#compressionboys

Wells' condo hums low with after-midnight stillness. The quiet after coffee-shop truths and the brutal glide of ice. Both men carry tension like steam under skin.

Wells offers the couch. Coach just shrugs, tosses his bag down. “Sure,” he says, small smirk in place like it’s a move, not a concession.

Lights go off. The silence isn’t peace—it’s pressure. Shared air, shared thought. Fabric rustling. Controlled breathing. The scent of damp gear, leftover cologne, and city snow through the window.

Wells nods once, heads into the bedroom to change—stripping down to a pair of royal blue spandex tights, snug from ankle to waist. He tosses a hoodie over his shoulder but doesn’t bother pulling it on. Skin still buzzing from the day. From Coach.

In the living room, Coach moves with quiet familiarity. From his bag, he pulls a worn gray union suit. Long-sleeved, buttoned front, snug cotton legs. He steps into it, slow and unhurried, chest bare until the last button is slipped into place. No performance, just function. Comfort. Control.

The couch creaks as he lowers down. Wells returns to the bedroom, glancing back just long enough to catch the outline of Coach reclined, one arm folded behind his head.

No goodnights. No pretense.

Wells lies awake, flat on his back, eyes tracing the ceiling. That alley kiss replays. The tone of Coach’s voice. The stillness in his eyes. All of it on the verge.

Dawn light spills across the wood floor. Condo quiet except for the hum of the heater.

Wells moves slow—just the tights, nothing else. Royal blue gleams faint in the dim. He pads barefoot to the kitchen, brain locked on coffee.

Rounding the corner, he stops short.

Coach is there. Fresh from the shower. Curls damp, beard dripping, chest broad and bare. A white towel hangs loose at his hips. Posture relaxed. Eyes up.

“Morning,” Coach says, quiet grin in place.

Wells doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

It’s not about sex. It’s about closeness. About seeing someone raw in your space and realizing how easily you could get used to it.

Kitchen warmth spills soft across the counter. The sizzle of eggs. The sharp scent of fresh coffee.

Wells moves with intent, still in his royal blue tights, barefoot, torso bare. His posture’s tight, eyes forward, like skating drills never ended.

Coach leans against the opposite counter, steam rising from his mug. He’s clean now, hair damp but combed back, skin flushed from hot water. A fitted black t-shirt clings to his frame, and beneath it, silver compression shorts hug his thighs like second skin. Reflective. Sharp. Clinical. Flashy.

He watches Wells with too much calm.

“You cook better than you skate turns,” Coach says, voice casual but loaded.

Wells doesn’t look up. “Funny. I remember you saying my turns were improving.”

Coach shrugs, sips again. “Sure. But your eggs are more consistent.”

Wells huffs a laugh despite himself. The air is thick, not with tension, but precision. Every move measured. Every glance an unspoken dare.

No one’s pretending. But no one’s making a move.

It’s choreography, domestic, flirtatious, unsaid.

And neither wants to be the one to break rhythm.

Wells steps onto the rink in full kit: a metallic gold skin suit, smooth and aerodynamic, clinging to every contour. Black stripes run in clean lines down his legs like speed itself’s been mapped on muscle. His helmet gleams gold, his eyewear sleek, reflective. Speed skates grip the ice with silent promise.

Coach waits at center ice.

His suit is black, glossy, almost liquid under the cold arena lights. Gold accent strips trace strategic lines down his arms and flanks, a visual echo of Wells’ design but inverted, restrained. His helmet’s matte black. His eyewear tinted. Skates razor-sharp.

They move.

Drills flow like breath, tight pivots, long strokes, no wasted motion. Wells’ legs burn but his focus cuts cleaner than ever.

Coach’s voice rings out. “You’re skating like someone who didn’t sleep.”

Wells doesn’t miss a beat. “You talk that loud on purpose, or is that just your morning mode?”

Coach’s grin flashes sharp. “Depends who I’m waking up.”

Glove taps, hand corrections, low-voiced cues. Every adjustment between them toes the line between professional and something charged. No excess, but no accidents either.

Their rhythm on ice is like code: exact, intimate, impossible to fake.

Wells walks with hands in pockets, black winter boots crunching against salted pavement. His tight blue jeans flex with each step, belt gleaming beneath the open flare of his gold puffy jacket. Underneath, his long-sleeved metallic gold spandex shirt clings to him—slick, radiant in the low light like he’s still skating.

Coach matches stride, silent. He’s changed too—tight black jeans, fitted just enough to register. Thick-soled black boots. Blue-and-black flannel stretched across his shoulders. Over that, a black vinyl puffy jacket zipped up midway. Baseball cap backwards, curls poking out the front.

They don’t speak for blocks.

No one breaks the silence. No tension, but no ease either. Just… presence. Posture. Residual heat from what wasn’t said on the ice.

Wells brushes past Coach’s sleeve and doesn’t apologize. Coach doesn’t step aside.

They move like they're orbiting the same idea, waiting for the moment to collapse distance without warning.

Back at the condo, muscles loosened, clothes exchanged, posture unguarded.

Wells kicks off his boots near the entryway, and hangs up his jacket. His gold shirt glints under warm apartment light, sweat dried into the fabric. He doesn’t head to his room. Just hovers, unsure.

The vinyl jacket crinkles slightly. He props one arm along the back and watches Wells scroll his phone.

Then...

“You ever dance?”

Wells looks up, slow. “What, like… in a club?”

Coach nods, casual. “You’ve taken me through drills, through breakdowns, through pain thresholds. Now take me through release.”

Wells squints. “You want to go out?”

“I want movement without consequence. Volume. Crowd. Rhythm. I want out of my head for a night.”

Pause.

“I want the Village.”

The words land heavy, not as a joke, not as a test. Just clear.

Coach’s eyes hold Wells in place. There’s no smirk this time. Just sincerity dressed like a dare.

“You game, Gold?”

Wells exhales once, deep.

Then nods. “I’ll take you dancing.”

Coach smirks, slow. “Atta boy.”

The next beat is already written in the bassline rising in Wells’ chest. As lines get redrawn and moved, creating loose boundaries.