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“Ian?” John murmurs, fingers brushing over a joint.
He’s been dancing around this for the longest time, and frankly it’s overdue. Ian looks over with those sinful brown eyes, red-rimmed from the weed and slow with sleep. He looks incredible in a way that makes John just want to gawk at him for the rest of time.
His response is lazy, slurred over his pretty lips and tongue. He bats his lashes like he doesn’t even know how incredible he looks, smoke tumbling elegantly from his mouth. “Yeah?”
“Why won’t you let me see you?” John pinches his brows together, shoulders tense despite the floaty high. He takes another drag, then another, trying to soothe himself. “Naked, like. Shirtless. Whatever. ‘S nothin’ new, is it?”
At first, he’d understood Ian’s apprehension. Before he’d told him. But he’s had his hands down Ian’s pants a few times since, and still never seen him take his shirt off. It’s starting to bother him, in a very selfish and silly way. It’s not like he feels entitled, because he’s not that stupid—but he sort of does. Ian made him take his shirt off practically the first time they’d snogged, and it feels unfair in his head.
Ian wrinkles his nose, looking at John like he’s trying to see if he’s serious or not. Shakes his head and looks away. “You know why, John.”
“Feels like an excuse.” John murmurs, a little butthurt. Begrudgingly hands the joint back over. “You’ve seen me topless. ‘S not like I don’t know what to expect.”
Ian grumbles a bit, but his face softens. He knows John won’t judge him, he does, but it’s still frightening. Nobody but his mum and his da have seen him shirtless—not ever.
“C’mon, Ian.” John pleads, tugging Ian towards him. Ian pretends he’s annoyed, but he folds into John’s lap, thighs on either side of his.
John smooths his hands along Ian’s waist, mapping the curve from his ribs to hips. He brushes his just too long hair back from where it tickles his shoulders, and kisses his cheek. “Don’t have to. Just don’t get you sometimes.”
“Give me a sec.” Ian pinches his brows together, puffs at the joint lazily despite the fact he already looks stoned out of his mind. Stubs it out in the cracked, stolen ashtray on John’s bedside table.
Then he sits back on John’s thighs, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt. It’s some old paint-splattered shirt he nicked off John’s bedroom floor a long time ago that was once navy blue but now is an accidental Pollock artwork. He tugs it up over his head, brain too cloudy to even feel embarrassed.
John’s hands are all over him instantly, big and calloused and warm.
Ian’s gorgeous. A smile tugs instantly at John's lips because he can’t believe his luck. He traces his thumbs slowly down the narrow slope of Ian’s shoulders, then down his arms. Drags a slow palm over the soft skin of his belly, causing Ian to giggle.
“So fuckin’ gorgeous.” John breathes, his grin shining through into his words. Ian grumbles, but he’s clearly very pleased with it all.
“Don’t look like a lad, though.” Ian huffs, eyes drifting over the shabbily stuck medical tape on his chest.
John sighs, shaking his head. He runs a thumb along the border of the tape, even when Ian tries to push his wrist back. Leans in to kiss the sharp angle of his cheekbone, just where his hair curled over it.
“Yeah, you do. Yer fuckin’ gorgeous, Ian.” John manages after a moment of thought, of forming the words in his head. Squeezes his hip, then gives it a little rub. “Don’t get that idea in your head. Not even I would’ve been able to tell that you’re not.. y'know."
Ian lets out a displeased, albeit not upset, huff and tucks himself into John’s shoulder. Melts when he cradles him close, fingers splayed wide on his shoulder blades. John holds him like he means something—like he means everything. He could never get enough of that.
John shifts a bit, hands holding Ian steady on him. Brushes his lips against his temple. “M’glad you let me see you, y’know.”
Ian lets out a soft, breathy chuckle and shakes his head. Nuzzles into John’s neck and presses a fluttery kiss there. “Yeah, well. Owe me summat now, don’t you?”