Chanyeol tucked his loose, pitch black hair into the latex cap that was snugly fit onto his head. His head was bent to the side to listen to the chatter from his best friend, Baekhyun as they walked toward the warm-up lane. Chanyeol’s goggles, which were tucked into the elastic of his mankini Speedo, bounced against his thigh every step he took. He took long blinks, and a yawn had wedged itself into the back of his throat. It was six in the morning, and he was way too tired for this.

They weren’t the first to the lane, but were close to it. Chanyeol sat down on the block, bending his legs at the knees and hugging them to his chest, settling his face in the space they left. He groaned and closed his eyes. Baekhyun stood next to him, though he had turned to talk to Jongdae, who was almost as animated as Baekhyun was, and quickly had his hand on the shorter one’s shoulder. Under normal circumstances (at acceptable hours of the day), Chanyeol would have made fun of them, or teased them for their annoying flirting, but the early summer air was cold, and the water would surely be freezing, and the rashes he got a few days before from his annoying chlorine allergies were just beginning to fade.

“Okay! Start with: one hundred free, one hundred IM, one hundred kick.” A chorus of  “Got it!”s followed the coach’s words, and Chanyeol raised his head, about seven curses running through his brain as he got off of the block, snapped his goggles in place, and jumped into the water that was, indeed, the temperature of the Arctic Ocean, Chanyeol was sure. He pushed off of the wall in one swift motion and began to swim, his long body stretched out, white water flowing around him as he swam easy through the water.

It was the fifth annual “Mile Meet,” which was basically an all-day even on Saturday; it was an official meet, but only the local teams came to participate in it. There were only a few events offered, all of the long-distance, and since Chanyeol’s team was hosting it, he had had to wake up at four AM to come help set up all of the electronics and such. He had tried to persuade his mom to let him sleep in the car while the preparations were going down because he had events and he needed sleep, but she wouldn’t have any of it (mostly because he had fallen asleep at five thirty the night before, and he should have had more than enough sleep by then, but that was unnecessary information).

He flip-turned at the other wall, this being the only turn before he had to start the agonizing process of trying to do a hundred IM in a fifty-meter pool, and he didn’t know why he had to do it anyway, he wasn’t swimming anything other than freestyle that day.

Chanyeol didn’t like warm-ups very much because there were too many people crowded into a lane, and they usually didn’t have enough room to actually go a speed that would be more helpful for their race later. He was trying to break the record for the mile today, which meant he had to go twenty-nine fifties every single fifty the whole race. He got to the opposite side again and stopped, huddling himself at the corner of the lane so he was out of the way of any advancing people.

“Coach!” The man stopped talking to whoever he was talking to and turned to Chanyeol, who was, by then, a little more woken up. “Coach, can I warm up in a different lane? I can’t do it here.” He motioned to the crowded lane with a grand gesture, and hit some girl’s while she was flip-turning. His cheeks flared red and he cleared his throat.

“I was just talking about that, the Crocs are going to clear out one of their lanes, and you’ll share with Yifan,” he said. Chanyeol nodded and pulled himself out of the pool, water running off of his freshly shaved legs as he wrapped his arms around himself and glanced around.

“Which lane?”

“Seven,” he said and patted Chanyeol’s back. “I want you to do three one hundreds easy and one sprint, and then call me over.” After the instructions, he walked away for a moment to go talk to another coach. Chanyeol puffed his cheeks and walked toward the assigned lane, peeling his goggles from his face for a moment so he didn’t look like an idiot.

Already by the lane, and stretching his impressively toned muscles, was a handsome boy with a Stingray cap. Chanyeol squinted at the orange and blue design and clenched his teeth lightly. His coach failed to mention that Yifan was a part of the rival team. He shuddered, imagining the shame of losing, of finishing second to the boy who was probably about the same speed as him, because they looked about the same size.

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped advances toward the other boy until Yifan looked up and smiled at him. Yifan’s eyes then trailed up to Chanyeol’s bright blue cap and his smile faltered slightly. “I’m Chanyeol.” Chanyeol introduced himself with a nod and walked over to the lane, trying not to appreciate how smokin’ hot Yifan’s thighs looked in his jammers, but it was difficult. “I’ll take right, you take left?” he asked and rubbed the fog from his goggles with his fingers, glancing to Yifan.

With a nod of approval, Chanyeol jumped in and resumed with his new warm-up.

