Logs:Bay Rum

Bay Rum
Dramatis Personae Dawson, Steve
In Absentia	2020-07-22 "What on earth is 'Team Force' or 'Ripped Abs' supposed to smell like?"
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. At present the place is sparsely furnished: an old but clean and plush convertible sofa, a coffee table much too small for it, a couple of mismatched chairs, and a card table that looks lost in the space meant for entertaining. One of the bedrooms contains a dresser, a desk, and a bedframe partially disassembled around a floppy mattress, but the other is entirely empty. Half a dozen moving boxes are scattered around, neatly labeled with their intended destinations and contents, but they certainly do not look remotely up to the task of filling the space. It's early evening, the still plenty light out while half the city hustles homeward and the other half is already preparing for the night. In the apartment, the air conditioning is actually running for once against the blistering heat, and there's the faint scent of sex and sweat in the air. The sound system is playing 'Lost & Found' from See it Through, not loudly enough to trouble the neighbors, though certainly louder than is usual here. Steve is sprawl across the bed, the sheet kicked off, his hair is a touseled mess, his chest heaving -- no mean feat, considering his stamina. "Oh wow," he breathes quietly, his eyes shutting for a moment. But then he's levering himself on one elbow, eyes traveling over his bedfellow. "Can I -- get you something to drink?" Dawson's hair, too, is for once a muss, disheveled where it doesn't cling to his forehead with sweat. His mechanical arm has been removed with the rest of his clothing, in a very neat pile on the chair by the drafting table. His fingers trail lightly down against Steve's chest, hand dropping to the bed when the other man levers himself up. His head flops back on his pillow, eyes drifting aside to the speaker. "I'm good. I mean, I'm sweaty and tired and gross but I'm --" His smile is quick. Small. His gaze is slow to pull away and return to Steve. "You good?" Steve smiles sheepishly. "Sorry." Though he adds, a beat later. "Not very sorry, but -- ah..." His cheeks are flushed, but no more than they had already been from his exertions. "That was wonderful, thank you. It's just been -- bit of a day." He runs a hand through his hair. "I was about to hop in the shower, but you can have it first. It's early enough in the evening we probably won't even run out of hot water." "That's what Twitter's been telling me." Dawson's cheeks flush, too. "Uh -- not how good I am at -- just, I mean with you and Ryan, that --" His hand presses down against the mattress; he's slow to push himself up, stretching slow and languid with the shift of weight. "I know you and he were kind of -- not really --" His brow creases, fingers curling in against the sheets. "I don't know. It might be complicated. Feelings wise." He sits up properly, fingers brushing kind of futilely at the damp mess of his hair. "Probably?" His smile is lopsided. "I don't want to give you the shaf..." He hesitates, scrunches his eyes shut, adjusts with some amusement: "Leave you out cold." "Yeah, the Blackbirds aren't best pleased." Steve shakes his head. "A few actually showed up at Montagues to berate me in person. Not sure if I should be flattered or worried." He sits up, too. "Ryan -- at a certain point I think..." He frowns, staring down at the mattress between them. "Right, it is -- complicated. I don't think the heart draws its lines as clearly as we might always like. And even if it was only play-acting, it gave me a taste of -- what a relationship like that could be." His head gives a quick shake. "What I couldn't have, with Howard." Looks back up at Dawson, his smile just a little forced. "I don't mind cold water, but if you're worried we could just shower together." "Wow, that's commitment. I've seen some of his more intense fan mail, there's at least half a worry brewing there." Dawson's gaze lowers, settling somewhere around his knees with a small frown. "No," he agrees quietly, "not always very clear. I'm sorry. You --" He swallows, reaches over to curl his hand around Steve's. "I'm just sorry. That you couldn't have that, with him. And it's complicated to say I hope some day you find it, because it won't be him, but --" He shakes his head, squeezing the other man's hand gently. He leans over, touches a light kiss to Steve's cheek. His lip catches between his teeth as he looks Steve over. "That sounds -- potentially dangerous. In the best way. C'mon." "Serves me right for breaking their husband's heart, apparently." Steve seems to relax just a touch at the squeeze of Dawson's hand. It was not obvious that he had been tense, until then. "I know it's been complicated for you, too," he adds quietly. "Even if not in the same ways." A soft sigh escapes him at the kiss, and he lapses into a smile again. "You might be surprised how little space I can take up, when I put my mind to it." He squeezes Dawson's hand back, then rises, fetching two plush blue bath towels from his closet, tossing one to Dawson and winding the other around his own waist. "Watching me try to take a bath in that tub, though -- that's comedy gold. Reminds me of bathing in the laundry tub when I was a boy. He leads his guest to the bathroom, which is itself quite spacious. Fortunately, the shower is a separate tile-lined stall, for the antique bathtub, which does indeed look far too small for a man of Steve's stature even alone. Turning the water on, he flicks his hand through it. "I hope you like bay rum, because that's what all of my shower products smell like." He glances back at Dawson, then adds, hastily, "I don't think they put actual rum in it anymore, it's just spices." Dawson wraps the towel around his waist, trails Steve into the bathroom. Hangs it back up once the door is closed behind them. "You should see what contortions Dusk has to go through to shower. Sometimes