#UGH god this is the first time I’ve properly written in literally a month

[presidentbungus]

Demo starts scritching at the bottom of Scout’s skull, then slowly starts moving up, humming something he doesn’t recognize under his breath. Scout’s not really sure what he’s doing, but it’s nice. And it’s kinda hard to care when all he can think about is being pressed against Demo and it’s like sitting against a space heater he’s so fucking warm, their legs tangled together in front of them, and Scout just wishes he could see his face.

He can imagine it. Demo always makes the same face when he’s concentrating and he’s always concentrating on something (and right now he’s focused on Scout, just him, and fuck, man). He’s probably squinting at nothing in particular, and he’d be cross-eyed if he had two eyes, lips all stupidly puffed out like he’s clenching his teeth together. Maybe he’s sticking his tongue out just a little, like he does when he’s really in the zone.

… Probably thinking, like, wow, Scout’s so great, his hair’s so soft and nice, boy I’m lucky, I’m never gonna dump him unless he dumps me, in which case I would accept that as a reasonable decision and still be best friends with him afterwards because he’s just that great. Or something along those lines. He has to remind himself to unscrunch his eyes and unflare his nose and do something mostly regular with his mouth, and he spends a few seconds being really glad Demo can’t see his face right now because he probably looks really stupid.

And the whole time those smart, quick fingers keep brushing across his scalp, combing through his hair. His other arm’s got Scout all wrapped up, resting heavy enough against his chest his lungs pinch just a little when he breathes in too deep and don’t get him wrong, no complaints here. Demo keeps humming, probably something about pirates or krakens or taxes. Scout can’t think of anything to say and for the first time in his life nothing’s coming out of his mouth anyway. He’s sweating through the bandages on his hands though. And his heart’s hammering so hard he can feel it in the tips of his fingers, and he’s sure Demo’s able to feel it through his spine, and oh god is that embarrassing? Is he being fucking weird? Did he remember to put on deodorant this morning because oh god he’s so fucking sweaty, and maybe he should say something just to clarify, maybe something like I’m sorry if I smell bad and I’m sweaty, you’re really great and all, I like your arms a lot and your music’s stupid but you’re good at singing it, something like that really quick, oh my god oh my god…

And out of nowhere, right before Scout opens his big stupid mouth and gets himself broken up with, Demo pops his lips and says: “Scout, if you love me, ya gotta wash yer hair.”

“What—c’mon.” Scout’s worried that means the little head massage thing is over, but he still keeps going, thank god, and you know what, whatever.

“No, really.” Demo thinks on it. “Your scalp feels like a nice greasy patch of temperate swamp.”

He finally awkwardly cranes his neck back (trying to make sure Demo doesn’t move his arm and hey, he doesn’t) and sure enough, he’s making that stupid fucking face, tongue out and everything even though he just spoke, and whatever long line of nothing Scout had in his mouth just dissolves. Instead he manages to muster a faint: “Hey.”

“Just a touch of shampoo, Scoutie, I’m tellin’ ye. Could be nice.”

He scoffs. “I use shampoo.”

“You use a three-‘n-one. I’ve seen it.”

“And it works fine, asshole.”

“It could work better.” Before Scout can respond to this, that arm squeezes all the air out of him—probably on purpose—and Demo’s other arm presses on top of it, and his head nudges into the crook of Scout’s neck and says “Please, Scoutie, for me, just for me?”

… Aw man. “Fine, whatever,” he wheezes, and Demo lets go of him so he can throw his arms in the air. “But I don’t know any of that shit.”

“I promise I can work that out,” he hums, already back to scratching down Scout’s scalp. “Thank you, thank you,” suddenly attacking him with kisses down his neck and the side of his face, making the loudest friggin’ smacking sounds he can probably muster.

“Geez—geez, okay, I get it,” and some horrible embarrassing sound that’s probably supposed to be a laugh frees itself from his throat, and Scout barely tries to push him off. It doesn’t work, and he doesn’t stop. Thank god.