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The locker room was buzzing.
Gear bags half-zipped, someone slapping their thighs to warm up, the rhythmic clack of boots hitting benches, tape ripping in jagged bursts. Spanish and English flew freely from many corners of the room, and everything smelled faintly of Tiger Balm, leather, and adrenaline.
Swerve adjusted his tape, tightening the wrist with a snap. He could feel the hum beneath his skin already—tonight was gonna be chaos.
A ten-man tag with the Death Riders and the Young Bucks? This was the kind of match you felt for days after. The kind you dreamed about, whether you wanted to or not.
He nodded absently at Hobbs, who was cracking his neck across the room, and jogged his way through a mental checklist: knee pads, boots, tape job, hair tie. Everything was fine.
And then he saw him.
Will was across the aisle, perched on a bench like he owned the damn place. His head was tilted slightly back, wrapping his wrists with that same careful confidence, fingers moving quick and easy like he’d done it ten thousand times. He had one boot on, the other beside him, and was half-humming something under his breath—some bad British pop song, probably.
At first, Swerve felt the usual flare of warmth in his chest.
It’d been about a week since he’d seen Will in person—just phone call check-ins, a few chaotic texts, that video Will had sent yesterday of his suitcase exploding in baggage claim.
But then Will looked up, just for a second, and Swerve’s whole body went still.
A black eye.
It sprawled like a shadow across the right side of Will’s face, a deep purple bruise that bled out toward his cheekbone, swollen and angry-looking. Not painted on, not a gimmick, but real. Ugly in that unmistakable way, like something that bloomed slowly over days, deep from within.
He hadn’t looked like that last week.
At Summer Blockbuster, when Will had thrown himself in front of the Bucks’ spike-kick—taken the hit meant for Swerve—he’d just had a bandage and med tape on his nose. He’d been bruised but still smiling, lips split from the laughter, whispering something like, “Don’t get soft on me now, yeah?” before pulling Swerve in for a kiss.
But now?
Now he had that eye.
He also wore a gauze bandage across his forehead, just beneath his curls that were puffed up like a lion cub. It looked half like a headband, half like a medical accessory he’d stubbornly insisted on wearing himself.
Will caught him staring and gave a lopsided grin. “Whaaat,” he said, all cheeky and innocent, like he wasn’t currently wearing half a pharmacy on his face.
Swerve walked over slowly, each step heavier than it should’ve been. “You... that was not there last week.”
Will blinked, then made a show of crossing his eyes to try and glimpse the bruise. “Yeah, no, it bloomed late,” he said brightly. “Nature’s little delayed surprise. Cool, innit?”
Swerve’s brows pulled together. “It bloomed?”
Will shrugged one shoulder, like he was talking about a sunburn instead of trauma. “That’s what the doc said. Something about blood pooling. Anyway—” He raised both arms like a magician finishing a trick. “Tadah! Peak Ospreay, baby.”
Swerve didn’t laugh. He couldn’t. Not when it was that bad. Not when it was because of him.
Will’s smile wavered just a bit.
“Mate,” he said gently, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees. “It’s fine. Seriously. On the bright side...” He pointed to his nose with a wink. “This doesn’t hurt anymore.”
But Swerve wasn’t smiling. He crouched down slightly, eye-level now, studying every new shadow on Will’s face. The puffiness. The cuts at the corners of his eye, barely healing under the makeup. That gauze, tight beneath his curls, a white band slicing across sun-tanned skin.
It hit him then. Like it was fresh. Like it had just happened.
That kick. That moment.
Will throwing himself in front of him. Protecting him like it was instinct, like it was nothing.
He had made it up to him, hadn't he? He thought he had. Sweet compliments. Gentle kisses on the couch while Will teased him about being a softie. Late-night voice messages while Will was on the road.
But this? This wasn't visible back then. This hadn't even formed yet.
Swerve felt his throat tighten. He reached out, fingers brushing lightly—barely—near the edge of the bruise, like he might be able to feel the hurt without worsening it.