he goes over to Matt's place just to bathe in comfort." He leans up against the wall by the shower stall, watching Steve test the water with an amused quirk of smile. "I just don't drink the stuff. There's no actual prohibition against it in bath products. Bay rum is fine." His cheeks color, faintly pink. "It's got really positive associations by now." Steve also sheds his towel now, then returns to check the water again, though he stops short. "You know, I did wonder how he showered, having seen your bathroom and also -- him. I'm not even sure he could stretch out all the way in Matt's bathroom, and I've lived in smaller apartments than that." He flicks his fingers through the water again. "There we go." He slips into the shower and stations himself on the far side, leaving room -- not ample, but certainly adequate -- for Dawson. "I just can't stand some of the newer, more chemical fragrances. And their names -- what on earth is 'Team Force' or 'Ripped Abs' supposed to smell like?" This as he ducks his head under the spray to wet his hair. "Water's fine now," he offers with an encouraging wave. "With difficulty." Dawson steps into the shower after Steve, tipping his head back to let the water run down over his face. When he looks back to Steve it's with a laugh, reaching out to skim his fingertips lightly across the other man's stomach. His arm curls around Steve's waist as he leans just a little closer. "From my experience, I'd say usually bay rum." Steve's laughter is just a touch startled. "I'll take that as a compliment on my personal hygiene as much as the quality of my soap. Don't know why, bay rum just smells -- clean, to me." He winds his arms around Dawson and pulls the smaller man up against him. Tips his face down and kisses him gently. Dawson's arm curls more securely around Steve, fingers curling in against the other man's back. "To me it smells -- warm. Comfortable. I feel like you had a bit of a hand in that, though." His eyes slip closed against the spray of the water, and he relaxes into Steve's embrace. The softness with which his lips first meet Steve's soon gives way to a growing hunger. Steve's only reply is a low, pleased hum. His hands travel over his lover's body, first lightly -- dancing like the warm water cascading over them -- then more insistent. He cups the back of Dawson's head carefully before pressing the smaller man against the shower wall, tile warmed by the spraying water. He dips his head to kiss Dawson's neck, the pressure of his body firm but careful. The press of Dawson's hand is slow, firm, a lingering caress over water-slicked skin. His grip tightens harder when Steve pushes him against the wall, pulling the other man's body harder against his. His head has tipped back against the tiles, breath catching sharp -- then quickening with a shaky whimper. Encourage by Dawson's reaction, Steve presses harder -- his strength unnatural even though he is nowhere near exerting its full force -- his breath coming faster, his arousal impossible to ignore. "Oh gosh," he says, his voice tight. "Is this what you meant by 'dangerous'?" Perhaps he is not overly concerned about Danger, because a moment later one of his hands drops to grip Dawson's waist. "May I -- please?" Dawson's face is flushed, his breathing growing more ragged. There's a slight roll of hips, weight shifting to press back up into Steve's touch. "Please --" spills out soft and breathy when he's pushed back harder. For a few beats that is all the answer that comes, alongside the harder dig of his fingers against skin and a quiet gasp nearly lost beneath the pattering fall of water. He bites down on his lip, squeezes his eyes tighter closed. There's a delay before he manages to speak again, smaller than before. "-- stop." Steve kisses Dawson's neck again, roughly this time, rolling his hips against his lover's motion, slow and teasing. But he freezes in place at the second word. Doesn't immediately pull away, though he eases up pinning Dawson to the wall, the grip of his hand slacking. His pale blue eyes are wide with concern. "Hey," he says softly, his breathing still fast though the rest of him remains perfectly still. "Are you ok?" At first there's no answer. Only Dawson's still-ragged breathing, eyes closed and residual limb giving a small helpless twitch at his side. His grip does not relax. Clinging tight to Steve's bulk, a faint tremor palpable where his arm wraps around the other man. "I'm sorry." Clearer than before, though still shaky. "I shouldn't -- you can -- I'm --" He bites down on his lip again, nods a little too hard. Steve waits, steady where Dawson is shaky. It's only when the other man answers that he relaxes slightly. Pulls him away from the wall and pivots slightly to let the warm water cascade down Dawson's back rather than pelting him in the face. Still holds him close, though. "Hey," he repeats, with a little more emphasis. Slides his hand along the other man's right shoulder, kneading gently. "What is it?" Dawson's breaths have grown more unsteady, harsher, his eyes fixing somewhere past Steve's shoulder when they open again. Some of the knotted tension in him eases when Steve pulls him from the wall. His grip on the other man relaxes, eyes slowly tracking back to Steve's face. "I'm sorry," he says again, "I don't know what --" Here he breaks off, abrupt. Drops his gaze -- also abrupt. "It was nothing. Just --" His head tips down slowly, forehead resting on Steve's shoulder. Only for the briefest moment before he jerks it back up. "I'm sorry! I'm going to make us run out of hot water." Steve just nods. Cradles Dawson's head where it settles on his chest. Cracks a small smile. "Not to worry, it won't run out that fast this time of day." He gazes down at Dawson. Plants a chaste kiss on his forehead. "But -- yeah, let's get cleaned up, huh? Then we can get some supper." He plucks the shampoo bottle from the shower caddy and waggles it. "This time we'll both smell like ripped abs."