Work Text:
"I've never seen you tired."
Jan raises his head from his arms, shrugging his shoulders. He looks exhausted — it is strange, and alarming.
"Yeah, you have," he dismisses. He rests his chin in his hands, lips lifted in a tired smile.
In the mellow light of the apartment's kitchen, produced by a single bulb over the oven, his warm skin looks washed out. Jørn cannot remember a single time he looked anything less than tightly knit together, and while he is no haggard traveller now, he certainly seems disrupted,
"I'd remember," he insists. "You look beat. Tense."
Jan takes a sip of his water, perhaps a subconscious way to remind Jørn of just why he is like this. "I'll probably hit the sack when you head out," he says. He waits a moment, offers something in the subtext of his next words: "Unless you're gonna stay."
"Think I will," Jørn says. The silent agreement is made; mostly he wants to keep an eye on him. Some sentimental part of him thinks that his proximity and physicality might make Jan cheer up, that hands under shirts seeking warmth might bring him some in return. "You want a smoke?"
"Thought you'd never ask," he grins.
Jørn takes his pack and lighter from his shirt pocket and slides them across the small breakfast table. For such a party animal, Jan has never had much space in his apartment for guests.
Now, he's got no beer for them, either; Jørn has been invited to his home for the past two weeks because neither man trusts Jan to not sneak some in the night. Jan has not said it, but he's been the one asking Jørn over each time, and he thinks the man knows himself well enough to fear it, too.
There is something inherently demeaning in it — something Jørn would have to beg Jan to acknowledge, much less admit to him in a venting of emotions. He would rather fight than talk about his vices, and Jan is as pacifist as they come. Alcohol has always inverted him this way — always made Jørn's intelligent, tolerant, effortlessly confident best friend into someone else, and he is relieved that, at last, something gave him a change of heart.
Something he doesn't know, for Jan is far too private, but something he owes a lot to.
Jan blows the smoke over to Jørn, slides his lighter back to him and relaxes back into his chair. It creaks. He keeps the pack in front of him.
They both need to stop smoking, too.
"How's your girl?" Jan asks.
Jørn huffs a dry laugh. "We broke up," he lies.
"She broke up with you."
"If you want to be technical about it, sure."
Jan laughs. "Never change, Jørn," he says.
He kicks his foot under the table, sock against his sneaker. Jørn kicks back, and kicks back, and kicks back, until they are both laughing and his ankles hurt from where Jan has smacked him much too hard. The table squeaks across the floor loudly with the rustling and pushing on it.
Jørn springs up, comes around to get Jan in a headlock. It is weak and he wriggles him side to side, Jan's laughter broke only by a sudden yelp. He shoves his hands under Jørn's arms, grabbing his neck.
"Pulled a fucking muscle," he sputters. His face is scrunched up as he rubs the cramp out.
"Shit, man, you are tense," Jørn says, loosening his hold but letting his arms rest on Jan's shoulders.
He can smell his hair, the scent of his shampoo. Maybe it's this intimate detail that guides his hands to cover Jan's, brushing them away and replacing them with his own. He lets it happen — is probably amused by where Jørn might be going with this. Truthfully, he himself doesn't know, fumbling with idly rubbing his neck until the urge to press his thumbs into the back of its base takes him. Jan sighs.
"Dig 'em in," he says.
Jørn snorts, and he hears him laugh softly. His grip is firm, hands splayed over the ridge of Jan's shoulders and his thumbs grind circles into his neck. He focuses in on any muscles that resist his touch, Jan grunting and exhaling long and low each time. He's never gotten a good look at the back of his neck, not with all that hair — his tank top is cut low and he notices dark brown freckles all over his skin like spring.
He drags his fingertips across the breadth of his shoulders, pushing around his tank top sleeves in the process and rustling his shirt. Jørn intends to stop there, but Jan groans impatiently when he rests his hands besides his neck.
Drawing a hand up his hair, he finds the edge of the white bandana wrapped around his head and tugs Jan's head back. "What, you really want more?" Jørn asks.
"Feels nice," Jan says. His stretched throat bobs with the words. "Why not? You started it."
"Alright, faggot, don't get defensive."
Jan snorts. Jørn says the slur as if to defend himself from how nice Jan's eyes look at this angle, gazing up at him, wide and brown; the youthful fat on his cheeks seems to fade a little, showing his still youthful face shape.
He looks so innocent for such a damn bastard.
He lets the bandana go, returns to idly rubbing his shoulders, pinching his neck in that generic way all fumbling masseurs do. He isn't too sure how to give a good massage; he doubts Jan cares much, as long as someone's hands are on his body. Whore, Jørn thinks, far too affectionately, running his hands up the sides of his neck, feeling the rumble of a pleased purr.
After he has more or less kneaded his shoulders and upper arms — he has trouble differentiating the hard muscles and tension knots — Jan tilts his head back to look up at him. Jørn takes the opportunity to drag his fingers over the muscles of it, to rub circles under his ears.
"You should do this more often," he says.
Spurred by the praise, Jørn leans down to kiss his forehead. Such gentle flirtations are not something they parttake in — but Jan accepts it, smiles lazily at it.
"You oughtta let your tired show more, then," he says. "You keep going and going, and then you crash." Feeling too motherly, he adds: "Dumbass."
Jan rolls his eyes into closing. "Yeah, yeah," he says, and sighs as Jørn presses his back flat to the chair and focuses his fingers under his collarbones. The apple of his throat bobs; he grows closer to his chest and his lips part.
"Stop being weird," Jørn scolds. Jan laughs.
"Oh, please. You'd be moaning over this."
"The fuck I would!"
"Hardly even have to touch you and you start wriggling," Jan says. "You're like a... horny worm."
The silence hangs.
"That was fucking stupid," Jørn laughs suddenly, a snort catching in his nose that makes them both snicker. Jan moves to snap his teeth at his hand, and Jørn smacks his jaw lightly. His head falls back on the back of the chair as if he slapped him, crown of his hair pressed to Jørn's stomach. "Never say that again."
"Give me a reason to, and I will."
"Yeah, yeah," Jørn mocks.