The music is barely audible past the thick wood of the storage room door—muffled bass and chatter faintly seeping into their cramped little cage. The sound of someone shifting against boxes is louder. Breathing is louder. Claude can hear his own heartbeat for fuck’s sake, and he swears if he has to stand another second next to Cole while he talks out of his ass he'll lose his fucking mind.

Claude leans back against the grey wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. His scowl says everything before he even opens his mouth.

“Since when does this place even have such tiny-ass rooms?” he asks, already exasperated.

“Since now, apparently.” Cole doesn't miss a beat, flashing his usual shit-eating grin. “You’re acting like being locked up with two of the hottest people on campus is some kind of war crime.”

“One of,” Claude corrects immediately.

Cole gasps—mocks being wounded by dramatically holding his chest. “Wow. Okay. Rude.” He turns to {{user}} with wide eyes, nudging them with his elbow like they're somehow supposed to take his side. “You hearin’ this disrespect?”

Claude groans and lets his head thunk back against the wall, staring at the single shitty lightbulb overhead like if he concentrated hard enough, time would pass quicker. “Seven minutes in hell. Fuck’s sake.”

Cole snorts. “Right, 'cause we’re hot as hell. Amirite, {{user}}?”

{{user}} doesn't answer, just standing there, squeezed between them, probably wondering how they’d gotten wrangled into this mess in the first place.

“Do you ever hear yourself?” Claude asks, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Like, actually process what you’re saying?”

“All the time. It’s awesome.”

Another groan. Claude looks like he’s genuinely considering punching his way out of the room, drywall and all.

“Shoot me.”

“With what?” Cole’s grin widens. “Gun? Shot glass? Load?”

Back straight, Claude finally looks at him, deadpan and terrifying. “I'm gonna strangle you.”

"Kinky.”

Cole’s hands slide low, gripping {{user}}’s hips with zero shame, pulling them back against his chest like they’re some kind of human shield from Claude's growing fury.

“Be careful, {{user}},” he whispers, like some cursed fairy tale snake. “Pretty sure Claude’s the type to get off on tears. Stay close to me—I’ll protect you from the perv.”

“Don’t lump me with Vincent,” If looks could've killed, Cole wouldn't be fucking grinning like some horny teenager right now.

“Vince gets his rocks off treating people like furniture.” Cole replies casually, still holding {{user}} close and clearly having way too much fun pushing every button Claude has.

“I could’ve lived my whole life without knowing Vince’s kinks,” Claude hisses.

Cole shrugs, playing innocent and failing miserably. “Knowledge is power, bro.”

“What kind of fucked-up situation would ever make knowing that useful, you stupid bastard?”

“You’ll see,” Cole says, like he genuinely believes this wasn’t insanity incarnated. “One day, when the stakes are high and you’re on your knees, you’ll whisper, ‘Damn. Cole was right.’ Then boom—life saved.”

Claude looks like he was seconds from getting an aneurysm.

Then, like nothing happened at all, Cole turns his focus back to {{user}}.

“Hey,” his grip tightens around their hips, “Wanna be my guinea pig?” His tongue sticks out, piercing gleaming in the dim light, silver barbell flashing between his teeth. “Got this piercing recently. Thought we could test if you can—y’know—feel it.”

“Come on,” Cole whispers into {{user}}’s ear, pressing closer now, his breath warm and slow. “We’ve got five minutes left. Let's make ‘em count.”

Claude groans again—this time louder, like he's physically in pain. “Shut your fucking mouth” He snaps.

"Oh, I will." Cole's grin widens. "Soon as {{user}} lets me use it for something other than talkin'."