Work Text:
The bathroom light buzzes like a dying insect, its flicker catching in the milk’s greasy film where it clings to Klaus’ clavicles. His arms drape over the tub’s edge, fingers dragging through the mess—curds clinging to his nails, whey dribbling between his knuckles. The air reeks. Not just sour, but complicated: fermenting lactose, burnt chemical residue, the musk of unwashed skin, and beneath it all, that unmistakable wet-cat stink, thick enough to coat the back of Diego’s tongue. Klaus tips his head back, exposing the pale stretch of his throat where his pulse flutters like a trapped bird.
“C’mon, Dee,” he slurs, milk dripping off his chin. “Live a little.” His grin is gummy, pupils swallowing irises whole.
Diego’s nose wrinkles, but he steps forward anyway, boots squeaking on the tacky tile. “You’re gonna get fucking sepsis,” he mutters, but his hand is already moving—rough fingers pressing into Klaus’ neck, counting beats that skip and stutter.
Klaus exhales, breath sour with nicotine and something medicinal, and Diego feels it against his wrist, damp and too warm. Then Klaus surges up, milk slopping over Diego’s thighs, fingers hooking in his dog tags. The kiss is wet, clumsy, Klaus’ tongue pushing past his teeth with a groan that vibrates between them. Diego should shove him off. Should leave. But Klaus tastes like spoiled cream and the cherry-flavored lip balm he stole from Allison’s vanity last week, and his hips tilt up, pressing slick skin against Diego’s belt buckle. The tub creaks. Milk sloshes onto the floor. Diego bites down—hard—and Klaus whimpers, arching, his heel slipping against porcelain. The sound he makes is high, broken, and Diego’s grip tightens, pulling him closer, closer, until the stench and the sweetness and the *Klaus* of it all drowns out everything else.
The bathtub’s clawed porcelain feet gleam under the flickering bathroom light, half-submerged in curdled milk gone grayish-yellow at the edges. Klaus lounges in it like some depraved Dionysus, fingers trailing through the viscous liquid separating into watery whey and lumpy solids. December air seeps through the cracked window, but he doesn’t shiver—not when the heroin humming through his veins turns his blood to warm honey.
"Smells like a fucking dairy truck crashed into a meth lab," Diego mutters from the doorway, sleeve already pressed to his nose.
The stench is unholy—sour milk fermentation cut through with the acrid reek of whatever Klaus smoked off tinfoil earlier. Underneath it all lingers the damp, fungal odor of a stray cat Klaus had tried (and failed) to dry off with a towel three days prior. Klaus grins, lazy and lopsided, milk dripping from his collarbones.
"Join me?" he slurs, wiggling fingers that leave greasy streaks on the bathtub rim.
Diego’s scowl doesn’t reach his eyes. He steps closer, combat boots sticking slightly to the milk-splattered tiles. "You’re disgusting," he says, but he crouches anyway, one hand braced on the tub’s edge to check Klaus’ pulse.
Calloused fingers press into the juncture of Klaus’ throat—warm, alive, thready but persistent. Klaus exhales a laugh that tastes like chemical burn and spoiled cream. Then, with the suddenness of a seizure, he lurches up, soaking Diego’s shirtfront, and drags him down by the dog tags into a kiss. Diego should recoil. Should shove him back into the rancid bathwater. But Klaus’ mouth is fever-hot and slack with intoxication, his tongue tracing the seam of Diego’s lips with a sweetness that doesn’t match the sourness clinging to his skin. Diego hesitates—just long enough for Klaus to whine high in his throat—and then he’s kissing back, rough and impatient, teeth catching Klaus’ lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Milk sloshes over the edge as Klaus arches, fingers tangled in Diego’s hair. The cat, watching balefully from the sink, flicks its tail and sneezes.