So, it turned out that Yifan was pretty fast, and when he swims, his arm muscles flex and the water floats around him in perfect streams— Chanyeol shook his head, waving his coach over. Yifan came and flip turned, and Chanyeol, being the stupid clumsy piece of (that’s what he called himself after the Incident), hit Yifan’s when he was mid-turn. His cheeks and ears flushed bright red, and Yifan stopped, standing up and rubbing his under the water.

“For a scrawny boy, damn you can hit hard,” he commented off-handedly. Chanyeol could not look at Yifan’s face because he was the one person in the entire world (other than Matt Grevers, dayuum boy) who looks hot with his goggles on. He put a hand on his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, ,” he said, totally embarrassed.

“I’ve been felt up in the water, but definitely haven’t had my slapped,” he said with a small laugh. “It’s okay, man, really.”     

Chanyeol opened his mouth to respond, but by then his coach had come over and knelt by the side of the lane Chanyeol was on. Chanyeol looked to him with a smile and leaned his forearm on the gutter so he didn’t have to tread water anymore. He heard a subtle swish, and when he glanced to the spot where Yifan was, only slightly disturbed water greeted him. He sighed, almost in relief, and gave his attention to his coach.

“You weren’t supposed to really push yourself on those,” was the first thing the coach said. It took him a moment, but Chanyeol realized he was misinterpreting his still blushed cheeks. He just shrugged, deciding not to correct him (he couldn’t just tell his coach that he was fraternizing with the enemy). “Since I don’t want you too tired, just swim another one-fifty and hop out.”

Chanyeol finished his newly assigned warm-up and swiftly hopped out of the pool: one hand gripped the handle of the block, and the opposite foot planted on the gutter; he pulled himself up in one motion and gripped the edge of the block to help step out the rest of the way. Behind him, he heard a low wolf-whistle, and he tried to forget and not feel too cocky, that yes, his back and shoulder muscles were pretty ing impressive, thanks very much. Instead of acting suave and cool, like he almost felt in his head, he snapped his head back to look at the figure in the water quickly.

Yifan was leaning back a little, his head resting on the gentle waves of the chlorinated water. His arms were half-outstretched, skulling lightly, and his feet were slowly kicking, enough to keep him balanced and afloat, but not enough to exert any real effort. There was an annoyingly attractive, crooked smile planted on his face, and his goggles were set on the edge of his cap (the little black fringes sticking out were not y, nope).

“What?” he demanded, his deep voice a little shocked, but not too much. Yifan just shook his head a little to dismiss it and climbed out of the pool himself, putting a hand on each handle and both of his feet on the gutter, pulling himself up with his arms and gripping the edges of the block, stepping up onto the deck. The water ran coolly off of him, and when he stood up fully to stand in front of Chanyeol, he realized that they were almost exactly the same height.

“You trying to beat Larsen too?” Yifan asked and crossed his arms over his torso as a breeze flew by. He didn’t shiver (like Chanyeol did), but his s hardened and Chanyeol almost whished he was shorter so looking at them would be less obvious. He tried to focus on the question.

“Larsen?” he asked, not aware of a boy in the league having that name, and he would know, he read heat sheets religiously.

“The record holder. Larsen Jensen.”

Chanyeol felt stupid. “Oh. Yes.”

Yifan glanced at the water, at the other people still swimming in congested lanes. Chanyeol looked down at the seven boys from Yifan’s team that were slowly inching themselves into the lane they just left.

“I think it’s more than just a race against a time, it’s a race against time. Ten year difference, quite a cool thing. Do you think you can do it?”

Yifan did not look y when he talked smack. Yifan did not look y when he looked at Chanyeol with an I’m-better-than-you-smirk. Yifan did not look y when he pushed his cap and goggles off of his head in one swift motion. Yifan did not look y— “Yes.”

“Well so do I,” he answered almost automatically and held his headgear loosely in his hand, that he tucked against his other arm, still shielding himself from the cold. “I guess we’ll see which team is better, huh?”

Chanyeol wished he could think as fast and as sarcastic as Baekhyun, but he couldn’t. He didn’t reply, only blushed slightly pink and looked away. Yifan chuckled and walked away, and right after he left, Baekhyun came up, like he was lurking on the sidelines and waiting for Yifan to disappear.

“Wow, what an ,” Baekhyun said and got on his tip-toes, draping an arm around Chanyeol’s neck. Chanyeol bent down out of habit as Baekhyun started to lead him away.