And just like that, it washed over him again.
That guilt. That ache. That goddamn black eye staring back at him like a bruise shaped just like regret.
Swerve’s fingers hovered just beside Will’s jaw, not quite touching the bruise but close enough to feel the heat radiating off it.
That was the thing about injuries like this—they didn’t just look bad. They burned.
He bit the inside of his cheek, guilt creeping into the cracks of his chest. The skin around Will’s eye was so tight and swollen that even blinking looked like it’d ache.
“How long’s it been hurting like that?” he asked, voice low.
Will blinked slowly. “Since... like Thursday night?” he offered casually. “Wednesday it just felt like someone flicked me too hard. Thursday it turned into a full-on migraine behind my eyeball.” He laughed lightly. “Friday it turned purple. That’s when the magic really started.”
Swerve blinked. “Thursday?”
“Yeah.” Will tilted his head, curls bouncing just a little under the edge of the bandage. “Why?”
“You didn’t say anything.” Swerve’s hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist. “You didn’t even mention it when I called after I left that morning.”
Will shrugged like it was nothing. “What was I gonna say? ‘Oi Swerve, my face hurts like hell and I’m feeling sorry for myself so come over again’? Nah, bruv. You were already feeling bad. Didn’t wanna make it worse.”
“But you were hurting.” Swerve’s eyes searched his. “Last week, when you said you were fine, when you kissed me and told me to stop worrying—you were already hurting.”
Will’s smile twitched. For half a second, it faltered.
Then he waved a hand through the air and said, “C’mon, mate. You know I’ve had worse. This?” He pointed proudly to the black eye. “This is nothing. This is like... rockstar makeup. Halloween preview. Adds to my mystique.”
Swerve didn’t smile. It was hard not to smile at Will, but the guilt was overpowering.
Will leaned back slightly, like he could put some space between them and the feeling that had crept into the room. “I’m all good. Promise.”
Swerve exhaled through his nose, slow and quiet, then crossed his arms. “You really gonna wrestle like that?”
Will’s grin came back, just a little too smug. “Uh, duh. I look amazing.”
Swerve raised an eyebrow.
Will flexed, completely unserious. “Come on, I’m a tough guy like you said. This is like, day one stuff. You should see what I looked like after that Okada match years back. Face looked like someone beat me with a frying pan and I still pushed through.”
Swerve stared at him. “That’s not actually comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.” Will winked, then winced. “Ow. Okay, note to self: no winking.”
That finally got a tiny smile out of Swerve. But it faded almost instantly.
Because all he could think about was how Will had still smiled like that last week—still let him kiss him goodnight, still told him everything was fine—even while this pain was already blooming behind his eye.
And Swerve hadn’t known. Hadn’t seen it.
He hadn’t known Will was hurting until it was painted all over his face.
Will noticed it, of course—how quiet Swerve had gotten. How the lines around his eyes had drawn tighter, like he was fighting something inside his own chest.
So Will reached out and gently nudged his jaw with the back of two knuckles, just enough to get Swerve to look back at him.
“Oi. Don’t go off into your feelings again, bruv. I just got you to start laughing at my face, let’s not backslide.”
Swerve blinked, startled out of the swirl in his head. “You think I was laughing at you?”
“Well,” Will said, gesturing dramatically to his face. “I am giving major raccoon energy.”
Swerve exhaled a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “You’re so dumb.”
Will grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners—well, the non-swollen corner. “Dumb and still prettier than half the guys in the match tonight, so. Really, I win.”
And it hit Swerve again.
How fucking cute he was.
Swerve had thought Will looked stupidly adorable last week—bandaged nose, pink-tinted puffiness under his eyes, the lingering split at the corner of his lip. But now?
Now it was just unfair.
The black eye somehow made his ridiculous blue eyes even brighter, the kind of electric-blue that caught every bit of the locker room lights. His curls were extra fluffy today, too, probably from showering without conditioner, the humidity giving them free rein. That white gauze across his forehead—tight and functional—framed his whole face like a messy halo.
