FIC: Paodro (Paolo Roxas/ Sandro Marcos)
Sandro tiptoes into Paolo’s room and very very quietly rids himself of his clothing - albeit messily, all at random on the floor, just the way Paolo hates it. He leaves his minions briefs on, the one that irks Paolo the most, because ‘yellow warriors haha’ and what even is the point in all these if he’s not getting a rise out of his cousin. ‘A rise,’ he snickers inwardly ‘he’ll be getting a rise alright.’ Carefully, Sandro opens the bathroom door and feels a rush of blood southward upon seeing the sinews of Paolo’s back, the way his neck is craned slightly giving him a perfect view of his jugular and his strong jaw. And, oh, his fingers lightly wrapped around his semi-erect cock. Whatever prank it is that Sandro has been planning (he actually really just wanted to scare the shit out of Paolo, maybe cause a bruise or two - not that he doesn’t deserve it; one does not simply “forget to reply” to a Marcos) flew out the proverbial window as he makes his way to Paolo, slightly dazed, and very very aroused. As soon as Sandro is a fingerbreadth away from his cousin, Paolo turns the shower on and Sandro just about freezes. Literally. “AAAAAAAAAAH” - “What the fu- SANDRO???!!!” - “WHAT THE HELL PAO WHO THE FUCK BATHES IN ICE COLD WATER??!!” Sandro cannot believe this person. “You are unbelievable!” He is shaking quite terribly. His erection totally gone and his balls drawn up tragically, surely turning blue. “What, I’M unbelievable?? What are you even doing in my shower?? How did you even get into my house??” Paolo hollered. Times like this and he thinks the worst part of the elections wasn’t his father losing rather it’s his menace of a cousin returning to the country and turning his life upside down. He’s about to go on another tirade when - “Achoo!” followed by a rather unhealthy bout of sniffing and teeth-chattering. And, nooo wait, anything but the- crying. Great. Now Sandro is crying. He made Sandro cry. Despite having imagined multiple ways of killing the brat, there’s nothing really worse than making someone cry. He tips his head a little to take a peek at Sandro’s downturned face and, just like that, all his anger goes down the drain (so does this week’s allowance, for that matter; Sandro will never let him hear the end of this until he gives him something absurdly expensive, like a pony). How Sandro can make him feel guilty over technically nothing is beyond him. “Sandro, come on.” He brushes his thumb over the brat’s forehead. “I didn’t mean to shout but-” “B-But wh-what-t-t?” Sandro makes the extra clatter for good measure. Never it be said that a Marcos is not a natural actor. “I-I’m d-d-dyinggg h-here of h-hypo-hypo-th-thermia a-and y-you’re m-making excus-s-ses?” Sandro glares and makes his lower lip wobble. Paolo sighs. “Come on, let’s get you warmed up in the tub.” He makes a move to embrace the boy but Sandro stubbornly swats his arms. “So, what, you can drown me in it?” Sandro says with just the perfect mix of hurt and bite. “Do you really… hate me.. that much, Pao?” Now that does it. If Paolo wasn’t so all over wrapped around him right now, Sandro would give himself a pat on the back for such grade A performance. (He might have forced out a tear or two - he’s that good.) However, he did miss getting hugged by the guy (the last week of the campaign period made it impossible for them to see each other at all) and he’d be damned if he denies himself this comfort in favor of self-congratulations. “Ferdinand Alexander, you never say that, you hear me?” Paolo lifts his head from where it is buried in Sandro’s hair and grasps both sides of his cousin’s face so he can look at him straight. “You are admittedly hateable- Let me finish- and you’re an absolute menace - stop rolling your eyes Sandro you look like you’re having a seizure, and it’s true - but I don’t hate you.” Paolo ends softly. “I don’t hate you at all.” Sandro’s breath catches at the intensity in Paolo’s eyes and he starts when Paolo’s lips touches his in a barely-there kiss. “You know how I feel about you.” Paolo whispers, lips brushing with every word. He can smell Paolo’s soap and his minty breath and that Paolo scent that he can’t get enough of, like sandalwood and pine, and he knows. Paolo doesn’t let people in easily. Paolo who’s smart and handsome and punctual and responsible and perfect and unreachable. Sandro doubts there’s someone else he allows to get this close - close enough to catch his scent and his arms and his lips and his lo- “I know, Pao.” Sandro grasps at his cousin’s waist in a sudden rush of emotions that makes him lightheaded. “I… same.” And Paolo’s lips crashes into his in a bruising kiss that leaves every part of his body shivering from an altogether different reason. Paolo backs him into the tub and runs warm water until they’re both immersed and quite possibly bleeding from their mouths. Not that Sandro gives a shit. His plan of leaving a bruise or two on Paolo’s immaculate self seemed to have backfired as he’s pretty sure he’s the one who’s going to have a hard time tomorrow concealing all these marks on his neck. His plan to scare the shit out of his cousin backfired as well (really, though? who the hell bathes in cold water?) Even his minions underwear only got a quick eyebrow raise when Paolo pulled it off him (the yellow isn’t as striking when it is wet) and the worst thing that backfired, really, is how hard he has fallen for this man when all he wanted at first was to try to egg him on. As Paolo sinks into him, ‘At least,’ Sandro thinks, ‘at least he’ll still get mad at the mess on the floor.’