybe he gets, a little, why Win is so enamored with doing this.)
It doesn’t last long enough to make up for the way Win immediately calls his bluff, though. He practically vaults up off the bed, barely avoiding clipping Team’s chin on the way up, and starts collecting his pajamas and a towel at a frankly unreasonable pace given how tired he’d looked.
“Hia,” says Team plaintively, aware he’s already dug his own grave.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll grab some for you too.”
“Hia.”
Win snickers, high-pitched and cute, throws a whole pile of clothes and towels over his shoulder, then grabs Team by the hand and drags him towards the shower.
Team goes without more than a token protest, unable to really object to Win’s smile after its absence all day and his explicit goal in coming here. Once his bare feet hit the tile floor of the bathroom though, he shies away a little bit.
After dumping his pile of stuff on the counter, Win gives him a sidelong glance. “Nervous all of a sudden?” he asks, and it’s teasing, but Team knows that if he said no Win would let him go. Win means it because he always means it. He always gives Team an out, always checks if he wants things, always minds his preferences.
“Aren’t you a little too eager?” asks Team, offering a small smile as reassurance.
“If you say so.”
They’ve both seen each other in nearly every possible state of undress at this point, but somehow when Win starts to pull his shirt off here, in this little fluorescent-lit shower room with just the two of them to see, Team turns immediately and stares down at the counter. Next to the sink sits Win’s line of various products, many of them labeled in languages that Team can’t even begin to read.
Win laughs at him, rudely, but the rustling of undressing continues, so Team thinks he’s safe for now. He runs a finger along the instructions on the back of a tall black bottle. Does he import these?
Behind him, the sound of the shower starts. “You’re safe to turn around,” Win says, still sounding amused. “Like you haven’t seen it all already.”
Team doesn’t really have a retort for that. Tentatively turning to face the rest of the room reveals Win now behind the partially-closed shower curtain, his clothes neatly folded in a pile. The room is starting to heat in a way that makes Team, still-fully-clothed, a little uncomfortably sticky.
He’d suggested showering together mostly to get under Win’s skin, foolishly not expecting his bluff to be called, but — well. It’s true, isn’t it? They have seen it all. It’s just that, like this, without any intention of sex and no context of swim club, it feels like another gray area, open and vulnerable.
And Win had done it first, without question. And he won’t make Team, because he never does. And he was so excited.
Team takes a breath, tugs his shirt over his head, then pulls his shorts and boxers off in one motion. A moment later he’s slipping into the shower behind Win, hissing lightly at the first impact of the warm water on his shoulders.
It’s small enough that he can’t take in the full effect of a naked and wet Win, which is good for his general sense of self-composure. It’s bad as it is to see the way the water beads down the wings on his back, warping the familiar shapes.
Team has used this shower enough to already know that there are even more products along the wall in here, and Win has one bottle open already. He doesn’t turn around to look at Team, keeping his head ducked. He’s just showering, like usual, starting to squeeze body wash out into his hand, and that helps Team’s sudden and violent self-consciousness of every inch of both their bodies enough to let him step close enough to steal the bottle for himself.
“Hey,” says Win without heat. “I hadn’t finished.”
“Too bad. We’re sharing, so we have to take turns.” Team doesn’t need to wash, actually; he’d taken his own shower normally in the practice room. But Win always smells nice, and Team likes smelling like him, and also likes causing problems.
There’s about enough room that both of them can share the spray right now, but if they want to actually move their arms to wash without elbowing each other they’re going to have to separate a bit. Team, who hates being cold, makes an extremely noble sacrifice and shuffles out of the way for Win to start. He carefully keeps his eyes on his hands as he steals Win’s fancy soap.
When they eventually shuffle around so Team can follow suit and lather himself up, he’s painfully aware again of Win’s eyes on him. It’s much nicer than in practice, that awareness, like a little fire in the pit of his stomach.
“Let me get your back,” Win says, quiet under the spray.
Team lets him, leans into the warm pressure of Win’s hands on his bare skin. Win treats him with an unwarranted amount of gentleness as always, despite his tiredness, and this time it’s a reminder of what he wants from today. To do this in return, to be that for Win.
To that effect, Team forcibly rotates them around again, till Win is under the spray facing away from him and Team has access to the wall of products. “Tell me which one of these you do first.”
Win doesn’t answer for a second. Team resents being unable to see his face. Eventually, he says something Team doesn’t even want to think about pronouncing.
“What?”
Snickering, Win repeats himself.
“You could just describe the container.”
“No.”
Oh, so this is a mocha frappucino thing again. Team scowls at Win’s pretty, defined shoulder blades, then repeats the long name to himself and squints at the line of bottles. Grabbing a tall, green one, he taps Win’s shoulder with it.