And then there was that grin. That big, reckless, dorky grin that Will only ever wore before matches—when he was too hyped to sit still, too ready to go die and be reborn in the ring again.
It was oddly comforting.
Like the pain hadn’t dulled him at all. Like he was still him.
Still Will.
Still Swerve’s.
Swerve chuckled under his breath and reached out to ruffle his hair, hand settling into the soft curls and giving them a gentle shake. “You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.
“Didn’t hear a no,” Will quipped, smug. “Go on, say it. I’m adorable. You can’t resist me.”
Swerve rolled his eyes. “Don’t push your luck.”
Will leaned back just slightly, eyes sparkling. “There he is,” he said, pleased. “You’re not frowning anymore. I’m working miracles tonight.”
Swerve looked at him again, really looked. The stupid smile. The terrible jokes. The bruises. The way he was holding it together like he didn’t have a damn thing to worry about.
“I promise I won’t feel bad anymore,” Swerve said quietly. “But... next time, you tell me. If you’re in pain. Alright?”
Will raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what, you wanna come running every time I stub my toe or get a papercut? Should I send you an alert every time I take a bump wrong so you can come kiss it better?”
Swerve shrugged, cool as ever. “I mean... yeah.”
That got a laugh out of Will. Not one of his showy, exaggerated ones, but a real one. Breathless and light and fond. He shook his head.
“You really gonna be my official pain-kissing guy?”
“Honorary title. Comes with perks.”
Will grinned wider. “You know I don’t need to be babied, right?”
“I know.” Swerve nodded. “You’re a grown man. One of the toughest I’ve ever met.”
He let his hand drop from Will’s hair and rested it lightly over Will’s knee. “But I don’t know... I just get something outta taking care of you, Billy.”
Will’s eyes softened. The smirk was still there, but tinged with something warmer. He tilted his head, curls brushing over the edge of the gauze.
“Well,” he said, “guess I better keep getting beat up then.”
Swerve gave him a flat look.
“Kidding, kidding,” Will laughed, reaching out and squeezing his wrist. “No more secret bruises. Promise.”
Will gave his knee a playful little bounce under Swerve’s palm, biting down on a smile.
Then, voice light and fake-casual, he said,
“Well... I guess my eye does still hurt. Horribly, actually. It’s a tragic condition. If only there were something—someone—to make me feel better.”
Swerve raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Subtle.”
Will grinned. “I’m very subtle, thank you.”
Then, with that signature glint in his eye—the one that usually preceded him doing something stupid off a top rope—he leaned back slightly on the bench and added,
“If only... there was a certain someone in this locker room. Whose last name happens to be Strickland. Who could take the pain away. Y’know. Like he did...on my couch last Wednesday night.”
That was it.
That was the moment Swerve just shook his head and thought: God, I love this idiot.
Because how do you even stay cool when the bruised-up, grinning Brit across from you was that ridiculous? That cute? That eager?
Swerve exhaled a laugh through his nose and gave him a look. “You are so dumb.”
Will just smiled wider, clearly unbothered. “And yet...very kissable.”
Swerve leaned in, voice low and full of fondness. “Come here, you.”
He reached up and cupped Will’s good cheek with his hand, thumb brushing lightly across that soft skin just under his eye.
Will leaned in immediately—too fast, too eager—and bumped their noses just a little. He let out the smallest “Oops,” and laughed against Swerve’s mouth, and it was so stupidly cute Swerve could hardly breathe.
Their lips met, warm and slow.
The kiss was soft at first, just a gentle press, mouths finding that familiar rhythm they always fell into. But then Will let out this little hum—content and slightly smug—and Swerve laughed right into him.
Will kissed him again. And again.
Giggly now. Messy. Their foreheads bumped, noses brushed, and Will was practically vibrating with happiness.