“Did you see his thighs though?” Chanyeol said it without thinking. Those heavenly thighs under those jammers. How would they feel around his waist? He was too wrapped up in thoughts he should not be having in a barely-there mankini but he couldn’t help it. He also didn’t consider the whole enemy-team factor.

Baekhyun answered a split second later. “No I did not see his ing thighs. I was too busy getting lost in that .” He whistled. They laughed. Chanyeol needed a cold shower.

&

Yifan looked like he meditated. He stood behind the timer’s chairs, his arms crossed, his cap and goggles in his loose fist—which was very big, and looked very cool to hold. Like the awesome hands that are always warm.—and his expression was serious and calm and so I’m-so-going-to-crush-this. He looked like he sat in his bedroom, on a yoga mat, with his legs impeccably crossed and his hands on his knees. Oohhh Uuuuuuuuuuum. Oohhhh Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum. Fourteen forty-five twenty-niiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Oh Uuuum.

Chanyeol watched him be all still and scoffed lightly in disgust. Chanyeol was still dripping wet, because he just got out of the warm-up pool for the pre-race warm-ups, but he had his bright green and neon pink towel draped over his shoulders. It was about eleven AM, and his race was going to start soon. It was the last of the meet, because it was the longest, and he was definitely going to go to DQ later and drown all of his stress in a cookie-dough blizzard. Extra large. Don’t judge me cashier, you didn’t see him—

All of the mile people were going in one heat. There weren’t a lot of people who willingly (or not even willingly) put themselves through fifteen hundred meters of torture. Yifan was in lane three. He had the fastest time of the heat. Fourteen fifty-four eighty-two. Chanyeol was in lane four: fourteen fifty-six nineteen. There was a girl in lane two, her time was a seventeen something, Chanyeol couldn’t recall the exacts. On his right, there was a young boy, and in the remaining four lanes, there were two boys and two girls.

Chanyeol had been eating, sleeping, and, most of all, swimming twenty-nine fifty fifties for about two months now, and he was confident in himself. Two months of tears, yelling, and puking in the gutters assures a swimmer pretty well when it comes to their pride and joy. Chanyeol was one of the fastest long-distance in the league. Chanyeol was so awesome sometimes he couldn’t handle it, and that made him have to brag about it to other people.

“What do you think he eats for breakfast? Wheaties?” Chanyeol said, leaning his head down slightly to talk to Baekhyun. Earlier, he slayed his four hundred IM (three fifty-three forty-eight). “I bet he practices poses in the mirror, waiting for the day he appears on one of those.”

Baekhyun cackled beside him. They were silent for a little, Chanyeol watching Yifan, Baekhyun watching the people swimming the thousand.

“Your knee okay?” Baekhyun asked after a while. The fastest person in the heat was on the fourteenth lap.

“I put my medicine on it earlier. God, I hate that stuff. It stinks.”

“Remember to swim in the middle.”

“Got it.”

“Long .”

“Kay.”

“Know your technique?”

“Yeh.”

“Tell it to me.”

Chanyeol recited it. The first five hundred was over-kick. Second five hundred was primarily arms. Third five hundred was fast, faster, fastest, and I’m-gonna-puke. Foolproof.

“Great.”

The fastest was on his seventeenth.

“Stay in your lane,” Baekhyun said, reiterating what Coach had told Chanyeol earlier. “The moment you let Mr. Fine take your attention away, you’ve lost.”

“That’s comforting.” Chanyeol bit his lip and handed Baekhyun his towel, jumping up and down a few times and shaking out his arms; getting his muscles nice and warm. He walked around the chairs and in front of the block, firmly plating his feet into the rubber placed on the concrete deck. He put his hands on the block and stretched his back before twisting his torso back and forth.

The fastest swimmer finished. Ten minutes flat. Chanyeol clapped, tucked his hair into his cap, and cleared the fog from his goggles. The rest of the heat finished. Yifan was ready at his block, and was pulling his cap over the top of his goggles. Chanyeol firmly planted his own eye gear on his face.

“I love you!” Baekhyun called from what seemed like a mile (no pun intended) away. Chanyeol turned and gave him a goofy smile and a thumbs up; Baekhyun giggled.

The first whistle sounded, and Chanyeol gently rolled his neck in a circle, jumping a couple more times and shaking from his elbow down. The second whistle echoed through the now silenced area, and Chanyeol climbed up onto the block. He put his left foot on the edge of the block and curled his toes around it, his back foot resting on the back. He glanced at his competitors. Both of Yifan’s feet were at the edge of the block. Chanyeol had only seen three other people dive like that. His Stingray cap glared at Chanyeol.

