[ It’s only after Mace holds out his hand that it occurs to him — there’s a chance Ian might not take it. Might see it as him trying to help Ian into the shower, which, fair enough.
But it’s more than that. It’s every bit as instinctive as brushing aside Ian’s hair had been, borne out of the simple desire to touch him again; the decreased chance of slippage is the cherry on top of the dessert, and when Ian’s palm slides against his own, Mace can’t help but rub his thumb against the knuckles, a secret, back-and-forth gesture.
Obscured by the steam, it isn’t until Ian steps into the shower that Mace sees him properly, and once that happens, fuck. He can’t look away, not immediately. He’s bruised, he’s bloody, the horrible scar running down his front is more vivid than ever. He’s drop-dead fucking gorgeous and all Mace can think of, watching the water sluice down his chest and the curve of his spine and the sweet little divots of his hips, is that he wants to kiss him again and not stop.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding onto Ian’s hand.
He doesn’t let go until Ian does. ]
Shampoo, conditioner, soap, and fuckin’ aftershave. They stocked the hell outta this place.
[ Kinda hard to keep sounding amused when Ian’s this close to him, naked — all that beautiful, wet skin within reach — but he manages it all the same, placing both hands on Ian’s shoulders and gently steering him until he’s in front of Mace. Still half-under the spray but without the full force of it hitting his chest, both of them facing each other, with Mace strategically placing himself between the door and Ian.
They make eye contact, and this time the humour comes easier, Mace's grin going a little crooked. ]
Bet there's lube in the nightstand.
[ A truly shameless eyebrow waggle follows, and then Mace is putting slight pressure on Ian’s shoulders, nudging him to turn around so that his back is to Mace’s front. ]
no subject
But it’s more than that. It’s every bit as instinctive as brushing aside Ian’s hair had been, borne out of the simple desire to touch him again; the decreased chance of slippage is the cherry on top of the dessert, and when Ian’s palm slides against his own, Mace can’t help but rub his thumb against the knuckles, a secret, back-and-forth gesture.
Obscured by the steam, it isn’t until Ian steps into the shower that Mace sees him properly, and once that happens, fuck. He can’t look away, not immediately. He’s bruised, he’s bloody, the horrible scar running down his front is more vivid than ever. He’s drop-dead fucking gorgeous and all Mace can think of, watching the water sluice down his chest and the curve of his spine and the sweet little divots of his hips, is that he wants to kiss him again and not stop.
Belatedly, he realizes he’s still holding onto Ian’s hand.
He doesn’t let go until Ian does. ]
Shampoo, conditioner, soap, and fuckin’ aftershave. They stocked the hell outta this place.
[ Kinda hard to keep sounding amused when Ian’s this close to him, naked — all that beautiful, wet skin within reach — but he manages it all the same, placing both hands on Ian’s shoulders and gently steering him until he’s in front of Mace. Still half-under the spray but without the full force of it hitting his chest, both of them facing each other, with Mace strategically placing himself between the door and Ian.
They make eye contact, and this time the humour comes easier, Mace's grin going a little crooked. ]
Bet there's lube in the nightstand.
[ A truly shameless eyebrow waggle follows, and then Mace is putting slight pressure on Ian’s shoulders, nudging him to turn around so that his back is to Mace’s front. ]
Pass me the shampoo. Biggest bottle, to the left.
[ Why yes, he intends to wash your hair, Ian. ]