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[ quentin doesn't pay him too much mind as he begins to rinse the shampoo from his hair. he'll have to condition it, too, else the chlorine will turn his waves into a mess. he's not blind, though - he passes a glance as the guy pulls his shirt off and yes, his eye catches the little piercing at his navel. he gives koby an appreciative once over. ]

Quentin. Most people call me Q.

[ he grins, a little doggish. ] If the shower's not enough then I can definitely find you something stronger than a bloody mary. I've already found a few good spots in this house.

[ and he reaches out his hand again, wiggling soapy fingers. ] You coming in or not? Trying to decide if I need to wash my own back or if you can lend a hand.

Mmm. Less syllables. [koby mumbles it, hooking his thumbs into his underwear – boyshorts, clingy and dark, hugging the curve of his ass – and tugging them down in one smooth motion. he’s not self conscious in the least, yawning and scratching his fluffed-up hair with a grimace, the same downy pink as the neatly-trimmed fluff between his legs.

not waiting for quentin (q) to respond, koby kicks his shed clothes towards the door, then pads over to the shower, looking at the soapy, offered hand with a scrunched nose.] You usually shower in clothes? I’m moving slow, be nice to me, I’m dying of a hangover. [he sets one hand into the offered one, using the grip to balance his wobbly legs as he neatly steps into the tub, careful not to slip.] Probably gonna die right here, right as you’re making me wash your back.

[koby huffs and puffs, but, after ducking under the spray and letting it stream hot and scouring and restoring over his exhausted body, he flicks his hair out of his face, then prods at quentin’s shoulder with his fingertips.] Go on, turn around.

[ quentin glances back over at koby, admiring the tone and the shape of his body - not his usual type, really, but he's alluring enough to keep quentin's attention as his underwear comes off. even more surprising when he sees the thatch of pink hair, the deep vee between his thighs.

quentin enjoys surprises. ]

I wasn't actually expecting you to wash my back, but since you're offering...

[ he turns around in the spray of the water, sighing as it runs down his chest. he has a swimmer's build, his thighs nothing but lean, ropey muscles, his back broad. he's not bothered by his own nudity, a happy trail of dark fuzz down his front now that he's letting his hair grow. his chest the very same. ]

I'll do yours once you think you can stand upright. I'd feel terrible if I knocked you face first into the tub.

[despite his raging, violent hangover, koby makes a softly appreciative sound at the broad expanse of warm-toned skin in front of him, reaching out to trail his fingers lightly down quentin’s spine, from the nape of his neck to his narrow waist, resting his palm there for a moment. his hands are careful, roughened, palms callused, but they rest there like he knows the spot intimately, like he’s touched quentin there a million times b̷͖͑é̴̦c̸̼͝â̵̞u̸̲̅s̵̞̍e̵̖̕ ̵̯̽h̶̰́ẻ̵̻ ̵͜͠ḥ̴̄a̶̫͊s̶̻͂–

the thought slips away, like the water coursing down his back, now that the direct spray is being diverted. the bathroom is warm enough, steamy and heated, that koby doesn’t feel a chill as he reaches to grab one of the many, many little bottles of body wash and pop the top.] Well, don’t say things you don’t mean, maybe, dumbass.

[grumbling, grumbling, pouring the sandalwood-scented soap into his palm, then rubbing his hands together briskly.] Yeah, pretty sure that’d count as premeditated. The tequila shots are an accomplice, though, so maybe you’ll get off with a misdemeanor or something. [there are sponges, washcloths, even a few loofahs, but koby uses his hands to start sudsing up quentin’s back instead, skillful and focused, instinctively seeking out any knots of tension and starting to knead them away.]

Should I talk a little louder in retaliation? Remember, I'm the one with the weapon here, Mr. Hangover.

[ quentin laughs a little, but he quiets when the other man's hands slide along his back, the tense muscles from a morning of swimming. he's not the type to invite random strangers into bed or the shower when he's not under the influence of something, but something about this guy feels safe. it shouldn't, of course, but - t̸͍͉͉͋͑͘h̵̙̫̪͑͒̕e̵̙͇̺̽̈́͠y̵̡͙͙͑͒͠'̸̢̢̾͌̓v̴͖͎̈́̓̔e̴̡̻͔̔̔͊ b̵͇̠̦͋͒͆e̸̙̼̘̔̔͝e̵͚̠̦̚̕͠n̴̡͓͓̐̽͐ h̴͖͙͖̽͐͑e̴̘̝̓̓r̸͖̻̙̽̔͝e̸͔͎͙͆̒͝ a̵͔̟͔͒͋̚ d̴̡̪̟̈́͌o̴͕̟̽̿͠z̴̪̝̪͋̐͆e̴͉͍̝͋͊͠n̸̢̝̞͐̿̐ t̸̘̘͕́̀̔i̸̫̝͑̒͊͜m̸͓̟͇̈́́̒e̵̡͉͎͌͘̚s̵̡͍̼͒͐̿ b̴̫̪̀̿̓e̸̻͍͓͌̀͠f̵̢͉̻͛͆o̴͕͖͕͒̀͝r̸̡̘̫̐̀e̴͉̝͉̔́̈́

- tequila shots. it all makes sense. ]

A misdemeanor isn't so bad. I don't mind a little bad press, but can we wait on the whole murder thing until after the Olympics? I'd like to at least pretend I stand a chance at placing.

[ he hums, leaning his back into the callused hands. ] You can join my showers hungover any time you want with hands like those.

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.

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