He couldn’t lose to the enemy, that would be a shame on him and his family and his children and their children’s children. Stingrays swam on the bottom of the ocean, right? Waves were powerful on top. Waves can wipe things out. Chanyeol proudly wore his Waves cap, his name printed in bright white letters on the bottom: PARK.

He was going to win.

The monotonic voice ran in his ears.

Take your mark.

He put his hands by his foot, lightly gripping. His head curled down by his knee neatly.

Beep.

He dove.

&

The first rush of cold water was always shocking, no matter when or why he entered. His legs automatically started to kick, his legs mostly straight, except for his floppy feet and slight bend of the knee. He willed his forearms to pull more water as he took long , his body gliding through the water quickly. The first flipturn went effortlessly, and he could picture his coach pressing lap on the stopwatch when his feet touched the wall and looking at an impressive twenty-nine fifty. He smiled to himself and kept swimming, concentrating on his technique.

The mile, over anything else, was a boring race. During the race, he wasn’t allowed to pay attention to the other swimmers, he was only allowed to “stay in his lane.” What does one think about for fifteen minutes that won’t distract him from the race? Definitely not Yifan. That boy had to stay faaaaaar away from his lane.

When he took a breath, he heard muted cheering. Another turn at the other end, he was on lap three. Jongdae was counting for him, which was the best choice because Baekhyun always got too excited and shook the damned thing every time he hit a wall, inaccurately telling Chanyeol to hurry the up and messing up his rhythm. Jongdae listened to the coach’s signals, and for the first ten laps, the counter had a gentle swish.

Yifan’s name was primarily being called on the second five-hundred, and when Chanyeol turned, he glanced at his counter, and it was being so violently shaken, Chanyeol wondered how Yifan even read the big black number.

By then, his cheeks were too red and his breath was coming in to short to think more about that, and he had lost count of the numbers. (When he swam, he multiplied. Two times two equals four. Four times four equals sixteen. Sixteen time sixteen equals two hundred fifty-six. Two hundred fifty-six…)

Neatly, he swam. With each push-off, he imagined twenty-nine fifty.

Lap seventeen out of thirty.

His head was calm, and his muscles were burning, but there were no excuses. Doing thirty fifties on the thirty was a scarring experience, but he did it seven times. Cheeks burning, vision going black, throwing up—the whole nine yards. Thirty fifties on the thirty was the mile he was going for. Except each fifty had to be twenty-nine fifty. Twenty-nine fifty. Chanyeol gasped for air and turned.

Lap twenty.

He started to sprint. Any slack had to be picked up in this last leg. He heard his name, he saw the board shaking up and down calmly, he heard Baekhyun’s voice crack in the middle of “Go!” right by his head when he turned. Chanyeol kicked faster. It was easier for him to push his legs far passed their expected complaining point, probably because they weren’t as close to his head. It took another hundred meters to get his arms to cooperate. His right hand was tingling. There was a black spot right smack in the middle of his vision.

Lap twenty-six.

Fourteen minutes, forty-five seconds, twenty-nine milliseconds. Chanyeol could do it. He assumed that Baekhyun and Jongdae had switched places, because Jongdae’s voice was louder in his ears (Baekhyun’s was close behind) and the counter was shaking furiously. If anyone could hear his breaths, they would sound almost comical. His lungs were burning and his breath was coming in wheezes.

He couldn’t feel his limbs anymore, just know that they were moving, and moving fast. He took three breaths going down. The red box on the counter greeted him, and it was still. Baekhyun’s voice rang in his ears. He turned.

Last lap.

No-breath fifty. He wondered, for a vague moment, how many breaths Yifan was going to take, then told himself it didn’t ing matter. He heard cheering, but he didn’t know for whom and how far away it was. All he was focusing on was getting to the end, get to the end. His vision was clouding, his right arm was tingling. He was sure he would die right there, right in the pool.

He slammed his hand down on the board. His head tore from the water and drank in sweet air. Cheering got louder, and he gasped and wheezed for breath as he raised his head to look at the scoreboard.

1 : Lane 4 : 14:44.88

And right underneath:

2 : Lane 3 : 14:45.09

They both beat the record, but Chanyeol beat it more.

