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The tunnel at the charity pitch still echoed with the final whistle. Chris’s team had nicked it 4-3 in the last minute. His goal. His celebration. Shirt ripped off and spun over his head like a trophy.
Sweat glistened across his chest as he sprinted straight for Harry.
Harry, W2S, was laughing that loud, unhinged laugh, still half-shouting about the shot he had skied over the bar earlier. Chris did not hesitate. He slammed into him chest-first, arms locking around Harry’s neck, foreheads crashing together. Chris was short, 5'6 at most, so he had to push up on his toes, stretching his whole body just to reach properly.
“Mate, that pass in the second half, you’re actually unreal when you’re not being a complete weapon. Christ, I’d let you score on me any day of the week.”
His hand slid down Harry’s side, thumb hooking under the hem of his shirt, palm flat against bare skin for a second too long. Harry cackled and clapped Chris right on the arse, loud enough for half the tunnel to hear. Chris grinned wider, leaning in like they were the only two people alive, his smaller frame pressed tight against Harry’s taller one.
---
Will stood ten feet back, arms folded so tight the fabric of his own shirt creaked. He had played for the losing side. Every tackle he had thrown at Chris tonight had been half a second too hard. Every glare across the pitch carried two years of festering rage. And now this.
Two years.
It had started on that double-date episode for The Fellas. Will had brought a girl he actually liked. Chris had been chaos incarnate, arm slung around her shoulders, teasing her about her accent, then turning the same bright, disarming smile on Will like it was all harmless banter.
Will had felt the crush he had been carrying since their first proper collab twist into something vicious.
In the Uber home, he had finally snapped.
“You’re an attention-seeking little shit, Chris. You don’t know when to stop.”
Chris had laughed in his face, called him a bitter Geordie prick, and told him to loosen up.
Three days later, the plans for their big joint charity series fell apart. Will had already booked the pitch, sorted kits, hyped it in the group chat. Chris got busy with Sidemen shoots, left him on read for weeks, then just stopped replying entirely.
Will had stared at the chat for a month before deleting it.
The crush did not die. It turned feral.
Every time he saw Chris in a thumbnail with Harry, every time a fan edit called them a married couple, every time Chris’s name lit up his phone and then disappeared again, the resentment burned hotter.
And tonight Chris was doing it again. Right in front of him.
---
Harry eventually peeled away, still yelling about pints later. Chris turned, no longer shirtless, yet still buzzing, and his eyes landed on Will. The grin faltered for half a second, then sharpened.
“Alright, Will? Tough luck on the loss. One goal, yeah? Close.”
Will did not answer. He just walked. Slow. Deliberate.
Someone down the corridor called out, “Chris, Will, group photo in a minute!”
Will ignored it.
He grabbed the back of Chris’s neck and shoved him through the side changing-room door.
The room was dim, half-lit, most of the lads already gone. The door swung shut but did not fully catch, leaving a small gap. Voices drifted faintly from the corridor. Boots on tile. Laughter. Then quieter again.
Will’s hand tightened on the back of Chris’s neck. Chris didn’t move. The tension sat thick between them.
“Go on, then,” Chris muttered.
Will moved to grab Chris's throat possesively, and pulled him in.
The kiss wasn’t clean. Teeth knocked together, breath catching. Chris made a sharp sound, gripping his shoulders.
It wasn’t careful. It was everything they hadn’t said.
Will pushed in harder; Chris rose onto his toes. Their teeth caught again. Neither pulled back. Chris bit down lightly.
Will exhaled, came back slower.
“Still a prick,” Chris muttered.
Will didn’t answer. He just pressed closer. The shift in pressure made Chris’s breath hitch.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Better.”
Will shoved him back into the lockers. The kiss turned messy again, uncoordinated, hot. Chris tried to get closer.
“Thought you’d be better than this,” he muttered.
Will pulled back slightly. “Keep talking.”
Chris smiled. “Or what?”
Will didn’t answer. He closed the gap again, and control slipped.
---
“Still can’t keep your hands to yourself, can you?” Will said, low, thick with two years of bitterness. “One goal and you’re all over Harry like a desperate little bitch.”
Chris’s breath hitched, but the grin stayed.
