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[longitudinal]

[ 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. ]

[kobes]

[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.

[longitudinal]

[ 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. ]

How's that headache of yours?

[kobes]

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.]

Thanks.