#atomirotta

Opening his eyes just to make sure—make sure he isn’t hiding on the far side of the bed curled up as he is want to do—but it’s still just his grey sheets staring back at him. It’s early, enough that his bedroom is colored pastel shades of blue from the sky parted through narrow gaps in the curtains. It’s early—seven am early and he sighs again into the quiet, rubbing his hand across his forehead and down his cheek, scratching the stubble at his jawline.

He turns his head, contemplating going back to sleep, calling in one of his dozens of sick days just to mope and...

And he blinks. Someone is curled up on the armchair, feet pulled up and head resting on his knees, grey eyes watching him, blinking slowly. He’s so small in the chair, dwarfed by the discarded clothes across the back and arms. Had he always been so small, dwarfed by so much around him? Ortega thought he had the details of Pollux memorized, carefully catalogued in his memory alongside all the other people he’d lost to time, to foolish mistakes in their line of work. Memories he would’ve carried for forever, the littlest moments both the best and the worst things he remembered.

Pollux’s eyes meet his in the dim light, thoughts scattering like defused sunlight.

“Hey sleepy head...” Pollux mumbles and he untucks his legs from under himself and stands, meandering over to him. Something hurts by the lopsided way he wanders, but there’s always something that hurts now that they’re older—bodies past their prime, worn.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Ortega’s words slur with sleep still, hands outstretched as Pollux sits down on the bed beside him. He doesn’t protest as Ortega’s hand rests against his leg, fingers tracing idle patterns across his thigh--tiny circles, little lightning bolts.

“Couldn’t sleep...” Pollux replies, slowly blinking in the light turning from pale blue to warm grey. There’s just enough light to see the redness around his eyes, hear the clogged sound of him taking a breath through his nose.

“Nightmare?” Ortega asks softly and Pollux gives a half hearted shrug, staring aimlessly at the other side of the room. Blinds painting narrow lines across the closet and dresser on the far wall, expensive watches in padded boxes, photographs in frames. There’s familiar photographs there, ones propped up again after laying dormant face down in the wood long enough for dust to gather, leave an echo where they once laid. Memories in stillness behind glass, faces and time preserved.

“Hey...” He squeezes his leg and Pollux spares a glance, brow knitted in a tight line. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Pollux snorts. “I wasn’t planing on telling you.” He snips and Ortega frowns, walls closing up around him again, pulling himself in tight; angry words, bitterness eating into his voice. He’s good at faking that look--the one where he pushes everything deep down and hopes no one will see. But there’s too much and it always bleeds over, leaking out of the cracks.

“Pollux...”

He murmurs and Pollux disarms, shoulders slouching and his leg relaxes, breath leaving him in one long drawn out sigh.

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay? Don’t make me...” Pollux looks over at him, honesty in eyes turned stormy grey in the scant light.

Ortega doesn’t press, forces a smile and he gingerly reaches up, picking a curl away from his face and tucking it back behind his ear, wanting to let his fingers linger, brush across the scars against his scalp. He doesn’t, letting his hand fall back to his leg.

“Why did you stay?”

Pollux looks away when Ortega asks instead, pulling his leg up onto the bed, foot resting on the edge. Ortega watches him think, the faint outline of his profile in the barely there light, hair a fluffy halo of deep auburn. Shoulders drawn in tight, too much tension this early, being awake so soon. He wishes he could take that tension, run his fingers between his shoulder blades and down his back, trace his spine, hitch his thin thigh up onto his hip just to hold him closer. Kiss his forehead and the bridge of his nose, the edge of his jaw and further down his neck just to keep him close--keep him close because without it he’ll up and disappear once more. Like a dream he can’t bear to wake up from even as the sky turns steadily brighter, a lull back to wakefulness.

“Guess I didn’t wanna leave.” Pollux’s voice brings Ortega back and he’s looking at him, wrinkles around his grey eyes like he most definitely caught him staring and is caught between a rebuttal and letting it slide.

“I’m glad you didn’t want to leave.” Ortega murmurs hesitantly, like his words are a sledgehammer and Pollux is a glass menagerie and one of these days he’ll bend too much, push too hard and he’ll shatter; a cup of coffee too full, a shaken can of soda waiting to explode.

