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It's one of those times when the Dark Order are together- which is completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary about that, except, they're together to help Ten get ready for some kind of outing that he's alluded to but failed to supply all the details for.
Preston Vance is masked up and shirtless, fresh from a shower and shave where he may have overdone it on the aftershave. He's heavily doused in that fresh man stink, which is considerably better than the alternative. As he regards himself and his reflection, there's a twist in his gut, something agonizingly similar to pre-match anxiety amped up to eleven.
"Just go shirtless, show off those tittays," Silver suggests, hands up like he's groping as he goes in to pantomime motorboating, like he's got his face between a set of knockers or man bazooms.
But Preston lets the words go in one ear and out the other, stares at his reflection, holds a button-up shirt up to himself, can't decide if that's the one he should wear. He tosses it on the bed and looks back at the mess of clothes he tore out and haphazardly arranged for consideration. There's too much of the same, too much purple and white and black, and any combination of the three. There's a nice tinted grey shirt that might work for the night...
"What's her name? You should write her a poem. Or, you know what? Let me help you write it. Evil Uno is good at poetry." Uno's a good guy, cares, would give the shirt off his back if it would help, but he's also presumptuous, and Ten doesn't have it in him to correct the guy just yet.
The relationship is too new, feels like every little factor will make or break it, so Preston doesn't talk about it, doesn't involve anyone or clue them in to the fact that he's courting the All Atlantic Champion. But his nerves are getting the better of him, and he'd asked their advice, more or less informed them that he's got a date, and they've all met up to assist and offer moral support.
Preston pulls on a sweater, takes one look at himself in the mirror- the way the material bulges unflatteringly- and he pulls it back off, scrubs a hand over his face because nothing seems good enough for him to wear. It's a dilemma. Covering up a good body but having nothing nice to dress it up. He turns to address his clothing options, rifles through t shirts and sweatshirts, polos- settles for a pastel purple button-up, doesn't think it's good enough. He buttons all the way up, doesn't like how constricting it feels.
Alex Reynolds comes up from behind, reaches around him in a way that feels weirdly intimate bit isn't. Looking in the mirror, he unbuttons the first couple buttons, pops them, lessens the constriction, reveals a bit of skin. "Show enough to entice, but leave em wanting more." He pats Ten on the back and steps away, figures Ten is beating himself up with a loss still fresh on his mind.
"That one. But fix the cuffs," Anna Jay supplies, and like Alex had before her, she closes in on Ten but circles around so that she's standing in front of him, grabs at his wrists, adjusts and re-buttons the cuffs. "Better?" She pauses but doesn't wait for an answer. "Confidence sells," she tells him. "Look good, feel good, treat her- or him- right, and things will go accordingly." Her hands linger on his wrists; she makes eye contact with him and her expression is one that tells him she knows something and it's okay; she supports him anyway, even if he's not going to meet up with a woman.
Not that there was any doubt or concern there, but the reassurance is nice.
Anna's hands linger until it's weird and Ten is the one to withdrawal. "Yeah, uh, thanks," he tells them, and he means it.
"You'll do fine," Stu tells him, speaks like a dad talking to his son before a school dance.
Preston appreciates it.
Looking back in the mirror, Preston wonders if he should wear a tie, or a bowtie? Suspenders? Do people still wear those? Are they tacky? What about a jacket with a lapel pin? Does he even have one of those? Would that be too much, look like he's trying too hard? He thinks on it for all of fifteen seconds before swallowing back a swell of nerves and deciding against it.
He's as ready as he's going to be, for his date, last minute dab of cologne he probably doesn't need, one of his nicer pairs of shoes laced and tied. On his way out, Silver gives something to Ten, tells him it's 'in case everything goes right,' slips it into his hand in an unnecessarily discreet manner.
