Warnings: Oh, the UST.
Ferb's hair sucks.
I mean, I know most girls would disagree with me, don't even start— I know how they think it makes him look like a sex god when he brushes it out of his eyes and runs his fingers through it in semi-slow motion, how it shines in the sunlight and blows in the wind like if he were some dude out of a cheap paperback chick-porn pirates pseudo-seventeen century novel.
…Don't tell Ferb I said that, by the way.
The truth is, his hair does is nice, like when he's asleep and it sticks to his forehead or when he pulls at it absentmindedly during a math test or specially like when he wakes up and he has the worst of the bedheads and it makes him look so— um, so yeah. Eh. My point, though, is that when you're past the point where you spend half your mid-time job's monthly salary in four different shades of Atomic Lemonade Green (words on the hair dye box, not mine) ever since you've been thirteen, then yeah, your hair could probably be described as "healthy" if the definition of the word was altered to read something along the lines of "hair which hold no life whatsoever, has a propensity of tangling and is damaged in a number of ways too numerous to mention."
Tonight he steps out of the shower and his hair is at its worst. He just lets it dry in the air, sitting next to me on the floor of our room, in front of our small old-fashioned TV, little drops of water dripping down his neck and soaking his shirt and what kind of person does not finds that very, very uncomfortable? So I just can't stand it and I grab a freaking comb and stump over on my knees. At first he tries to ignore me like he always does when I bitch about his hair, until I pull the comb through a particularly tangled knot and he winces at the same time I hear Amanda scream in one of those Invasion of the Human Overlord movies we never really get tired of watching so I can't help but smirk.
Ferb glowers when I kneel in front of him, blocking his view of the TV, but it's also probably because I say, "If it hurts you should tell me." So of course he toughens up, his mouth a tight line and he's just staring straight ahead and I know I should feel self-conscious because my PJs go sort of see-through when seen against the glow of the TV but I can't bring myself to care when I'm feeling kind of smug. "Really." I reassure him, intending to mock him, but it comes out a little breathless when he places his hands on my waist and squeezes, probably steadying himself because I'm being rather harsh with the comb.
"There," I finish and drop the comb aside, not being able to help running my fingers through the now soft strands. He exhales very slowly as the tension drains out of his shoulders and his breath crashes against my collarbone, and it feels kind of really nice when his hands smooth up and down my sides.
"Thanks." He bites back, his hands leaving my waist the moment mine leave his hair.
For a moment I'm not sure what to do with my hands, so I sit back again on the floor, glancing at the TV and realizing the credits have been rolling for quite some time now. "Are you ever going to wear your hair brown again?" I ask, because I sincerely can't think of anything else to say.
Ferb raises an eyebrow at the screen. "When hell freezes over."
Alive with the Glory of Love is a little stuck because it's got no plan whatsoever and I'm sort of writing as I go along. Any suggestions?