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They're in the bathtub and Walt feels a second away from drowning, overwhelmed by the buzz of Hollis' fingers. He hasn't felt touch like this in a very long time, maybe ever if he's being honest. Most of the people he struck deals with weren't keen on the sensation, weren't keen on him, really. But Hollis is unusual about this, like he is about so many other things. He seems to revel in the feeling of their skin, their souls, brushing together, crackling with an energy too great to comprehend. He chuckles when Walt blushes or gasps at their touch, fascinated and cruel in equal measure. Walt is sure he could die if he were still alive, from embarrassment or overwhelm or something else entirely. It's hard to think and form coherent sentences when they're like this.
Hollis' fingers snake up from his neck to his cheek, cradling it with so much care it's almost worse than the static. He coos softly at whatever noise Walt has been making in their head, and pushes the hand to the side to kiss and lick and bite their palm. Walt shivers all over. There is too much reverence in Hollis' touch, in the way he kisses him, soft yet desperate. Walt's overcome with the urge to curl up deep inside them, in some dark place where none of this sensation can ever reach him again. And yet he remains, braves this wonderful torture like he's braved so very few things in his time. He feels like he owes it to Hollis. Like he owes it to himself.
There is a prayer dancing on the tip of their tongue, a plead to stop or to go even further, he doesn't know. It's probably Walt's. Hollis doesn't pray like he does, but sometimes, when they're like this, Walt can't tell where one of them ends and the other begins. Maybe it should scare him, make him want to recoil and escape. Instead it settles him, settles that part of his mind that will forever make him second-guess his decision to pick Hollis.
You're cute when you're like this, Hollis says, laughing in that way that only ever makes Walt blush harder.
Don't laugh, he replies in a tone that even he can tell is far too close to a whine.
I'm not, Hollis insists, but he is. Walt can almost taste the amusement on their tongue. I'm admiring you, that's all.
Walt slips them underwater, which only makes Hollis laugh harder. That's alright. Walt rather likes his joy, the way it warms them from the inside like a ball of light in their chest. He still keeps them under until their lungs begin to burn and their cheeks finally cool.
They break the surface with a gasp, hair falling limp over their eyes. He'll have to cut it again soon, he thinks idly as he pushes it away once more. Hollis is no longer laughing, but that's alright, too. He can still feel the soft warmth of his joy deep in their chest.
"God," Walt whispers, breathing hard until he doesn't feel so starved for air. Their lungs ache still, but it's a faint realization next to everything else going on. He likes moments like these, reminders that the body he's inhabiting is alive, that it aches because its original owner is right there, pressed tight next to Walt against their skin. You're mean.
I promise you I'm not. You're just pent up.
And whose fault is that? Walt asks, moving to drain the bath water. He's going to implode if he remains here any longer, naked in the dark with only Hollis' wicked grin for company.
You were already pent up when I got you.
Walt lets those words echo against the bathroom tiles as the last of the water drains. When I got you, Hollis said, as if Walt was a priced possession, as if he had Walt just as much as Walt has him, as if they could ever possibly possess each other. Their breathing turns a little shaky at that thought. Walt closes their eyes against it and drags them out of the bath.
He's methodical as he dresses them up, quick against the slight chill in the air. The only extra time he takes is to turn on the light and comb their hair, even if the only place they'll go afterwards is their bed. Hollis is quiet as he works. The warm joy is still there, but it's cooling under the weight of soft concern.
Can I take care of you tonight? Hollis finally asks once Walt stops fiddling with their hair and clothes. Their eyes on their reflection are Walt's in color, but that raw earnestness could never be his.
You don't have to, he replies, even though his thoughts are a loop of please, please, please.
I want to. If you'd want it, too. Walt holds their gaze in the mirror for a whole minute before he can't bare it any longer and sighs, shrugging. You take such good care of us, Walt, of our body. I enjoy knowing I can do something for you as well.
Walt almost doesn't notice the hand that flies up to rest on their head, ruffling the hair he just combed through. He can't get himself to be annoyed, though. Not when the way Hollis combs their nails through the wet locks feels so grounding, so reassuring.
You can, if you really want to, he relents. He's gotten used to the ritual by now, to the careful way in which Hollis lights up his cigarettes and settles them on their tongue, but as he agrees he feels like he's walking into unknown territory.
Oh, sweetheart. I always want to take care of you.
The amused twist to their lips is all Hollis, at once mischievous and caring and wicked like hell itself. Just like this terrible boy he's found himself attached to. Really, Walt wouldn't want him any other way.