Ten accepts it and all their advice, helpful or not, appreciates the sentiment for what it is. Silver had given him a condom. Wrong size, won't do for him, but it's a valid point and a reminder that he should have protection on hand in case they fool around. He pockets the condom and does't think too much more on it, takes his leave because he's got a date and doesn't want to be late.
-He shows up, knocks, waits...
Several seconds pass. His hand twitches like he wants to grab his phone to check the time, to make sure he's not too early. He almost knocks again, but the knob turns and the door opens, and there he is.
Orange stands there, wearing a simple white t shirt and jeans, looking much like he always does. "You look nice," Preston blurts out, and he wishes he could take it back because it's too sudden; he should save the compliments for later when he runs out of things to say and needs to break potentially awkward silence. But, if he's being fair and honest, Orange does look good, always does. His blonde hair is styled messy-good, like he'd just gotten out of bed, ran a hand through his hair, called it done- and it works.
Everything must be easy for Orange, so damn effortless, surely, getting dressed in the same or similar clothes, keeping everything fairly minimal.
Preston appreciates it, admires it, envies... just a bit.
Orange isn't wearing his sunglasses, which makes sense. He can't wear them all the time. But it means his eyes are on full display, and while they're the best crayon shade of blue and pleasant to look at, Preston feels entirely overdressed. Too much like a try-hard, and nobody likes that.
Orange steps aside to allow Ten inside, and Ten goes in before he can talk himself out of it, shuts the door behind him.
"So..." Preston really should have thought ahead, planned how he'd conduct himself, what moves to make and when to act. Instead, he just kind of shifts his weight from one foot to the other, flounders for conversation for the sake of doing something.
"I like the shirt," Orange says, tone flat but eyes roaming over Ten like he's something artful in a museum.
"Thanks. I thought it looked alright, so..." he really doesn't know what to say, feels like everything that comes out of his mouth is forced and unnecessary. He's getting that sinking feeling, acknowledging that he wishes these things came simple for him the way it all seems to be for Orange, until he notices that there's a few different t shirts draped over the back of the sofa, a couple different pairs of sunglasses on the coffee table accompanied by a cheap plastic comb- as if Orange had experienced his own personal dilemma while getting ready as well, had to pick out clothes and decide what to wear, how to style his hair, whether or not to don the sunglasses.
Seeing this, speculating as much, it brings a little smile to Preston's face beneath the mask, because it means Orange is trying too, for him. And he likes that. A weight seems to be lifted, he breathes a little easier. He follows Orange into a kitchenette where the blonde grabs out glasses and pours them drinks. Inexpensive beer in plastic novelty wine glasses. Ten accepts the plastic glass when offered, takes it in his hand, holds it like it really is this delicate glass thing.
"You gonna be able to drink that?" Orange asks, taking a sip from his own glass. "No mouth, and all?"
"Oh!" Ten sets the glass down, is awkward about it, not sure where to put it- the table is a few steps away, the sink is right there, and- he sets it on a counter top, then brings his hands together at the back of his mask to-
"Hold on..." Orange sets his own glass beside Preston's.
Preston stills, waits, follows direction well.
"Let me-" and then it's Orange's little hands meeting at the back of Preston's mask, fingers trailing along the seams and laces, tucking themselves between the strings and working it loose.
They're close together, practically chest to chest. And while Orange isn't the littlest guy, Preston is just so much bigger. They both get something out of the contrast, but neither speak on it like they're a couple of circus attractions.
The mask comes away in Orange's hands; Preston's face is revealed, and Orange's breath hitches the slightest bit, like it's this thing of beauty he's not quite used to seeing. Lowering his hands, mask placed on the counter, Orange opens his mouth to say something, doesn't get a chance to because Preston swoops in, lands a kiss that starts with a firm press of lips and eases into something softer but more insistent. Heads tilted, they're testing each other's skill, finding their own brand of chemistry, coordinating transitions with tongues, those weird wiggly things that become erotic when used right. There's the scratch of stubble, the occasional bump of noses, break for air and exchange of small breathy laughs where they taste each other's breath and see each other entirely too close to the point of visual distortion.
