TITLE: "Something in the Water" (1/1)
AUTHOR: mcee (mcee@fangy.net)
RATING: R
PAIRING: Zeke/Casey
SUMMARY: Zeke has never been one for clichés.

* * *


It should be one of those steamy post-coital things, with the mirrors fogged up, the door left suggestively unlocked, the deliberate enjoyment of hot water on bare skin. But this is Casey, and he hardly ever does anything movie-like. Zeke watches him wordless from his perch by the sink. He'd like a cigarette but he left his pack somewhere on the floor of his car.

Casey's slight form is a dark smudge on the shower curtain. Mostly unmoving. Zeke's been staring for a little while, and by now he feels like giving instructions. Put your face directly under the jet, mouth slightly open. Run your hands through your hair. Touch yourself. C'mon, Casey. Zeke's squirming, rearranging himself in his loose jean. The boy is bound to do something, and Zeke's waiting for his cue.

Three more minutes pass and he gets up to fetch his cigarettes. Watched pot and all that. The afternoon air is cool against his chest and the pebbles in the driveway dig into the soft fleshy parts of his feet. When he gets back Casey is absently lathering the sliver of soap between his hands, still not doing it right.

Zeke puts the pack down on the counter without taking one. A movement catches his eye and he looks up at his blurred reflection. He wipes his hand across it, leaving wet streaks to drip slowly down his frazzled gaze. Zeke presses a finger to the hickeys blooming on his throat and forces out a smirk. He turns back and watches Casey's shadow for a moment before undoing the fly of his jeans and pushing them down his hips.

Casey jumps when Zeke pulls the curtain aside and steps in behind him.

"Fuck, Zeke. Warn a person," he spits out, but it doesn't have the venom it was going for. His hand--a little bit of suds on the wrist--reaches for the dip of Zeke's stomach, almost on its own accord. Zeke is looming over him. Casey is frowning.

"Relax, Casey."

He shoots Zeke a glare, but his hand curves around Zeke's hipbone. "I was."

"No you weren't. You were standing there manhandling the Zest."

"It's called thinking, fuckhole."

Zeke barely flinches, and wraps himself around Casey instead. "I like watching you." He does his best to sound disinterested.

Casey's hands are slippery and everywhere and this is new, doing this in the shower. Zeke has never been one for clichés, but he thinks--as Casey drops to his knees and presses Zeke's back into the soap holder--that he may have a new-found appreciation for the classics.



END