Even with that black eye. Even with the bandage on his head. Hell, maybe because of all of it—he looked like someone who had been through hell and somehow made it out glowing.
Will pulled back from the kiss, lips pink and smiling, that smug little glint still alive in his eye as he said,
“Alright. That helped. Think I’m healed now.”
“Oh, healed, huh?” Swerve said dryly.
“Yup. Magic of love.” Will patted his cheek dramatically. “I’m ready to go get kicked in the face all over again.”
Swerve rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face didn’t fade for a second.
Because yeah—they were best friends, nothing more. And yet, Swerve would kiss Will at the drop of a hat anytime he asked.
Swerve tilted his head, not buying it for a second. “Mmhmm. Are you sure?”
Before Will could answer, Swerve’s arms slid around his waist, slow and deliberate, pulling him closer on the bench until their thighs brushed. Will made a noise like a smirk, soft and cocky in his throat.
“Well…” he murmured, eyes flicking to Swerve’s mouth, “On second thought…”
Swerve chuckled, low and fond, and leaned in just a bit closer. “You’re adorable,” he said, like it was a fact. Like it had been true for years and only now was getting the credit it deserved. “Stupidly cute.”
Will flushed, looking half-pleased, half-intrigued. “Stupidly cuter than last week?”
Swerve didn’t even hesitate. “Hell yeah.”
Will grinned again, that soft little dimple appearing just at the edge of the bruising. His hands settled on the sides of Swerve’s thighs, and for a second they just sat there, wrapped up in each other’s gravity, the hum of the locker room falling to a distant buzz.
They weren’t on a time crunch. The others were still changing, stretching, taping. In fact, actually, the locker room had gotten quiet.
The majority of wrestlers that Swerve walked by when he first came in must’ve left by now, either for their match or to go home for the night. The only people that should be here—or would be here soon—were the rest of The Opps. Most likely leaving Will, Swerve, and Hobbs a couple aisles down alone here in the locker room right now.
They were main event; the match wasn’t for a while yet. And Swerve? He was already warm, already loose, already ready.
And…Will looked like he could use a little more healing.
So Swerve leaned in again, tilting his head just enough to brush their mouths together.
Only this time...it was different.
Gone was the teasing edge. The laughter that lived behind their kisses. Gone was the breathless giggle that usually passed between them when their noses bumped or one of them made a joke mid-kiss.
This time, it was slower.
Deeper.
Will’s lips parted without a word, and Swerve pressed in—gentle, but no longer playful. The kiss pulled from somewhere lower, like a magnet behind the ribs.
And when Will didn’t laugh, when he didn’t say something smart or obnoxious between kisses—when he just breathed, soft and shallow through his nose—Swerve felt it all change.
Will’s hands came up, slow and careful, and threaded into Swerve’s locs.
And that—that was the moment.
Swerve shivered. A chill chased down his spine and bloomed at the base of his neck. Because that touch wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t goofy. It was…tender. Intentional.
And suddenly Swerve couldn’t quite think.
They’d kissed before. Plenty.
Last week on Will’s couch, they’d kissed like tired boys on a sugar crash. Playful pecks, lazy affection, Will half-laughing into his mouth while rubbing the bandage on his own nose.
But this?
This was something else.
Will’s fingers in his hair. No giggles. Just quiet exhales, warm breath between them, lips pressing slower and more deliberate with each pass. Like there was something building. Like Will had dropped whatever flimsy barrier had been keeping things friendly.
And that did something to Swerve’s chest. His pulse skipped. He suddenly couldn’t remember if he’d locked his knees or how he was even breathing at all.
They were still best friends. They hadn’t crossed that line. Not really. That kiss on the couch? That had been just comfort. Just affection. Just—
But this kiss now made Swerve feel all jittery inside, like his insides were made of carbonated water. Like his chest had been cracked open and something hot was spilling out.
They broke apart slowly, lips still brushing, eyes just barely opening like neither of them really wanted to stop.
Swerve let out a shaky breath.