“I could leave.” There’s almost not enough teasing in his tone, his words almost true and Ortega’s heart skips a beat, stalling with a hiccuping breath lodging in his throat.

“No, please. Stay.” He murmurs, his hand finding Pollux’s, pulling it close and he runs his thumb across the back of his scarred knuckles, the roughness of the skin there.

Pollux stalls for a breath before his lips break into a brief smile, squeezing Ortega’s hand.

“I was just teasing...I’ll stay.” He mumbles, scooting Ortega’s arm to worm his way back against him once more. Ortega wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into Pollux’s stomach, arms sliding up to cradle him, rest between his shoulder blades, fingertips along his spine. Pollux combs his fingers through his hair, along his temples where the grey is growing in and further still, resting against the back of his neck. The first port of the many that line his spine.

“Will you stay long?” Ortega whispers and there’s a gentle sigh above him, his stomach deflating.

The tub was large, large enough that Mason getting in with him wasn’t an issue, and Ozzy thanked whatever god was listening once again for the agency's seemingly unending budget. Mason pulled him to his chest as soon as he was settled in the water. 

In any other circumstance, having a naked Mason pressed up against his own naked back in hot, steaming water would definitely get Ozzy going. As it was, however, he could barely keep his eyes from slipping closed. The heat of the water and Mason combined was heavenly as it seeped into his aching muscles and bones. 

They just soaked for a while, and Ozzy drifted into dozing. It was a rare thing, to have Mason hold him like this, and guilt twinged in his gut. He knew better than to feel sorry for himself. Even still, he took comfort from the strong arms encircled around his torso. It was the first time in hours, maybe even days, that he’d felt safe. Mason tucks his chin into the crook of Ozzy’s shoulder, breath rushing over the scarred mess that makes up the left side of his neck. His arms tighten slightly, and lips press briefly against the side of his head, before they release. 

The grime on Ozzy’s skin has become too gross to ignore, and he sighs and forces himself to sit up. The slight movement makes his tired muscles cry out, and Ozzy bites back a hiss as he reaches for the washcloth Mason had laid on the edge of the tub. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” Mason shifts behind him, reaching out from behind him and grabbing the washcloth, “Let me.”

“You don’t… You don’t have to. I…” Ozzy tries to protest, the guilt shooting through him once more. He and Mason had mindblowing sex, they didn’t… 

“Maybe I want to.” Mason replies, quiet. Any further protests die on his tongue.

Ozzy is honestly too tired to do anything but acquiesce. He might have been embarrassed, if he had the energy for it. It wasn’t as if Mason hadn’t already seen, touched, and likely kissed most every inch of his body already anyways. 

His hands are gentle, careful around the discoloured and swollen skin that paints Ozzy deep purple and blue and red. Mason runs the cloth over his skin, and Ozzy dozes once more as Mason works. 

At some point, Ozzy really does fall asleep, because Mason is rubbing his arm softly and urging him awake. 

“Come on, sweetheart, bathwaters disgusting.” 

Ozzy stumbles to his feet, and doesn’t crack his head open on the porcelain only because of Mason’s secure grip. They towel down, and this time Ozzy is a little embarrassed to have Mason have to rub the towel down his legs and back. Mason has to help Ozzy into his sweatpants as well, and Ozzy has to blink back tears as the fabric rubs against his injuries. 

“Thank you,” Ozzy grabs Mason’s arm before they exit the bathroom, voice serious but ragged with exhaustion. Something flashes in Mason’s eyes, but it’s gone before Ozzy can pick it out. 

“Yeah, wouldn’t have wanted you to drown in the tub.” the snark that should have accompanied the comment is absent. Mason opens the door, and the moment’s lost. 

They walk, or rather, Ozzy hobbles and Mason supports him, down the halls to Ozzys room. Ozzy could cry as he lays on the soft mattress and plush bedding, so absorbed in the comfort that when the bed dips next to him, and Mason slides in behind him, he isn’t expecting it. They’d never shared a bed outside of sex before.