Revali very much did not like video games when he met Link, but now he’s not as opposed to their game nights. Link enjoys telling Vali about all the little easter eggs he finds
It’s dark outside, or as dark as it ever gets in London, a cold, winter chill in the air, and Gerry’s eager to get home, back to the warm sanctuary of his apartment.
It is his apartment, though only in name. Michael is there more often than not, his clothes taking up space in the wardrobe, his soaps piled in the bathroom cabinets, his voice drifting from room to room.
Gerry loves it. Loves him. Loves all the tiny reminders that he’s here, that he isn’t leaving any time soon.
He hopes Michael likes being there as much as Gerry likes having him.
They’ve both been out all day, working on their own things, and Gerry’s so very tired, but coming home to an apartment that smells of cooling and Michael’s cheerful voice is more than enough to lift his spirits.
“Hi, babe,” he says, wandering into the kitchen and wrapping his arms around Michael’s waist. “Whatcha doing?”
“Cooking,” Michael says, twisting his head to kiss Gerry on the cheek. “I got bored of take out, and god forbid I let you cook.”
Gerry laughs softly. “I dunno what you mean. I’m a fantastic cook.”
Michael doesn’t even grace that lie with a response.
He’s right, though, Gerry is an abysmal cook, but he doesn’t mind. Not if it means Michael will cook for him.
Dinner’s not a grand affair, but all the more special for it. It feels so soft, so domestic, a normality that Gerry treasures.
Michael suggests a bath, once everything is cleared away, and Gerry reluctantly agrees. He’s sure he needs it, but taking a bath has always felt like a waste of time. Still, he’s probably filthy and there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that a good long soak will ease.
“You only love me for my bathtub,” he teases, watching Michael fiddle with the taps. He’s always been pickier about the temperature, and Gerry tends to leave him to decide on it whenever they shower together.
He laughs, hair slipping into his eyes. “Never. It is a benefit, though.”
“Friends with benefits, but the benefit is the tub?”
“Boyfriends with benefits.”
Gerry smiles, feeling so very fond for a moment. “Yeah. That.”
Michael catches him smiling and grins cheekily, and Gerry feels honour bound to splash him with bathwater, making him squeal.
The bath is a little too small for the both of them, but that’s never mattered much. They manage to find a comfortable position, Gerry sitting between Michaels legs, pressed to his chest. It’s nice.
Michael hums softly as he rubs Gerry’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the knots there, and Gerry sinks further into the warm water, letting him do as he pleases. He feels good, letting someone care for him.
He feels so full of love, so content.
The hands on his shoulders are gentle, pulling away for a moment to fetch a little dollop of soap, one of Michael’s scented ones no doubt, and then it’s being rubbed into his skin. Michael hums in a way that’s almost appreciative, and Gerry snorts.
“Shhh,” Michael tells him, reaching for the sponge and working on washing away the soap. “You’re ruining the moment.”
Gerry just laughs softly. “I am?”
Michael hits him with the sponge. “You are.”
He squeezes the sponge, emptying the water over Gerry’s head.
Gerry would have made some comment, but then Michael’s fingers work their way into his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and his mind goes blank.
Michael takes his sweet time, getting Gerry’s hair nice and wet and then massaging shampoo into it. It feels so good, and Gerry wonders absently why he doesn’t let Michael do this more often.
For a while everything is quiet, just the sloshing of the water and Michael’s soft humming. Gerry knows it can’t possibly take this long just to wash his hair, but it’s not like he’s complaining, not with Michael’s hands in his hair, lips brushing his throat every so often.
He’s disappointed when Michael finally pulls away, but that means they get to swap places, and he’ll never pass up an excuse to get his hands on Michael’s skin.
Shifting around is a bit of a job, in a bath as small as theirs, and they get water all over the floor. Michael giggles as Gerry finally settles back into the water, looking over the side.
“We’ve made a bit of a mess,” he comments, amused.
“We can chuck a towel on it later,” Gerry says dismissively, and leans down to kiss Michael’s shoulder.
It takes a moment for him to decide which soap to use. He only had one, before Michael, a minty one which declared that it was FOR MEN in block capitals. He may be thirty-two years old, but he’s not immune to the euphoria from products like that.
Michael, on the other hand, seems to have a near-infinite selection, and Gerry takes his time picking the right one. He wants Michael to feel good, after all.
He’s rewarded with a soft, breathy sigh when he starts working the soap into Michael’s skin, and he feels himself melt a little inside. He’s too soft, really.
Michael’s hair is soft, too, long and blond and curly, and Gerry relishes being able to get his hands into it, to make Michael shiver.
They barely ever seem to have time together like this. One or the other of them is always somewhere, busy with something, and this time is precious.
Gerry protests a little when Michael starts wriggling around, but he’s only reaching for one of his stupid bath bombs that Gerry secretly loves.
The water’s dirty, and it feels like a waste, but Michael insists, and Gerry’s weak to refuse him, so they sit together and watch the water turn pink.
It’s nice, actually. Just spending time together, sitting in companiable silence.
Gerry’s half asleep by the time he realises the water is going cold, but he’s so comfortable, and he grumbles as Michael starts complaining that he’s cold. He doesn’t want to move.
It takes Michael digging his fingers into the ticklish part of Gerry’s stomach for him to relent and scramble out of the water, grumbling about Michael being cruel.
Michael just laughs at him and tells him he’s dripping onto the floor, although there’s so much water on the floor already that their downstairs neighbour is probably going to have some problems with mould.
Oh, well.
Gerry drips down the hallway to fetch some towels and drips his way back, dropping most of them onto the floor to try and get rid of the water and wrapping the final remaining one around himself.
“What about me?” Michael protests, and Gerry catches him in the same towel, pressing them together.
It doesn’t get them dry, but it’s nice, and Gerry likes the way Michael rests his chin on his hair.
They stay like that for a while, until Michael starts complaining about the cold again, and honestly Gerry is tired too, so he lets Michael rub them both down with the towel and then follows him into bed.
It’s so worth it when they finally crawl into bed, warm and dry and safe, and Gerry rests his head on Michael’s chest to listen to his heart.
His last coherent thought is that they should have more lazy evenings.
