"Paul! Hurry up! We're gonna be late!"
Pete's voice cracked through the hallway like a siren, tangled somewhere between panic and impatient frustration.
Half-dressed and half-dried, he stumbled barefoot into the common area of their dorm, jeans clinging stubbornly to his hips, still halfway unzipped. His shirt, if you could even call it that at this point, hung open, buttons ignored, exposing his chest and the damp skin still glistening from his rushed shower.
His hair stuck up at odd angles, water dripping at the tips like he'd barely given it a towel swipe.
"Paul!" Pete yelled again, louder this time, like volume alone could summon his twin from whatever state of sleep-induced rebellion he was in.
From beneath the thick blanket cocooned around him, Paul let out a groggy, annoyed groan.
Dragging one hand lazily over his face, he blinked slow and heavy, like opening his eyes was the single greatest effort of the morning. His hair stuck up in lazy, soft tufts. Sleep still clung to his lashes, making him look unfairly soft for someone so often cold and untouchable.
Pete stomped back into the bedroom doorway, hands flailing as he spoke. "I swear, Paul, if we miss the roll call again, Coach is gonna bench me and... "
Paul cut him off with a slow stretch, arms arching overhead, shirt riding up just enough to show a strip of pale skin. His voice, still heavy with sleep, came out as little more than a mumble:
"Five minutes won't kill you…"
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, moving like he had all the time in the world.
Pete stood there, pacing with jittery steps, torn between rushing out the door alone or waiting for Paul like he always did.
"You say that now, but you're not the one who gets death-glares from the entire team," Pete whined, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt.
His fingers shook, more from frustration than anything else… or at least that's what he told himself.
Paul caught the tremble.
Of course he did.
From where he stood, slowly pulling on his sweater with deliberate slowness, Paul's eyes tracked Pete's every rushed movement.
The way Pete's hands fumbled at his collar, tugging too hard at one stubborn button. The way his breath hitched in small bursts, cheeks already flushed, not just from rushing, but from something warmer, heavier.
Paul smirked. Slow. Lazy.
Predatory.
Closing the distance between them in just a few long strides, he appeared right behind Pete without warning.
Pete froze mid-button.
Paul leaned in, breath grazing the sensitive skin just below Pete's ear, voice dropping low enough to drag goosebumps down Pete's spine.
"You're awfully loud this morning," Paul murmured, each word slow and syrup-thick.
Pete's breath hitched like a skipped note in a song.
His hands stilled completely, fingertips lingering useless at the middle of his shirt like they'd forgotten what they were doing.
"P-Paul…" Pete's voice cracked, softer this time, stripped of all the playful panic from earlier.
Paul said nothing more.
He didn't need to.
He just lingered there, close enough for Pete to feel every breath, every inch of space between them slowly shrink.
Pete's knees nearly buckled from how tightly his chest constricted.
His heart was a traitor, beating faster for all the wrong reasons now.
Or maybe the right ones.
His twin's gaze stayed locked, dark and unreadable, heavy enough that Pete could feel it without turning around.
Paul stayed just long enough for the air to turn thick. Charged. Electric.
Then, as casually as if none of it had happened at all, Paul pulled back.
Like it meant nothing.
Like Pete wasn't standing there flushed and shaking and seconds from losing his mind.
Grabbing his bag with unhurried grace, Paul slung it over one shoulder and started toward the door.
"Let's go," he said, voice smooth and cool as always.
Pete scrambled after him, hands still half-buttoned, heart still racing, cheeks burning hotter with every step.
Because honestly…
Being late for class?
That wasn't what had him shaken anymore.
----
Most people knew them as the twins.
Pete and Paul.
The loud one, and the quiet one.
It was easy to tell them apart if you spent more than five minutes with them. Pete was all movement, energy, noise, talking with his hands, flirting with anything that breathed, always surrounded by people like a planet orbiting the sun. His laugh echoed in every hallway. He thrived in locker rooms, parties, field games, and attention.
Paul, though? Paul was the opposite.
He didn't chase attention. It came to him. He was quiet, measured, observant. The kind who looked at you like he already knew what made you squirm, then said nothing about it. He didn't speak much, but when he did, people listened. Art was his escape, silence his sanctuary, control his language.
Different in almost everything.
But what no one knew, what no one even dared to imagine, was that behind locked doors, the twins shared more than a birthday.
They shared tastes. Secrets. A rhythm no one else understood.
Even their kinks.
Especially their kinks.