His victory woop was him doubling over into the gutter and throwing up his breakfast.

He did it.

&

What Chanyeol really needed was a scalding hot shower, an orange Gatorade, and a Snickers bar.

After the race, he had been dragged out of the pool by Baekhyun, Jongdae, and some small boy from Yifan’s team. He plopped onto his hands and knees on the deck and gasped for air, his whole body feeling numb and unusable.

He looked over at Yifan’s lane, where the boy had his head resting sideways on the gutter, his whole body quivering as a tan, fat-lipped boy rushed over and handed him an inhaler. Yifan took desperate puffs, and a doll-like, very pretty boy came over and kneeled by the lane and started talking very excitedly. Chanyeol guessed he was the boy responsible for the epileptic counter. Chanyeol’s towel was on his shoulders, and he slowly climbed to his feet. He was too out of breath to go over and say “Good race” or whatever he used to say. He couldn’t think straight at the moment.

He just broke a ten-year record.

His coach came over, clapped him on the back, and said something encouraging. Chanyeol smiled weakly and nodded before stumbling in the direction of the locker room. Since it was the end of the meet, there wasn’t really anyone in the locker room, and whoever was was just getting their things and leaving. Chanyeol didn’t pay much attention to him, because he just wanted to get in the shower and relax his burning muscles.

He let his towel drop on top of his bright red, Speedo swim backpack and reached into a side pocket for his shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and toothbrush and toothpaste (because he did just vomit, after all). Fifteen seconds later, he was standing under the stream as the water pounded his back. He let out a sigh of relief.

Chanyeol showered with his suit on. It was more out of courtesy for everyone else, rather than himself. No one wanted to see him walking between showers, talking to people while washing his hair, with his hanging out. Huddling in hot showers in the winter was not better with a in the way.

Yifan didn’t seem to think that way. He came in, roughly ten minutes later (Chanyeol was still standing in the same exact spot—he hadn’t moved), his face, back, and shoulders still pink from the race, holding his soaps, with his out for the world to see.

Chanyeol coughed and turned around so he was facing the stream and started to rinse his hair. They were silent for a couple minutes, and when Chanyeol bent down to grab his shampoo and dump a heavy amount in his hand, he glanced back at Yifan and saw him rubbing soap over his abs and the water was running down over his face and dripping from his eyelashes. Chanyeol groaned (accidentally) out loud and quickly turned back. He could almost feel Yifan’s smirk.

Chanyeol also realized that Yifan’s thighs looked even better sans jammers, and while he rubbed anti-chlorine shampoo into his scalp, three things ran through his mind: Yifan should have a portable Japanese screen so nobody has to be tortured by his glory, he should not have a portable Japanese screen so people could be tortured by his glory, and that Chanyeol’s anaconda definitely did.

He changed the water temperature from scorching hot to frigid.

“Is your back okay?” Yifan asked, startling Chanyeol. His hand automatically went to his back, where he felt bumps, which he assumed were red and rash-like, because Yifan could see them from across the shower room. He turned his head a little to the side.

“Yeah, I have a chlorine allergy. It goes away after a while,” he answered calmly, but the way Yifan was looking at his skin made him wish the shower had a colder setting.

“Ah.” Chanyeol finished rinsing the soap out of his hair and turned back so he was facing Yifan more, to get his conditioner.

“Good swim, by the way,” Chanyeol said, almost awkwardly, because what does one man say to another when one is and very ily washing his short, black hair?

“Thanks, but it wasn’t as good as yours.” The look Yifan gave Chanyeol suggested he was flirting. Chanyeol’s cheeks pinkened slightly, and he ran his fingers through his hair with conditioner on them.

“Point two one seconds isn’t that much.” He decided to play along with the whole modest act, even though he knew that they both desperately wanted to gush about how good they were and how hard they trained.

“It’s enough to have your name on the website.” Yifan scrated his lower stomach, Chanyeol gulped. “How long before someone breaks it? Ten years?”

Chanyeol shrugged nonchalantly and got some toothpaste on his toothbrush, deciding that there was no reason to stop his showering just because a very , very hot boy was complimenting him. “Probably not that long.” Chanyeol put his toothbrush in his mouth and started to brush his teeth, turning to the side to stare at the tile instead of Yifan as he decided it was necessary to wash his legs. Oh, those thighs.

After about a minute, Chanyeol was spitting into the drain and cleaning the back of his tongue (very uny, but it had to be done), Yifan spoke again. “You know your short, cute friend? The one who talks a lot?”