It's dumb and it's sweet, and it's easy.
"You dressed up for me?" Orange asks, and his cheeks are dusted pink.
Preston's answer is swift: "Yeah, but you dressed up for me too... didn't you?" Because he'd seen the shirt options and the sunglasses that didn't get worn and the comb that may or may not have been used...
"I did," is Orange's reply, simple like seemingly everything he says and does. He retreats a step or two, to put distance between them, reaches down and grabs a fistful of his own denim pantleg, lifts to reveal his choice of socks...
Halloween themed, dark purple with little white ghosts on them.
"Thought you'd like... because... purple." It's probably the lamest grouping of words to ever come out of Orange's mouth.
But the smile that it pulls from Preston- the kind that shows the full diameter of his teeth, lights up his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners- makes it all worthwhile, gives value and meaning to both the explanation and gesture.
"You try too hard," Preston says, and he's half joking, half projecting, feeling a lot better about everything they have going.
They reclaim their drinks, enjoy them at leisure, then settle in the living room on the sofa, where Orange unbuttons Ten's shirt, starting at the cuffs, then moving to work the vertical line down his chest.
Preston allows him, lets him take his time, marvels at those small hands and deft fingers, thinks he's the lucky one out of the two of them, though it's a little funny to him that Orange is the progressive and active one who pursues, instigates, and initiates. As funny as it is, Preston's grateful because it takes the pressure off himself to have it all figured out. The pace is comfortable.
It becomes a joint effort to get the pastel purple shirt off, but the garment is removed, balled up and tossed like a three-pointer that's going to win them the game. Orange reaches for the button on Ten's pants next, doesn't get his prize just yet because Preston stops him. "Wait..." He shifts around, gets a hand in his pocket and fishes out the little gift that Silver had given him.
Orange takes one look at the condom and his face splits into a grin. "It glows in the dark?" The packaging boasts the glowing effect, has a bright green swirl to emphasize it.
Preston hadn't even noticed, didn't bother looking too hard at it. "It's not mine," he defends, "Silver gave-"
It's Orange's turn to stop Preston; he holds a hand up to silence him, a wordless gesture of: wait a minute. He leaves the couch, heads over to a small decorative stand on which his phone rests with a low battery- charger adjacent but not plugged in. On that stand, along with his phone, something small that Orange grabs, takes with him back over to the couch, takes a seat and presents it to Ten. What he holds when he raises his hand to show the item...
It's a balloon, small, rubbery, and un-blown. "Trent and Chuck told me..." Orange starts, shoulders shaking with a barely contained giggle, "to make sure I have protection. They told me to rubber up. And Kris... she gave me this." His little giggle fit erupts into a full laugh, and it must be contagious because Ten laughs too.
Ten, with his too small condom that glows in the dark, and Orange with his un-blown balloon.
It's the worst kind of ridiculous, and somewhere between the cheap drinks in the cheap novelty glasses and the near hysterical laughter, they settle in together, comfortable, relaxed, half-cuddling on the couch as time becomes this mystical thing that passes without either of them knowing. They're lost in the moment, one moment becoming two, and two moments becoming a whole night.
Orange ends up stripped down, for comfort, until he's wearing just his underwear and those Halloween socks. Ten remains shirtless, unmasked, still in his jeans.
On the little coffee table, next to sunglasses that were forgone and a comb that might have been used, there sits the condom and balloon like a couple of voyeurs.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Orange's phone battery dies due to carelessness and neglect.
And when both wrestlers fall asleep curled up together, fitting too much body on a narrow surface, it had been decidedly a good night, even if both will wake in the morning with full bladders, empty stomachs, and no idea what they want for breakfast.
They'll cross that bridge when they get there.
And when they have other firsts and hurdles, they'll handle those too.