Work Text:
Anatoly sits at the end of the bathtub, leg up on the edge to better get comfortable with the angle as his fingers combs through the soft wetness of Freddie’s hair.
His body, immersed in the warm water, and eyes closed, said, “You know I can wash myself.”
The edge of Anatoly’s lips curl a little bit, still working the shampoo through his hair. Sure, he knows, but he also knows Freddie ultimately doesn’t mind. “Washing is sacred.”
Freddie opens his eyes, moves to look at him. Admiration—he saw his eyes swallowed by love. Freddie nearly bursts as his unconditional affection, even if unspoken. “Is that so?”
“It’s a private act,” he says, moves Freddie’s head straight ahead. “To be present in the scene of revitalization and renewal.”
“I didn’t take you for a religious man.”
“Only when it comes to you.”
Before Freddie realizes it, lone tears are streaming down his face every time he wipes them away with soaked hands. Embarrassment takes up every inch of his chest, but he swallows it down and takes his arm. There was a point he knew he would have rather had the Russian spit in his face than approach him with any form of tenderness.
“I love you, Anatoly,” he says softly, afraid his voice will quiver.
Anatoly leans down, kisses his shoulder, his neck, his cheek, his lips. “I love you too.”
They sit there with no more words to exchange to each other. Even when the water turns cold, Freddie has never felt warmer. Anatoly rinses him, and dries him with care. He feels safe in the moments he briefly looks him in the eyes and smiles.
He knows his love is here to stay.