Will blinked up at him, cheeks flushed, lips slightly kiss-swollen. His pretty blue eyes searched Swerve’s face—soft and shiny even under the heavy purple bruise that swallowed one side of his face.
That contrast should’ve made him look ragged, worn out.
But it didn’t.
It made his lashes look longer. His irises brighter. It made everything more vivid.
And when Will finally broke the silence, it wasn’t with a joke this time. Not really.
“We’ve got...kind of a lot of time before the match starts,” he murmured, voice low, a little breathless.
His fingers idly played with one of Swerve’s locs, curling it between two fingers without even looking down. His lips quirked like he wanted to say something clever, but didn’t.
Swerve just looked at him.
Something about that moment—about how close they were and how warm Will’s body felt against him—it made his chest ache in the best way.
This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t even just comfort anymore.
It was want.
Unspoken. But loud. Throbbing.
So Swerve didn’t answer out loud.
He just moved.
One of his hands slid down, trailing from Will’s waist to his thigh—fingers grazing the thick meat of it, the kind of slow, grounding touch that made Will’s breath hitch.
Then, in one smooth motion, Swerve hooked his hand under and pulled—lifting both of Will’s legs right into his lap in one practiced swoop. Will gasped, caught completely off-guard, legs draped across Swerve now like he belonged there.
And God. He looked like he belonged there.
Will let out a little sound—half surprise, half something deeper—that hit Swerve like a truck. His fingers fluttered around Swerve’s shoulders before finally settling, arms loosely winding around his neck, still lazily toying with his hair like nothing had changed even though everything had.
And yeah. Will was still in that damn gear.
Those white, gold, and purple ring tights that looked painted on. That hugged his thighs like a second skin. That made his ass look like sin carved out of marble and dipped in shimmer.
Swerve’s eyes flicked down and he swallowed hard.
Yeah. He’d been very aware of those pants last week. Too aware. Distractingly aware.
And now they were in his lap.
The next kiss came quick and charged.
Swerve leaned in and Will met him halfway, mouth open before they even connected. And this kiss?
This wasn’t soft. This wasn’t teasing.
This was hungry.
Their mouths moved like they were finally letting something out they hadn’t dared to cross the threshold of yet. Tongue—gentle at first, but there—tasting, pressing, mapping.
Swerve was the one who initiated it, and Will didn’t hesitate for a second.
He just opened up. Like he’d been waiting.
Will let out a quiet, needy exhale when Swerve’s hand gripped tight at the juncture of his outer thigh, right where it curved into his ass. He squeezed, fingers digging into that slick stretch of the shiny fabric, and Will melted into him.
There was so much pressure there, so much heat beneath the thin spandex that Swerve’s brain started to glitch out.
He hadn’t meant to take it this far.
But he also hadn’t expected Will to let it go this far.
Still, neither of them stopped.
Because even though they hadn’t ever said it out loud—we’re more than friends, we want this, we want each other—their bodies were screaming it now. Loud and clear.
Their mouths kept moving, breaths growing heavier, deeper. Will was clinging to him now, loosely but totally surrendered, his fingers tangled deep into Swerve’s locs.
Swerve, for his part, had a death grip on Will’s thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to something that had no business being touched in a pre-match locker room.
It was overwhelming.
It was reckless.
And Swerve wanted more.
Will made another little noise into his mouth—barely a whimper, more of a breath, really—but that was it.
That was fucking it.
Swerve’s brain short-circuited.
Because Will had always been loud in every other context—talking too much backstage, singing along to bad songs in the car, laughing so hard he snorted during promo takes—but these soft sounds? Right now, pressed up against Swerve, kiss-drunk and pliant?
That did something dangerous to him.
It was suddenly so easy to forget where they were. What they were about to do. Who they were about to fight. Because the weight of Will in his lap, warm and real and squirming just slightly under Swerve’s grip, was eclipsing everything else.
