#tomwambsgans

Tom wasn’t entirely sure how far down applying lotion on his assistant for a severe case of sand mites in Dundee, Scotland, fell on his bucket list, but it certainly seemed as if it may be getting crossed off any moment now. That is to say, he was seated on the bed with Greg facing with his back toward him, a tube of medicated anti-itch cream in his hand, and an earful of the same incessant whining he had heard all day blaring in his head.

“It’s like, did you know they can actually lay eggs under your skin?” Greg sputtered in disbelief, frantically pawing at the reddened spot on his neck he had been attacking all afternoon. “I could be filled with hundreds of these things at this point and I don’t even think the number for the sand supplier Connor gave me even works, really? It just keeps ringing?”

“You know I think I saw a guy a few seats over from you scratching his arm as he was leaving the play, Gregory. We may have a class action lawsuit on our hands if you play your cards right,” Tom chimed back as he twisted open the tube of cream.

“Really?” Greg asked in complete earnest, spinning around where he sat to face Tom with those familiar big doe eyes only to be met with a suppressed chuckle.

“Of course not, you idiot. Now, turn back around.”

Greg huffed in frustration but obliged the demand just the same, repositioning himself to face away from Tom again. Then, without further hesitation, he tugged off his sweater and deposited it on the bed beside the two of them. “Be honest, how bad is it?” he asked.

Tom sucked in a deep breath glancing over the sight in front of him. To be honest, it was much worse than he was anticipating. The pale skin of the boy’s back was entirely covered with unevenly distributed clusters of tiny, bright red dots. Some sections of the skin were more irritated than others, even breaking open into slight gashes from where he had reached around and scratched himself through the thin material of his sweater throughout the day. It was a bit like a young child had been let loose with a container of red finger paint and instructed to use Greg’s poor back as a canvas.

“Tis but a scratch,” Tom lied in reassurance, catching his lip between his teeth as he took in the full sight of the matter before him. He could only imagine just how much pain Greg was actually in. It almost made him feel guilty for scolding him for whining all day. Emphasis on the almost. “You’ll be back to frolicking around and making merry in no time as soon as you stop scratching the damn things.”

He squeezed a somewhat generous amount of the anti-itch cream into his palm as Greg huffed again. Tom didn’t need to see his face to know that his lips were curled up in that signature pout of his.

“Yeah, well, you try dealing with these things crawling over your body all day and see if you don’t do the same!” Greg protested, folding his arms over his chest like a child.

“Oh, just hold still for a second, would you? I probably will have these disgusting things crawling all over me by the end of this,” Tom said with a roll of his eyes in response.

“Fine, just hurry up.”

Tom was the one to oblige this time, gently beginning to apply a thin layer of the cream over the surface of his back only to have Greg immediately tense up at the sensation.

“Jesus, that’s cold,” he whimpered.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I need to warm it up for you first too, princess?” Tom teased, gliding his fingers over Greg’s shoulder blades and reveling just a teensy bit in the feeling of watching him shiver beneath his touch.

“It might’ve been nice, sure,” Greg answered, ever-entitled and needy without shame.

Tom simply laughed in response, concentrating on rubbing small circles of the product into the clusters of bites on Greg’s back. Even despite the bumps and gashes, his skin was incredibly soft, easily manipulated even with the slightest touch of Tom’s fingertips. It was kind of addicting in a way, trying to cover every square inch of his flesh with the pasty pink cream like it was some sort of game he was determined to win.

“You can relax, you know,” Tom said after Greg’s shoulders never strayed from where they had seized upward at the first touch. “I’m already committed to the task so it’s not like I’m gonna hurt you or anything.”

It was Greg’s turn to laugh now, albeit a bit nervously, as the tension slowly relaxed from his body beneath Tom’s touch.

“Thanks,” he said sheepishly, then, without thinking, added, “It feels really nice, Tom.”

An uneasy silence settled in between them as Tom froze in the motion of applying the cream across his back at the sound of Greg’s words. What happened to the man that had chucked water bottles at the guy, pushed him down in the snow, and wrestled him against his will, and why had he been spontaneously replaced with some tenderly caring nurse in a too-short white dress and matching hat? Who was this, really, rubbing circles on Greg’s back with a smile on his face? Had he completely and totally lost it?

“Tom?” Greg asked suddenly without turning around, snapping Tom out of the downward spiral he was racing through.

“Sorry,” Tom said under his breath, deeply embarrassed at each and every one of the thoughts that had raced through his mind. It was only once he recognized the discomfort in Greg’s voice that he remembered why he was here in the first place. As a friend helping another friend. Greg would do the same for him, after all. It was only fair.

More cream was added as he once more applied his hands to the man’s back, paying close attention not to press too hard on any of the sections of broken skin. His hands lingered over a knot in the muscle, hesitating before gently massaging it out. He was almost too distracted by watching the muscle loosen at his touch to hear it, but he did. A high-pitched, involuntary moan tumbled out of Greg’s lips and into the deafening silence of the room around them.

Tom should’ve paused here. He meant to. To rip his hands off of Greg’s back as if he was removing his burnt hands from a searing hot stove and gasp at his indecency. To make some cutting joke about this reaction was only appropriate given it was probably the most intimate physical touch Greg had ever and would ever receive in his life. To storm out of the room and avoid speaking to him for the next few days.

But, instead, he just laughed, feeling the warmth from Greg’s body filter up through his fingertips and into his chest.

“Sorry,” Greg chirped out, a reddish tint settling over the tips of his ears. Clearly embarrassed by the sound he produced. “You’re just really good at this.”

“Try not to sound so surprised, will you?” Tom taunted, easily undoing the tension between Greg’s shoulders with his fingertips. “You’re not the first to crumble at the Wambsgans rubdown.”

“Don’t call it that,” Greg whined in response, earning another chuckle from Tom. “That makes it sound like you’re-like you’re out just giving back massages on the street or something.”

“And if I was?” Tom asked. His hands moved lower on Greg’s back, dancing just above the waistline of his pants.

“You’re, uh, not though?” Greg said, entirely too confident for Tom’s liking. “You wouldn’t do this for anyone.”

“I see,” Tom said quietly, watching his hand creep dangerously around Greg’s waist. He didn’t remembering telling it to do that. It was almost like a reflex of some kind. “You think you’re special, then?”

At this, Greg closed his eyes, leaning backwards into Tom’s hands which were now embracing either side of him. “I know I am,” he hummed.

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