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For a matter of timing and convenience, a shared shower had come to mean so much more.
He was tired and Shouta was able to lead him down onto the stool with little effort, though his own knees could clearly be heard popping in the quiet. He sat hanging his head and watching through the gathering steam as his lover dutifully adjusted the dial and tested the water with a batting motion surely inspired by their two cats before turning the spray on him and hosing him down. Toshi groaned in relief as the hot water hit his shoulders, mumbling a thank you, content to sit in the warmth until Shouta needed it.
When he had about the constitution of a (content) wet rag, the stream turned away, and he was not prepared for the soft palm on the side of his head, nor the fingers that sifted through his sodden hair, stroking and scrubbing. The smell of mint bloomed through the air.
He tensed at first, of course. He had spent so long learning to ignore his body and it's care after losing it, ostensibly, that he hardly paid attention to what washing his own hair felt like.
Vague, propofol-glazed memories of faceless nurses and attendants ladling water onto his head while the rest of his body itched and sweated under suffocating plaster threatened to make him pull away in shame, but that was before Shouta's hands - scarred, talented, and so kind - drifted from his hair and traced swirling patterns down his long exposed neck, smearing the silky foam before digging back in again, firmly enough to unleash a waterfall of shivers down his back.
Despite his history, despite his disbelief, Toshinori leaned into it. Warm and tired and cared for so consciously, dribbling onto the tiny plastic stool, it was only a matter of time and touch before he bit back a sob.
"Hey."
Shouta's deep voice nearly startled him, and he couldn't help but freeze when his boyfriend leaned around him and shut off the water, one slippery hand on his shoulder.
"Is the steam too much? Can you breathe?"
He didn't need to see Shouta's face to know the expression. Strict. Worried. Sincere.
Toshinori probably sounded like he was choking even more as he bent and trapped Shouta's hand on his shoulder with his cheek, tangling their fingers and curling around the first genuinely kind touch he'd known in years.
"No. Everything is fine," he rasped. When Shouta began to protest, Toshinori only held him tighter and let out a shuddering, overwhelmed breath when he felt the younger hero's body come to rest gently against his back, one hand bracing his side. His good side.
Old and undone as he was, Shouta allowed him his moment of knowing love.
And they sat like that for a time until Toshi hissed, cringing.
"It got in your eye," Shouta deadpanned.
"It got in my eye," Toshinori agreed with a pathetic laugh, pushing his sudsy hair off his forehead. Grumbling, Shouta grabbed a cup and turned the water back on. And Toshinori gladly played the victim as Shouta carefully rinsed his face and hair and fussed over him in a way that didn't make him feel sick, or lacking, but loved. Worthy of the extra effort.
They went to bed curled in each other's arms, smelling like mint.