Swerve groaned low in his throat and deepened the kiss, his hand tightening on Will’s thigh, fingers sliding just a bit lower into the crease of fabric and skin.
That damn white-gold-purple gear—shiny and stretched across Will’s ass like a second skin—wasn’t helping anyone’s self-control.
And Will—this man, this chaotic, insufferable, bandage-wearing menace—was just taking it, breath hitching, mouth opening more eagerly with every kiss, hands fisting into Swerve’s locs like it was the only thing anchoring him.
They were making out. Full-on. Sloppy, hot, hungry.
In the Arena México locker room.
About an hour before walking out to fight Jon fucking Moxley, the Death Riders, and the goddamn Young Bucks.
And yet all Swerve could think was: When did this happen?
When had Will Ospreay—the guy who once got them kicked out of a hotel gym for blasting anime openings and shadowboxing to the Naruto theme—turned into someone he wanted to wreck?
When had the stupidly cute dork with a black eye and a too-loud laugh become this? This flushed, panting thing wrapped around him like a sin he’d never regret?
Will made another little sound when Swerve’s hand skimmed over his hip, and Swerve had to shut his eyes. God.
It was not PG anymore. Hadn’t been for a while.
His lips were slick with Will’s, his hand cradling the whole curve of Will’s ass now, fingers unconsciously gripping tighter into that shiny fabric that had definitely distracted him a few too many times during their match last week.
This was getting out of hand. Fast.
He could feel Will breathing hard against him, hot puffs of air hitting his jawline, and Swerve knew he was only a few seconds away from doing something reckless—like shifting them further down the bench or letting his hand drift even lower.
And that was the moment—right then, with Will tangled around him and making that tiny noise again—that Swerve realized how close they were to something that should not be happening in this room.
Not right now.
Not before a match.
Not with their team probably going to come in here to change soon.
But Will…
God. Will.
His best friend. The guy who cried too easily over movie endings. Who could never figure out his own locker combination half the time. Who made the dumbest jokes at the worst times. Who always said he was fine when he wasn’t.
The same Will Ospreay who had taken two spike shoes to the face for him.
And who was now kissing him like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Swerve’s heart pounded.
They hadn’t even said what this was.
But they both knew.
They were so close to crossing a line neither of them could ever uncross—and maybe they already had.
How the hell did this start with a black eye?
A fucking black eye he didn’t even cause.
And now here he was—Swerve Strickland—half possessed, making out with Will Ospreay like the world was ending, one hour before their ten-man match, while his hand hovered just beneath the waistband of the tightest pair of ring gear to ever exist in the history of AEW.
He still had one arm wrapped firm around Will’s waist, grounding him, pulling him in. The other—God help him—the other was no longer politely stationed on Will’s thigh or even his admittedly distracting ass.
No.
Swerve’s fingers had started to wander, slowly dragging around to the front, brushing under Will’s navel, tracing the barest, softest skin just bordering the waistband of those stupid, shiny, white and purple and gold pants.
Will’s breath caught.
And then his whole body shivered—visibly—his thighs twitching in Swerve’s lap as he let out the most helpless little sound right into Swerve’s mouth.
That was the moment Swerve felt it—through his hands, his mouth, his lap.
Will spread one of his thighs a little wider.
Just barely. Just enough.
Like he was inviting it.
Like he was saying yes without a word.
And Swerve—whatever reasonable part of his brain still existed—let go.
He gave in.
Let the fiend inside him run free. The hunger. The heat. The ache that had built over years of friendship and months of flirtation and weeks of not-talking-about-it.
His fingertips dipped below the waistband, into his pants.
Just the edge, just enough to feel the slope of warm smooth skin. The line of soft muscle along Will’s lower belly. The pretty heat between his legs just mere centimeters away from Swerve's contact.
Will whimpered into his mouth.
That sound.
That goddamn sound.
It went straight to Swerve’s gut.
He was going to do it. Right here. Right now. He needed to touch Will.
