Work Header


Work Text:

The bubble bath is ancient and scabbed with the markers of previous use. With a glance into the container, Jeego pours the remaining liquid into the bath, where the roaring spigot froths the churning water, sending a layer of thick, white foam throughout the tub. It grows quickly, forming a wiggling wall of bubbles that threaten to escape from the cramped bathtub, stuffed into a corner of their tiny bathroom. Pushing a similar incident involving the dishwasher from his mind, Tengo sets aside his fear of the mass of bubbles escaping the low tub, and steps into the hot water. 

The thick foam sticks to him immediately, and he grimaces as he settles himself in the tub, bubbles rising around his chest and sticking to his fingers. The white fuzz alights on the rims of his fogged glasses, and floating puffs lands in his hair. Jeego enters with a splash, long legs pressing against the walls of the cramped tubs as he tries to get comfortable. He ends up pressed to Tengo's chest, head lolling lazy on his shoulder, teasing grin pulling at his lips. Tengo shakes his head like he's annoyed, trying to clear the fog from his glasses, even as his long arms snake around the other man.

And for once, there's silence. No teasing, constant see-saw banter toeing the line, two bitter words from spitting contempt and black eyes. No weighing, grating pretense of distance, contempt, apathy built high like a stone wall, lest their softer thoughts leak out, caught in sideways glances and tense movements. There's no roaring adrenaline, hearts hammering and blood smearing over lips, no heavy breathing and growling, low voices. It's not rough, impatient touches that'll be silently excused in each other's head the next morning, anticipation or gentle hands buried.

Tengo takes his glasses off, folding them gently and setting them on the bath mat. Vision blurry, almost soft, he thinks, he takes in the pastel color of the bathroom, almost watercolor. His long legs are tangled with Jeego's and the desire to bury his nose in his hair is almost unbearable. He doesn't, of course. There are some things that can't be fixed, at least not immediately. There are some things that take time. Instead, he leans his head back against the wall, eyes closing, smiling to himself. 

Maybe this is what happiness feels like. It comes in the tiny, fragile moments, snuck between colossal loss and pain, where blood-caked fingernails don't matter and scarred bodies find their match.