Chanyeol almost gagged on his toothbrush. “Baekhyun?” he asked and stood up, putting his toothbrush back in the plastic bag with the toothpaste and turning to look at Yifan again. He was done showering, but he didn’t want to leave the hot water (and the hot boy).

“Yeah him. He cheers very loud.”

“He’s supportive.” Chanyeol defended his best friend automatically, even though Yifan’s tone didn’t offer any suggestion that cheering loudly was a bad thing.

“I heard him cheering for you, but also for me? I think…” Yifan paused, and Chanyeol froze. What did Baekhyun say? “I think he called me sweet cheeks and Sir Backside.”

Chanyeol laughed, but tried to hold it back, so it came out as a weird, strangled chuckle. He coughed and patted his chest, his cheeks flushed lightly. “He likes your .” Yifan’s face brightened slightly. Chanyeol added, almost without thinking. “I mean, I can’t blame him.” Yifan made a surprised noise, like he wasn’t expecting that, but Chanyeol just gathered his things and walked out of the bathroom with his cheeks flaming and muttering to himself (in his head, so he didn’t sound insane).

Chanyeol dried and peeled off his mankini, putting it on the bench and taking out his underwear, pulling them on. (Just normal tidy-whities, he didn’t like anything short on his thighs, it made him feel like he couldn’t move his legs.) He was halfway through pulling his sweatpants over his thighs when he heard a wolf-whistle behind him, automatically making his ears turn red.

He hurriedly put them on the rest of the way, hanging them low on his hips as he searched for his shirt, which he was sure he packed (it had to be somewhere).

“You don’t talk much do you?”

Not when attractive boys aren’t wearing any pants. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

Chanyeol thought that was a pretty personal question. Personal as in he didn’t really know. He actually talked a lot—when it wasn’t early in the morning and it wasn’t only him and a boy in the locker room. Other than those two scenarios, he was louder than Baekhyun. (Baekhyun just didn’t seem to ever be tired, or ever run out of things to say.

“I lied, I actually talk a lot,” he admitted and stood up, deciding to pull out his sandals instead of keeping up the search for his shirt, that was there, it was just hiding so he could expose his toned torso to Yifan, which he didn’t really mind, actually. He had been working on the V line, and it was coming along pretty well, if he did say so himself.

Yifan chuckled and shook his head, pulling boxers on. Chanyeol almost sighed in relief.

“Why aren’t you talking now?”

That’s a very good question, Chanyeol thought. “Because I can’t concentrate around you,” he said. He blushed. It would have been way better if he thought and spoke the other way around, that would have sounded smarter, and Yifan definitely wouldn’t be making that face.

He had a satisfied smirk on his lips, as well as a light blush painted across his cheekbones, and his thick, pointed eyebrows were slightly raised, maybe in surprise, maybe teasingly. Chanyeol both wanted him to stop and wanted him to keep going at the same time. He cleared his throat and opened and closed his mouth a couple times. He looked down at the ground and realized that they were only about four feet apart, and for a moment, he thought about how much he wanted that measurement to be smaller.

“I mean—you’re really hot and fast and—” Oh My God, Chanyeol Stop. “—I would very much like you to be directly the reason I’m not talking, what am I saying.” He shut his mouth, refusing to let any words come out.

Yifan had basketball shorts on (red) and Chanyeol didn’t remember him putting them on. Yifan’s face looked even ier, and Chanyeol was sure he was blushing, because his face was very hot, and Yifan’s eyes were tailing over his cheeks and down lower… They stood silent for a moment, both of them standing and looking at each other. Chanyeol hooked his thumb in the pocket of his sweatpants and looked down at the ground, not being able to take the sight any longer. He cleared his throat.

“Sorry, I just kind of get carried away sometimes and then I blabber and can’t stop myself, and usually I say something embarrassing, like your thighs are on point but are totally drowned in those shorts, and your face is pretty much perfect, but I’m sure it would looked better on mine, and I so so wish you weren’t a Stingray because I want to swim with you and be friends with you and have your thighs around my waist. I feel like Romeo and Juliet, kinda: O dear account! My life is in my foe’s debt—”

He was interrupted, not by himself, he probably could have gone on much longer, but by Yifan’s voice.

“Oh, my God, please kiss me.”