He didn’t care. The world could burn. They could get fined. Fired. Fined again—
A cough.
Sharp. Not close.
But real.
A voice. A fucking voice.
Somewhere two aisles over.
Someone was in the locker room.
Swerve froze.
Will froze.
They both whipped their heads around like cartoon characters, lips wet, faces flushed, hearts pounding.
And then—horror.
Hobbs.
Fucking HOBBS.
He’d greeted Hobbs on the way in. Had literally nodded at him like ten minutes ago.
How long had he been back there? How much had he heard??
Will’s entire face turned the color of a cherry cough drop. His hand flew to his mouth like that could somehow hide the fact that he’d just been moaning into his best friend’s mouth twenty seconds ago.
Swerve sat stiff, hand still on Will’s lower stomach like he was holding a live grenade.
They didn’t breathe.
Will slowly, slowly, shifted off his lap, legs shaky, trying to act like he hadn’t just been actively spread open in Swerve’s arms.
Neither of them looked at each other.
They couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not when they were both so obviously—and shamelessly—wrecked.
A beat passed.
Another.
Then Will, still red-faced and wide-eyed, leaned in and whispered—
“...We’re going to hell.”
Swerve choked back a laugh.
“Shut up.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Will sat perched on the edge of the bench like he’d just seen his entire wrestling career flash before his eyes. Hands over his face. Shoulders hunched. The human embodiment of “if I don’t move, the T-Rex can’t see me.”.
Swerve, meanwhile, stared down at his own traitorous hands like they’d personally ruined his life. He cleared his throat once. Twice.
Finally—he had to ask.
Voice dry. Tentative. Desperate.
“...Hobbs?”
Silence.
Maybe Hobbs had earbuds in. Maybe he had left already by now. Maybe—please God—he was deaf.
And then:
“Yeah, what’s up?”
Swerve physically flinched.
Will nearly choked, letting out a noise somewhere between a squeak and a wheeze. He practically doubled over, like the weight of secondhand shame had struck him down mid-sentence.
Swerve closed his eyes and breathed. Deep. In through the nose, out through the existential dread.
Because oh. Oh, Hobbs heard it.
Not just the kissing. Not just the flirty jokes and soft laughter.
No, Hobbs absolutely heard:
The kissing noises.
The wet kissing noises.
The groans.
The gasps.
The little moans Will had tried—and failed—to swallow.
Swerve could’ve crawled into a locker and died there. Rot in silence next to a box of gear and protein bars. Just become part of the architecture.
Will was still hiding behind his hands like it would somehow render his 6’1” frame invisible.
Neither of them dared to speak.
And then—
From the next aisle over:
“You guys... uh... done yet? Joe’s gonna be here soon.”
Immediate, full-body cringe.
It rippled off both of them like they’d been tased.
Swerve made an honest-to-God noise. A strangled, shame-drenched wheeze.
Will actually sank to the floor, burying his face into the inside of his own elbow like he was ready to just die. “Oh my God,” he muttered into the air. “Oh my God.”
Swerve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dragging his palms down his face. “This is the worst moment of my life.”
“You almost had your hand down my pants in front of HOBBS.”
“You were the one being noisy!”
“I was in the moment, you were the one with the hand!”
“I—WE—he—” Swerve gave up mid-sentence and let out a pathetic groan, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. “Why didn’t he say anything?!”
“He let it happen,” Will hissed.
“He heard everything,” Swerve muttered.
They both sat in unholy silence for a beat. And then:
“Joe is gonna walk in here and smell the sin.”
Will let out a bark of laughter—ugly, pained, frantic—and covered his mouth. “Yeah, we’re so going to hell,” he whispered again.
Swerve was still staring into the abyss of his own hands, muttering, “I was so close. Like one second away.”
Will dropped his forehead to Swerve’s shoulder, limp with existential dread.
“I hate how much I still want you right now,” he mumbled, face half-buried.