“Jealous, Will? Thought you got over that. Or are you still sulking because I didn’t answer your messages?”
The slap came fast and sharp. Chris’s head snapped to the side. He laughed.
“Say that again.”
“You’re a jealous wanker.”
Second slap, harder this time.
A voice outside paused. “Someone in there?”
Another voice answered, distracted. “Probably changing. Leave it.”
Footsteps moved on.
---
Will’s grip tightened on Chris’s throat, thumb pressing under his jaw.
“You left me hanging. I sorted everything. You said yes, then disappeared. Two years of seeing you everywhere and pretending it didn’t matter.”
The room felt too quiet compared to the noise in their heads.
A laugh echoed faintly from the corridor, then faded.
Will shoved Chris’s shorts down, then his own, pressing their bodies together. The friction hit instantly.
Chris let out a sharp breath, grinding up against him.
“That it? Two years and this is all you’ve got?”
Will’s hand wrapped around both of them, stroking slow at first.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
The pace picked up. Rough. Frantic.
Chris slapped his chest, demanding more. Will answered by tightening his grip, faster now, hips snapping forward.
The sounds stayed contained. Low. Controlled.
Outside, someone called faintly, “Photo’s starting!”
Neither of them stopped.
---
Will hauled Chris up, lifting him easily and pinning him against the wall. Chris’s legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
Then he pushed in.
No hesitation. No warning.
Chris choked on the sound, head dropping back against the tiles.
Will set a slow rhythm at first, deep and deliberate.
“Feel that?” he muttered. “That’s every time I had to watch you with him.”
Each thrust landed harder than the last.
Chris’s control slipped quickly. His breathing hitched, then broke into soft, uneven sounds. Tears gathered, then spilled.
Still, he smirked through it.
“is that all you can manage?”
Will’s rhythm faltered, then stopped.
Chris didn’t register at first, then realised.
“Don’t,” he said, quick and rough.
Nothing.
“Will.”
Still nothing.
Frustration snapped. He shoved at him. “Don’t just stand there, you prick.”
Will tilted his head. “You done?”
Chris let out a short breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
Then Will moved. Slow, deliberate, enough to pull a reaction.
Chris’s head tipped back, breath catching.
“Thought so,” Will said.
---
Each time Chris got too loud, Will slowed or stopped, forcing him back into silence. Not playful. Controlled. Intentional.
The pattern built tension fast.
Chris shook in his grip, torn between anger and need, still throwing out half-broken insults between breaths.
---
The door shifted slightly. Arthur paused, hand still on it.
He hadn’t meant to walk in properly. He froze. Took in enough to understand.
For a second, he didn’t move. He glanced back down the corridor, then back in.
“…Right,” he muttered under his breath. He stepped back quietly, leaving the door slightly ajar.
By the time he left, it was like he had never been there.
---
Will’s pace picked up again, harder now. Faster.
Chris’s head dropped forward, breath hitching hard, tears still slipping down his cheeks. He bit down on Will’s neck, hard enough to leave a mark.
A dark one. Clear.
“Mine,” he muttered, voice wrecked.
The "MD" hickey stood out sharp against Will’s skin, clear branding of his initials.
Of course chris couldnt've just marked a simple "C". Too mistakable for someone else's possesion.
That pushed Will over the edge.
He came with a low, strained sound, grip tightening as his rhythm faltered.
Chris followed seconds after, untouched, body tensing hard as it hit him all at once.
For a moment, everything stilled. Their breathing filled the room.
Neither of them moved. Chris’s grip loosened first. Not fully, just enough. Will stayed close.
Chris dropped his head briefly, then straightened.
“Two years.”
“Yeah.” Pause.
“Took you long enough.”
“You weren’t easy.”
Chris snorted. “Still aren’t.”
A quiet laugh. Neither stepped back. Not yet.
Voices outside grew louder. Someone called.
Chris exhaled. “We should go.”
“Yeah.”
Neither moved.
Chris glanced at him. “Bit tragic, this.”
Will shrugged. “Bit.”
Chris stepped back properly. “Still a prick.”
“Yeah,” Will said. “You too.”
Edge still there, just.... different.