woke up this morning

It's three hours before the show when Matt Engarde just so happens to run into Juan Corrida. Run, literally.

Muttered cursing ensues, but neither can quite muster the courage -- or foolishness -- to mar the other just before the Hero of Heroes competition. Masks or no, there will be interviews afterward, and they can't jeopardize those for themselves. Juan especially can't jeopardize this opportunity for himself.

They glare at each other for a long time, blood heated with hatred and pent-up anger, silently fuming lest a fan walk by and interrupt their staring contest. Matt finally snaps them out of the moment.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Corrida, I have to use the restroom."

He holds his gaze for a bit too long to be unintentional, sneering and storming off to his right. Juan follows, just behind him. Juan is always just behind him.

Not two seconds after Juan enters, Matt's on him, fingers threading through his hair and tugging hard until their mouths meet, hot and desperate. Juan fiddles with the lock behind him with little success; maneuvering to the handicap-accessible stall is the wisest course of action. Matt can't afford to have his prints in his rival's room, nor the other way around. Not tonight.

Neither is properly dressed yet: Juan's solely in loose-fitting loungewear pants and a tight-fitting t-shirt, which Matt can appreciate, though he'd never admit it. Matt's got his favorite jacket and cargo shorts that are easy for Juan to slip a hand into. Matt slides his palms down Juan's chest, then around and up his back, exhaling sharply into his shoulder when he's suddenly being stroked.

To be fair, Matt is not an unattractive man, but Juan would take that secret to the grave. Of course he's far more handsome, but his competition wouldn't be competition unless he had something going for him. Besides, acting clearly isn't his strong point. Not at all.

Not when he's licking at Juan's collarbone and thrusting needily into his fist. Not when he's gasping his name, breath ghosting against his throat. Matt's never been a good actor.

Juan shoves first his pants down, then Matt's, and leans back against the divider, grabbing Matt's ass and pressing their hips together. With a thigh nudged between his legs, rubbing tantalizingly every time Matt grinds against him, he can't help but moan. In contrast, his mouth is lacking contact, but tongues sliding hotly, wetly, soon take care of it. It's slower than usual, and Juan can't place why.

They're lost in it for a good while, and when Juan blinks and looks again, Matt's dug a tube of lubricant from his jacket pocket. This was obviously no accident. There's so no denying it this time, he has proof, but then he's squeezing a generous amount into his palm and it's satisfyingly slick against his length.

"Oh, thank god."

He lets his head tilt back against the beige, plasticky wall and pets Matt's hair without even thinking about it. Not that he has any fondness for him, just as a reaction. It's a common move.

One of the most significant improvements in being with a guy is simply the familiarity of it -- he doesn't need to explain what's too much pressure, when it's not fast enough, why you can't just go back and forth. Matt understands all of this by default, and everything's just... better, because of it.

Juan takes the lubricant from Matt's jacket and slickens his own fingers, joining his rival (partner? no.) and bringing their erections together, heated and full and nearing completion. Though they'd both be reluctant to say it, it's teamwork, two sets of hands that quicken their breathing and bring them to a heavy, sticky finish. Pumping, rushing release is always worth postponing their endless competition.

There's something odd about the way Matt rests his head on Juan's chest, and this time, it's not just because they're so similar in height. He lingers, eyes closed, and Juan can't help but wonder. In the secure warmth of the aftermath, however, he's willing to indulge it; his nose nuzzles Matt's hair, breath rustling strands of it as he exhales. It's not until Matt makes a small, practically inaudible noise that the gut instinct to protect kicks in, and Juan brings his arms up to hold him.

He can deny it all he wants later. For now, he won't deny himself this.

"You're going to lose," Matt mumbles, words almost lost against the fabric of Juan's shirt.

"Yeah, you wish."

When the moment stretches for too long, Juan shoves Matt away maybe too roughly. For a fraction of a second, Matt looks stricken, but it's gone instantly -- as if he just imagined it. Matt flips him off. Juan spits a curse or three and Matt slaps him hard and they're back to their normal routine. Growling, Juan pulls his pants back up and glares at his rival before leaving and heading for his hotel room.

Matt stands utterly still as he sees Juan Corrida out of costume for the last time. Scoffing, he shakes his head and moves to clean himself up.

It won't matter later, anyway.