Work Text:
The sink water sloshes lazily against chipped porcelain, swirling remnants of last night's jambalaya into greasy spirals. Tennessee's sleeves are rolled unevenly past his elbows, suds clinging to the dark hairs on his forearms as he scrubs a stubborn stain from their second-hand skillet. The scent of cumin still lingers in the kitchen, woven into the steam rising from the sink—spicy and warm like Frank’s laughter when he'd flung it into the pot earlier, boasting about his grandmother’s recipe.
The front door bangs open hard enough to make the pans on their wall hooks tremble. Tennessee doesn’t turn around. He knows the cadence of Frank’s boots padding on the floorboards—too heavy, uneven—and the way the winter air rushes in with him, xanthous streetlight slicing across the linoleum like something wounded.
"You're gonna freeze us out, baby," Tennessee murmurs, but the joke dies when he finally glances over his shoulder.
Frank stands haloed in the doorway, cigarette clamped between trembling fingers, smoke curling up past his red-rimmed eyes. His cheeks are flushed raw—not from December’s bite or the nicotine, but from the way his breath keeps hitching wetly between drags. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t have to. The whole terrible story spills out anyway in the quiver of his bottom lip, the damp shine on his lashes.
Tennessee exhales through his nose. His hands drip soapy water onto the floor as he stretches one out, palm up. "Come here. Hold my hand."
Frank shakes his head, ash scattering. "You’re—" His voice cracks. "You're washing the dishes."
"I can do both."
And maybe it’s the quiet certainty in Tennessee’s tone, or the way his fingers stay stubbornly outstretched, but Frank stumbles forward. Their palms slide together, damp and sticky with detergent, clinging like they’re afraid to let go. Frank presses his face into the crook of Tennessee’s arm, cigarette still smoldering near his hip. The wool of Tennessee’s sweater drinks up the saltwater as Frank shakes against him, smoke and cumin and the faint bergamot of his cologne tangling together.
Tennessee squeezes his hand, keeps scrubbing the skillet in slow circles. Lets Frank cry. Lets the cigarette burn down to the filter between them. Above the sink, the window fogs over with steam and breath, sealing them in their own tender, yellowed world.