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Vox knows he is staring with his mouth wide open. He feels it in the way his breath catches in his throat and in the way his jaw begins to hurt.
But in his defence, Ike Eveland looks incredibly good with his usually pristine dress shirt unbuttoned past his chest. His sleeves too, have been mercilessly rolled up, and his suspenders now hang freely at his sides, forgone as a result of the sweltering heat.
“Luca and Shu are already on their way,” Ike says without so much as a glance up at his two new guests. “Sorry, just give me a sec.” He is staring rather frustratedly at the stuttering fan by the corner of his living room, his glasses askew and brows scrunched in a way that has Vox internally swearing in delight.
“What even happened here?” Mysta asks. He has some time ago, thrown his bags by the couch, and he joins Ike by the fan with a kind of airy puzzlement that isn’t too uncommon for the detective.
“Air conditioner broke,” Ike says plainly, and then, “fan too.”
“No,” Mysta whispers with an exaggerated sadness, just loud enough to be heard by the both of them. “And the grease or whatever didn’t work?”
Ike doesn’t reply to him, just stares glumly at the oil canister in his hand and then at the fan in question.
Vox chooses this moment to make his entrance. He has been ridiculously silent since they arrived, and if not now then he was never going to stop gawking at Ike’s newfound summer look. And while it is in his nature to go against any sort of angelic interference, he sends a silent thank you to whatever force compelled both pieces of machinery to stop working that day.
“It’s probably best to not let Mysta near that thing,” Vox says, ignoring the dirty look Mysta shoots his way. “Let me see.” Ike offers him the can and he takes it, fingers brushing against gloved hands as he eyes the still rickety fan.
“You’re probably more familiar with this piece of technology than I ever will be.” Ike lets out a small, breathless laugh as he watches Vox work. His glasses are now perched on the crown of his head, nestled comfortably in the mess that is Ike’s hair from when he wiped the sweat from his face. Vox tries his best not to get distracted. From where he is at, he can see the gentle slope of Ike’s collarbone and if he angles his eyes just a little further down—
Ike leans in to direct him, his shirt angling even wider to reveal the delicious expanse of his chest and good fucking lord, there is no way Ike doesn’t know what he is doing.
He is almost certain that Ike is asking him a question, but between the useless fan in front of him and Ike’s newly revealed skin, the best Vox can do in response is a soft, helpless, “Uh.” From somewhere beside him, he thinks he hears Mysta laugh.
“Dude, I’m gonna leave you two to whatever the fuck this is, okay? The room’s hot enough as it is.” Mysta, thank that man, exits the room without waiting for a reply. Vox doesn’t want to explain himself more than he already has to, least of all to Mysta, who bites back harder than most in their group. He’s obvious enough as it is, and when he glances again to his side, Ike is looking at him, a small, lingering smile on his lips.
There is a smear of dust-darkened oil on his cheek, and unthinkingly, Vox swipes it off, his fingers catching on soft cheek and then up into the sharp jut of his cheekbone.
“Oil,” he explains when Ike looks at him with both his eyebrows raised, one higher than the other. His expression has shuttered a little, caught by surprise by the casual intimacy of Vox’s touch, but it quickly turns into something lighter and more private. Vox swallows. For all that it’s worth, he has genuinely tried to maintain his uninfluenced facade, but the Ike today seems intent on tearing Vox’s walls down, one layer at a time, and honestly? Vox doesn’t think he minds.
“Thanks,” Ike says, and then very casually, he stretches, his hands interlocked and arms lifting in a singular, taut pull. Vox’s mouth goes dry. Ike’s shirt has unfurled from where it was tucked into his pants, and for just a moment, Vox catches sight of a slightly toned belly and further down, the low dip of skin into his navel. That, Vox thinks, is more skin he would ever get to see from Ike in a lifetime.
“Do you think— why, cat got your tongue?” Ike asks when he notices Vox’s stare. His voice has taken a softer, teasing lilt, and if not for his excellent sense of self-restraint, Vox thinks he might be feeling a lot more than simple inarticulateness.
No, Vox wants to say, you, my good novelist, have me wrapped up all around your little finger and you probably don’t even know. Or maybe he does — maybe he does know what he is doing to Vox. Ike always seems to know more than he lets on, and Vox wouldn’t be surprised to know that he is playing right into Ike’s puppeteering hands. But that has always been what they had — their relationship has always been a heated sort of push and pull, one chasing and the other receiving, never both at the same time. It’s a game that they’ve played for a while now, now that Ike’s initial hesitancy has loosened into something akin to interest.
“Vox?” Ike’s tone has shifted again, this time taking the subtle edge of concern, and Vox pulls himself out of his thoughts, attention snapping back to the man beside him.
“The fan,” Vox says intelligently, “is not agreeing with us today.”
“Yeah,” Ike replies, a little dryly. “I kn—" he cuts himself off when Vox tries his luck and brings his hand down on the back of the fan without warning.
The humming stops, and the blades, for some miraculous reason, sputter and whir to life.
Ike stares at the fan. “You’re telling me that this whole time, I could have just hit it?”
“Ike, I don’t think—" Vox doesn’t get to put much of a word in, because Ike’s palm is coming down hard on the fan, and the force of his hit sends the whole thing crashing down onto the floor. Pieces of plastic fly everywhere, and the fan releases a final, choking groan before it dies completely.
Now they are both staring at the fan.
“What the fuck was that?” Mysta looks out from the kitchen, and his curious features immediately morph into one of shock. “And you said I shouldn’t be allowed near it. Do I even want to know what happened?”
“No,” they both say in unison.
—
Luca and Shu, being the kind friends that they are, thankfully stopped by the nearest supermarket for ice cream, which Ike has in his fridge but not enough of.
The five of them are sitting through their third turn of what is perhaps, the most uncomfortable game of Mario Party when Vox notices Ike’s fingers hovering over the remaining buttons of his shirt.
Needless to say, Vox did poorly that game.