Chanyeol automatically stepped forward, and realized that his muscles were really sore and tired from his fifteen hundred meter sprint. Yifan was looking at him with that look, and Chanyeol slowly exhaled when he got closer to Yifan. Yifan leaned back against the lockers, and Chanyeol rested his forearm on one side of him, slowly leaning in, his cheeks on fire.

Yifan’s eyes closed, and Chanyeol turned his head to the side a little and parted his lips so the kiss would be fuller, and lightly brushed their mouths together. Chanyeol’s lips tingled where they were touching Yifan’s, and he felt the older boy sharply inhale. With newfound confidence, Chanyeol tilted his chin up to mash their mouths together, but he was interrupted by obnoxious foot-slapping and Baekhyun’s voice calling his name.

Chanyeol stumbled backward, the fatigue in his muscles making him loose some coordination, and fell into the wall of lockers by his bag, color high in his cheeks. He bent down to resume looking in his bag (act normal).

Somehow that all happened in a split second, and Baekhyun appeared precisely at the end of it. Baekhyun walked in, wearing very short shorts (he started wearing them after he wore his new jeans to school, and when he took them off for practice, his legs were blue. He insisted the only way not to turn his legs blue was to wear nothing on them ever since) and Chanyeol’s wife-beater, the one he had been looking for. His phone was clutched very tightly in his hand.

Baekhyun glanced from Yifan to Chanyeol and nodded to himself, probably taking in both of their blushed cheeks and slightly frazzled appearances (even though they had both resumed what they were doing—Yifan slipping on his shirt, and Chanyeol staring at his own, on Baekhyun’s body.

“That’s my shirt.”

Baekhyun looked down at his shirt, acting surprised. “Oh, really?”

“You took it out of my bag.”

“I would never—”

“Baekhyun.” Baekhyun stopped, mid-dramatic hand-placing on the chest, his face a mixture of play and mock-seriousness. He put his hand down at his side and looked at Chanyeol. “Take it off.”

“No.”

“Take it off.”

“No.”

“Take it—”

“You can’t make me.”

Chanyeol lunged at Baekhyun, who screamed like he was getting brutally murdered, and they struggled (with lots of unattractive grunts) for the shirt, a battle in which (surprisingly) Chanyeol came out triumphant, slipping on the shirt as Baekhyun stood in short shorts and flip-flops. Baekhyun huffed.

“Your mom’s waiting. She wanted me to tell you to hurry up,” Baekhyun said and crossed his arms.

“Okay.” Chanyeol slipped his own sandals on, not wanting to totally bend down while Baekhyun was standing there (he might get his brutally slapped).

“Like, actually hurry because Jongdae and I are coming with you and I want to go.”

“Okay.”

Baekhyun rolled his eyes playfully and backed up a few steps, glancing around the locker room again and smirking slightly (never a good sign). “Until then, I’ll leave you and Squatmaster to… finish.” Yifan snorted at the nickname, and Baekhyun waved the hand with his phone, purposely showing them his wallpaper: a picture of Yifan mid-flip turn, a glorious shot of his . Chanyeol choked on his spit. Baekhyun laughed and left.

Chanyeol didn’t say anything for a moment, carefully wrapping his towel around his suit and setting it in the side of his bag perfectly (a place for everything, and everything in its place). He looked back up at Yifan when he heard the other put his backpack on, and Chanyeol scrambled to do the same.

“Do you like Blizzards?” he asked, trying to act smooth. Yifan chuckled lightly, beginning to walk out of the locker room. Chanyeol walked beside him.

“Like from Dairy Queen, or actual blizzards?” Yifan asked. He knew the answer, Chanyeol could tell, but he clarified anyway.

“Dairy Queen.”

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Yifan teased, and Chanyeol lightly blushed.

“I’m simply asking if you like Blizzards, and it’s not exactly a date if Baekhyun, Jongdae, and my mom are also there.” Chanyeol scoffed, trying to sound important and totally right.

“Well I do like them, and I would love to go on a date with you, Chanyeol.” Yifan was smiling, Chanyeol smiled too.

“Speaking of Blizzards, there’s this really cool story I should tell you…” Yifan bent his head (probably out of habit) to the side to listen as they continued to walk across the dampened deck, toward the parking lot and Chanyeol’s mom’s minivan. Chanyeol almost slapped Yifan’s face three times, from getting excited over his story.

(Yifan ended up holding his hand the rest of the way, and Chanyeol totally did not blush and stutter.)

MASTERLIST