I refuse to negotiate with threats against my poor exploding head. [huffy, pressing both thumbs nearly too hard against a knot of sore muscle, wanting to see quentin tense, wanting him to twitch away, wanting to watch the ripple of all that muscle when faced with a bite of pain.
and then he softens them, returns to gentle, practiced massage, listening idly. an olympian, interesting – not usually on the radar; the clean-cut image tends to make seedy business deals something they avoid. but that michael phelps guy made a killing in sponsorship deals after the ‘04 olympics, so maybe…maybe it’s worth his time.
besides. koby is fine sharing a bathroom with some guy if he’s hot and talks in a voice like hot butter and makes those kinds of sounds when he’s touched. still working his way over the relaxing, loosening muscles, he moves closer, brushing thigh against thigh, letting the warmth of his body radiate, present and right there.]
Everyone’s got bad posture or a bad back or shoulder or something. Take a couple massage courses and you’ll be a hit anywhere you go. [a shrug, a huffing laugh, hands going lower and lower and...] Showers, parties, funerals...
[ q flinches, the hard press of fingers enough to make a little pained sound tumble from his lips. it's enough for his back to arch away from the touch, glutes flexing, thighs tensing. he thinks this guy is probably doing it on purpose, but he also doesn't mind that. he likes a little pain - but he's not had that kind of attention in a while.
their bodies are closer now, he can feel the heat of the guy behind him, hands lower and lower... but he reaches back for them just as they reach the meat of his ass, pulls them around him, laughing. ]
Trade me.
[ he smooths hands over the guy's arms, turning in the circle of his trapped arms to face him, grinning. his back feels better, more relaxed, and he sighs. ] Close your eyes.
[ all gentle, almost amused, and he reaches for the shampoo, lathering it in his hands before he slides his fingers into koby's hair, going slow and applying the tiniest bit of pressure. ] Tell me about your massage courses. [ cheeky, considering he's performing a little scalp massage right now. ]
[there's a bemused huff, an exhale of heat against the tensing jut of a shoulderblade, watching beads of water drip down across shivery, dusky skin beneath koby's kneading, relentless hands. there's an artistry in the way quentin moves, breathes, and koby's more than ready to follow this to the natural conclusion, to get closer and enjoy himself and because -- because someone wants to, because he's tired and his head hurts and it's what he knows. so he moves lower and lower and --
and then quentin is gently moving his arms away, so effortlessly and smoothly that koby doesn't have time to blink before the other man's moving, turning and grabbing the shampoo and --] Oh. [a little dazed, squinting one eye shut, then the other, genuinely taken off-guard by the gentle scrub of quentin's fingers through his curling, pale-pink hair.] It, uh -- it was in some guy's house. It smelled like patchouli and weed.
You don't...I mean. [trying to recover his composure, to be detached and composed and in control. he keeps his eyes scrunched shut, huffing softly.] You don't gotta do that. If you don't wanna.
[ quentin's hands work through koby's cropped hair, nails scratching into the scalp - a deep clean, if koby asks, nothing more - humming to acknowledge he's listening. the morning swim and the hot water have left him amiable and relaxed, muscles tired and stretched. ]
Patchouli and weed is exactly what I'd expect it to smell like. I went to a PT once for a shoulder thing and I left smelling like a cannabis shop. And hush - if I didn't mind doing this I wouldn't. So maybe I want to do it.
[ he scrubs through koby's hair, massaging his scalp toward the end of it, sliding his fingers around the hungover man's temples, the hinge of his jaw, the ridge behind his ear and down his neck. ]
Why? [koby means for it to come out sharp, a snappy retort, but that’s right when quentin’s fingers have found that place where his jaw meets his neck, massaged away the tension that’s lived there as long as he can remember. so it’s soft instead, unsure, unsteady, footing on a foundation of sand.
swallowing, he forces himself to uncross his arms – body language matters, even naked, especially naked, crossing his arms and scrunching his shoulders telegraphs unsurety, awkwardness, self-consciousness. still, koby can’t quite push himself back into the square-shouldered cockiness, not with the hangover well and truly banished.
so he turns his head, lifts his chin, looks over his shoulder and up at quentin with his wet hair in his face and his big eyes solemn and searching.] Better. Gone.
Maybe I should’ve taken lessons from you instead. [it’s a flirty line, delivered with absolutely zero flirtiness, because koby’s too busy looking, looking, tracing quentin’s features up-close, feeling something (r̶̻̊͋͝e̴̩̖̩͛̊c̷̥̭̱̐o̵̝̘̿̿͜g̷̡̼͓̉̀ṅ̵̳̆̚ị̴͍͖̃͛͝t̸̮͊̆͐i̵̹͕͑̑̕õ̸̭ṇ̶͆̀ḷ̴͑ȏ̶̢̥͛v̷̙̜̘̌e̵̟̊͝ḽ̴̿͐o̸̫̭̗͗͗s̸̪̝̃̄̋s̶̬͐̑g̶̩͎͕͛̋̚r̵̺̚͠i̸̻͗̎ẽ̵̫̘̃̃ͅf̵̬̼̼͌̚͠d̶̛̀͆͜ě̴͚̙̐̄š̷̡̞̹̎̊ṕ̷̱̰͗͠a̵̘̙̬̓͂͂į̷̭͙̇̍̃r̴̥̠̔) in his chest. he swallows hard, exhales, reaches up to push his hair out of his face.]
[ there's a softness in his voice - a hint of flirty still, but more amused than anything. koby is warm and curious and though he won't say it out loud, feels like an old soul l̴̢̫̻͒͐͝i̵̫̫͋͛͛k̴̺͇͇̽̚e̴̺͙͍͆͝͝ h̵͇͙̠͋͝e̵̟͍̠̒̚'̴̙̘̫̽͘͝s̵̢͖͕̾̚̚ l̵̞͎̽̀͜͠o̴̪̦̽͊v̸̞͖͕̽̀͝e̸̻͚̦̓͋͘d̵̢͕͓̈́͝͝ h̵̝̞̔͆͘i̴̙͕̫͑̾͝m̸̼̟̘͐͑͝ a̴̠͉̔͐͘l̸̺͙͕̈́͆̓l̵̻̺͛́̐͜ a̵̺̦̔͛͜l̵̺̟͕͒͆͛o̵͚͖̿͛͛͜n̵͍̘͓͑̓̚g̸̼͇̈́͋. quentin grins doggishly down at koby and tilts his head. ]
It's no problem. We're saving the earth you know - saving water.
[ but he wants to kiss him - can feel the need to dive in and learn what its like to breathe under water. strange, the way he always goes back to water, but even more strange is that koby reminds him of the lake. water that can be volatile as much as it can be calm, but maybe it's just the alcohol. ]
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