|Lathered by Mina Kelly|
Since his husband, Clint, died, Morgan’s been able to be his own man, living his own life without the burden of living up to Clint’s example. Clint was gorgeous, heroic, sensitive, a generous lover…. And perfectly insufferable. Oan, on the other hand, is everything Clint wasn’t—rude, selfish, and terrible in bed, and he hogs all the hot water in the communal showers, too. Oan is far from perfect, but maybe he’s just what Morgan needs right now. (M/M)
Morgan keeps one eye on Oan, even as he rubs shampoo into his scalp. The water runs pink with dust to the floor, straight into the recycling unit beneath them. Oan’s posture changes and Morgan tenses like a runner on the blocks. Only a guy like Oan can make showering competitive. Who can stand the coldest water? Who can stand the hardest pressure? Who’s fastest? Who’s toughest? Who’s the best?
By unspoken agreement, they take it in turns to set the competition. Morgan keeps an eye out for extremes in shower conditions, trying to work out what Oan wants to prove this time.
Oan catches his eye and smirks, firing the starting pistol. There’s a wet thunk and a skittering sound. Oan drops his gaze and Morgan follows it.
The soap rests on the tiled floor, a trail of bubbles behind it washing towards the drain. Morgan snorts.
Oan turns away from him and bends to pick up the soap. Bends at the waist.
Oh, so that’s today’s game.
Morgan rolls his eyes, belying the sudden tension in his gut. He hasn’t done anything like this since Clint died. Oan knows that; he thinks Morgan’s pathetic for it, too. Just because they don’t talk to each other doesn’t mean Morgan escapes Oan’s vocal disdain.
Oan watches him, eyes narrowed.
Morgan runs his tongue across his bottom lip, salt and sand and soap.
All right. Why not?
Morgan stretches upward under the cool water, raising his arms over his head and arcing his back. He lets Oan watch the roll of muscles under his pale skin. Morgan reaches up and adjusts the showerhead, turning just enough to give Oan a glimpse of his cock—only a glimpse, and no more. The change in angle of the water sends a stream of bubbles running down his neck; they slide over his hip and he realises he’s turning himself on. It’s been a while.
He smiles. The corners of his lips turn up, anyway.
It’s Oan’s go again. Oan’s not, has never been, nor will ever be, a subtle man. He lathers the soap between his hands and goes straight for his own groin. He keeps his eyes on Morgan, gives Morgan the full view, tilts his hips towards him invitingly.
Morgan stares past him at the tiles for a moment. Has he misinterpreted the rules somehow? What precisely marks the winner?
Does it matter?