Swerve didn’t say it aloud, but his hand reached over, rested on Will’s thigh again—chaste, this time, like it could erase the sins of fifteen minutes ago.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Me too.”
They sat like that, shoulders pressed together, trying to figure out how to de-sin themselves before Joe walked in and vaporized them with his judgey dad stare.
And then, from beyond the row of lockers, as casual as if they’d asked for a weather report:
“I can still hear you, you know.”
SILENCE.
Pure, immediate, life-ending silence.
Will let out a squeak that was practically inaudible.
Swerve closed his eyes and mouthed a silent fuck to the heavens above.
Will slid dramatically off the bench to the floor like his entire soul had left his body. “Please. Just kill me. I’ll lie down. You can put me in a headlock. Just do it.”
Swerve didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just sat perfectly still, hoping that maybe if he stopped existing, this moment would too.
Hobbs didn’t say another word. Just let the weight of that one sentence sink in like a brick dropped from orbit.
And the worst part?
He sounded so normal about it. Like he wasn’t judging. Like he wasn’t scarred. Like he hadn’t just heard the most intimate, breathy, whimper-filled locker room makeout session of his life and then the world’s stupidest whisper argument about it afterward.
“I’m gonna have to change locker rooms,” Will muttered, still crumpled on the floor like laundry. “Tell Tony I’m transferring to the women’s.”
Swerve finally stood up and scrubbed his hands over his face like he could physically wipe the memory away. “I can’t do this. I cannot do this.”
They looked at each other—flushed, wrecked, mortified.
And then, because the universe had no mercy—
A voice echoed from the hall:
“Hey, has anyone seen Joe?”
It was Hangman. Hangman fucking Adam Page of all people. The absolute last guy Swerve wanted in the vicinity, especially in this moment.
Swerve and Will both flinched. Great, another person.
Then a pause.
“...Why does it feel so awkward in here?”
Swerve didn’t even try to stop the groan.
Will, face back in his hands, whispered, “You should’ve just kept your hand in my pants. Dying that way would’ve been less painful.”
Maybe it was a good thing Hobbs' cough interrupted them when it did. A blessing in disguise. Swerve would just disintegrate if fucking Hangman had walked in on them.
The air finally felt a little less suffocating by the time they stepped out of the locker room, awkwardly nodding to (while simultaneously avoiding eye contact with) Hobbs and now Hangman.
Still flushed, still kinda stunned, but…lighter now. Laughing under their breath like idiots who’d just survived a near-death experience.
Will bumped his shoulder into Swerve’s as they walked, hair still a bit messy, lips definitely still too pink.
“All because I looked so hot with my black eye, huh?”
Swerve scoffed. Loudly. “Oh my God.”
Will grinned. Grinned. That stupid, smug, I know I’m cute and you want me grin that made Swerve want to body slam him and kiss his face.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Swerve muttered, even as he reached over and gave Will a firm noogie, fingers messing up those impossibly fluffy curls. Will let out his signature too loud laugh, the one that echoed through the hall like he didn’t have a care in the world.
God, he was insufferable.
And Swerve loved him.
Not in a we’ve-gotta-label-this kind of way. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But in a you’re mine, and I’m yours, in whatever way that means right now kind of way.
There was a lot they needed to talk about.
A lot they’d just…done. Crossed. Teased.
But they had a match in—well. A lot less than an hour now. (Jesus, how long had they been going at it in there?)
They’d need to stretch again. Refocus. Remember they were about to walk into a match with Jon Moxley and the Death Riders, and not, like, a Valentine’s Day date.
Maybe they’d talk after.
Maybe Swerve would keep kissing the pain away every time Will needed it.
Maybe they were just…really affectionate best friends.
But one thing was clear.
Swerve’s eyes flicked to Will again, the bruised eye, the dumb grin, the way he still looked so obscenely good in that ring gear.
Yeah.
Mox was who they needed to have their eyes set on.
But damn if Will didn’t still look just a little too cute with that black eye.
And somehow?
This was all the Young Bucks’ fault.