“Good boy,” Win tells him, making to take it. “That’s right.”
Team gets in the way before he can, snatching the bottle to himself. “Close your eyes, hia.”
“Team,” says Win, tone flat.
“Let me try,” Team requests, probably too fast. “If I mess it all up or you hate it you can make me stop, but I want —“ to take care of you— “to do it for you.”
Win turns over his shoulder to look at Team. His hair is down and wet around his face, water shimmering in his eyelashes. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“Please,” murmurs Team.
A small smile cracks Win’s face, close-mouthed. His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Go ahead, then.”
Team makes him close his eyes and lean back a little, and Win goes pliantly, lets him put shampoo-covered fingers into his hair and massage. He’s tentative, at first; Team’s never done someone else’s hair. But Win cares about this, spends a lot of effort maintaining blonde hair as a swimmer — if Team was really fucking it up he’d stop him or say something. So he keeps going, moves his fingers through damp blond strands in careful little circles and watches as Win relaxes further and further into him.
He moves to the next product, a deep conditioner, and the next, which is apparently a color-maintaining bond agent, according to Win’s mumbled instructions. By the end of the last one, Win’s head is outright leaning on Team’s shoulder. Since Win is taller, the position necessary to do that makes Team frankly afraid he’s going to slip, and the moment he’s got the bottle put down he lashes one of his arms around Win’s waist, pulling them close.
It’s oddly unsexual. Not completely — Team is certainly aware of the curve of Win’s ass pressed against him — but he can honestly say he hasn’t been thinking about it, just focusing on Win’s hair between his fingers and the softening of his posture and the way his mouth has gone slack. Just closeness.
“Hia,” he says, very soft and very close to Win’s ear. The resulting shudder is gratifying, but again, he has a goal. “Is there anything else?”
“No, just an oil after I get out.”
“Okay,” Team says, and does not move. It’s warm in here and cold out there, and Win feels good in his hold.
They stand there under the spray for a moment longer before Win shifts a little in Team’s hold and says, tonelessly, “I don’t like seeing you practice for the competition.”
Team blinks. “You don’t?”
“We haven’t had one since you almost — had your accident,” Win says. He’s dropped his head forward enough that there’s no possible way Team could see his face. “I know you’re good, that you’ll be alright and we’re at practice where you’d easily be saved if something happened, but I — I can’t stop seeing it, Team.”
“Hia,” Team murmurs, thinking of that night in Win’s house and the way his face had twisted. He hadn’t known. He loops his other arm around Win’s waist, leans into him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize for things that aren’t your fault,” Win tells him, sharp like glass. “You haven’t done anything wrong this time. I just worry. You know me.”
If it isn’t his fault and he can’t apologize, how can he fix the way Win’s voice sounds? Team needs to fix it, needs it with a strength that somehow still surprises him. “It’s okay,” he tries, turning his head against Win’s wet hair. “I’ll be okay.”
“You will,” says Win. It has the ring of a promise.
Team pulls him out of the shower the second the water starts going cold, and they both shiver violently as they change back into pajamas. (Team can admit to at least himself that he doesn’t look away this time.)
They head back to Win’s bed with the bottle of hair stuff (argan oil, apparently). Win doesn’t even own a blowdryer, since heat is rough on bleached hair, and thus he’s still dripping on the duvet when they make it over to the warm cocoon of blankets.
“Okay,” says Team, taking up his previous position kneeling behind Win. “Give me that.”
“Just use a little.” Win hands the bottle over without argument. It feels like a victory.
With his hands in Win’s hair again, Team asks softly, “What should I do so you worry less?”
“What a question,” says Win, with a little unhappy laugh. “I don’t know. Be someone else? I always worry about you.”
Team has to talk around a lump in his throat as he continues. “I mean… about swimming. We’re both going to have to be at the competition.”
Win seems to consider this for a moment. Team keeps his fingers going in aimless patterns against Win’s scalp. The oil smells nice, feels okay on his skin. Win’s hair better appreciate all of this effort.
“Just — come see me when you’re done, and stay close,” Win says eventually. He has his head ducked, like even facing away he can’t say this directly to Team. “Come back to me.”
Team drops his oily hands away from Win’s head and lets them fall around his neck, draping himself across Win’s back. The shirt Win wore for bed is loose and soft and exposes most of his left shoulder, and Team presses a small kiss there because he can and he wants to and someday Win has to stop being surprised. “I will.”
Win puts a hand over Team’s on his own chest. Team is half-expecting the ‘good boy’, almost wants it by now. Instead, Win squeezes his hand just once, and says, “Thank you.”
It’s better than praise, coming from this boy who'd never have told him anything was wrong of his own volition. Team hides his triumphant smile against Win’s shoulder and holds him so tight he complains about his ribs and doesn’t let go until the next morning.