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When Mav had first painted the bathroom, he prided himself on how warm it felt. The overhead lighting that dimmed on command and cream colored rugs felt completed by the buttery-warm yellow of the bathroom walls.
It was Ice's idea, of course, and he loved to hold it over Mav's head.
"I love the yellow," he'd say in Mav's ear with his minty fresh breath while Mav flossed his teeth.
"I'm the one who painted it," Mav would complain, nudging Ice away with an elbow while Ice laughed.
Or sometimes, it happened while they were showering and Mav was working up a lather in Ice's head, tilted back in the hot steam.
"Man, I'm so glad we went with yellow for the bathroom walls," Ice would say, eyes on the butter-yellow ceiling that had almost thrown Mav's back out while painting. He wasn't twenty-seven anymore, after all. Mav would, of course, have no choice but to curl his fingers in Ice's hair and give him a yank backwards. Just one, as a warning.
Ice would let out a garbled sound of protest, then complain for the rest of the shower that he had water up his nose as Mav soothed him with slow, even circles in his hair.
So, the yellow bathroom was a source of both pride and joy for Maverick.
Now, Mav wakes up in the middle of the night from the sound of retching in the bathroom. He sits up, his brain still coming online from the slow, syrupy place it had been mere seconds before. He instinctually reaches to his left, feeling for the warmth beside him. He's met with emptiness instead.
"Tom?" Mav calls, his voice still rough from sleep and his eyes squinting through blurriness. There's no response other than another, miserable retch.
Mav presses his lips together tightly, sliding his feet to the floor and half-stumbling to the bathroom. Their yellow bathroom.
Ice's hands are clenching the sides of the toilet so hard that his knuckles have turned white and sweat has dampened his sleep shirt. His back is heaving, an attempt to draw in a breath, and his legs are shaking.
"Baby," Mav slides to his knees beside Ice, scooping his hands underneath Ice's armpits to take some of the weight making him tremble.
"Well hi, handsome," Ice gives Mav a poor excuse of a smile, really nothing more than gritted teeth.
"Hi," Mav responds softy, leaning in to press his nose to Ice's shoulder in a show of affection.
"You…" Ice trails off, leaning forward to spit a mouth full of bile into the toilet, "you come here often?"
Mav presses his face harder into Ice's shoulder for a brief second before pulling away, giving him the space to be sick.
"I'll come here as often as you want me to, honey," Mav responds. Ice wiggles his way out of Mav's grasp, leaning over the toilet to let out another long, heaving retch, coughing up nothing but bile.
"How about every night?" Ice responds after taking a moment to breathe through his nose, his voice raspy.
"Okay," Mav says softly, brushing his fingers through Ice's hair, buzzed short and thinning because of his treatment, and along his jaw, "I'll be here whenever you need me."
Ice nods, closing his eyes and leaning forward over the toilet. Mav rubs circles on his lower back, hoping to offer some kind of comfort.
Since Ice started his treatment, the bathroom feels less warm and buttery and more constricting and sickly. Mav looks away from Ice, but doesn't take his hand away or stop his gentle ministrations as Ice fights through the nausea. His hand circles and circles and circles and circles until, finally, it seems as though the nausea has passed.
Ice sits back, hands shaking, and hauls himself to his feet by the counter. Mav stands behind him, closes the toilet lid, and flushes. Before Ice can start his routine, splashing his face with cold water, rinsing his mouth, then brushing his teeth, Mav washes his hands and wedges Ice between himself and the sink.
"I got it, baby," Mav says. Ice nods slowly, closing his eyes and letting out a deep breath through his nose, sighing in relief.
Mav wets a wash cloth with cold water before pressing it gently to Ice's face. He starts with Ice's temples, beaded with sweat, then swipes along his cheekbones and nose. Ice still has some freckles from the heat of the summer. Mav leans in, unable to resist, to press a soft kiss to the tip of Ice's nose before moving on to his sharp jawline. Ice's mouth quirks in the beginnings of a smile, eyes still closed, tilting his head back so Mav can wipe down his neck as well.
"That's it," Mav says when he's finished, then quickly runs his nose along Ice's jawline before moving on to the next step. They keep a small glass on the counter that Mav fills with water, holding it out to Ice. Ice takes a sip, rinses his mouth, and spits into the sink, then repeats the motions two more times. Mav empties whatever's left from the cup into the sink.
"Do you wanna brush your teeth or should I?" Mav asks. Ice cracks one eye open, says nothing, then closes it again.
"Okay," Mav says, huffing out a laugh. He squeezes Ice's jaw gently, signaling for him to open his mouth, then begins brushing his teeth. Mav starts in the back and works his way forward. Right bottom, left bottom, right top, left top. Mav's not usually one to be meticulous, but there's no other word for how he brushes Ice's teeth.
When they've finished their routine, Mav guides Ice back to their bed. Ice slumps back into the pillows, exhausted. Mav stands above him for a second, watching, waiting. For what? He's not sure.
Without opening his eyes, Ice pats the right side of the bed beside him and rasps out, "Get over here."
Mav slips under the sheets and awkwardly crawls his way across the bed to Ice's side. He slides one arm under Ice and presses his head to Ice's chest, listening to the thu-thump of his heart. Solid, despite it all.
"Baby," Mav begins, waiting for Ice's questioning hmm? before continuing, "I think we need to change the color of the bathroom."
"Why?" Ice finally opens his eyes, dipping his chin down to look at where Mav is pressed against him, trying to crawl into his skin.
"I don't know. That yellow is starting to bother me," Mav turns his head further into Ice's chest, fully pushing his face into Ice's sternum.
"Do you have it in you to repaint the whole bathroom? At your age?" Ice teases him.
"I'm younger than you!" Mav protests to Ice's chest.
"I can't hear you, Pete," Ice sighs, using one hand to turn Mav's face out from his chest, tilting Mav's face up to his own.
"I'm younger than you," Mav repeats himself, looking into Ice's blue eyes, pupils wide in the dark. No matter how pained or disoriented he is, Ice's eyes are always sharp, intense. Mav loves his eyes.
"By what? Three years? That hardly counts," Ice gives him a half-smile.
Mav sighs, resting his face in Ice's hands, "I don't like the yellow, Tom. It's… I think we need something new."
"What color were you thinking?" Ice tilts his head at Mav, squeezing his chin.
There was a time when Ice would have done more than squeezing his chin. He would have yanked at Mav's hair, shaken his face, pinched and pulled at his cheeks, his shoulders. There was a time when Mav would have done the same: bit at Ice's neck, pulled his frost-tipped hair, squeezed his arms until they bruised. That time is over. They've aged, changed. Their relationship is so much more than a wrestle, a competition, a hook-up. Ice bruises more easily.
"Orange?" Mav offers.
"Orange." Ice repeats drily, "I hope you don't mean neon orange. Or Nemo orange."
"Have some faith," Mav complains, shaking his chin free of Ice's grip to seek comfort in his chest again. Mav puts his ear to Ice's chest this time, leaving his mouth free to talk.
"Faith isn't the issue here, knowing you is," Ice argues, "You're just the type of person to paint our bathroom some crazy, eyesore color."
"I'm your husband, can't you believe in me?" Mav insists.
"Fine," Ice leans forward to brush a kiss to Mav's hairline, "What shade of orange?"
"You know when we'd go out to the beach and walk for hours, past all the piers, until the sun went down?" Mav asks.
"Of course. You'd always forget to bring sandals and for weeks afterwards you'd complain that your running shoes were full of sand." Ice's voice is colored with amusement.
"The color of the sky," Mav continues, "The color of the sky when the sun went down, when the two of us were alone, together. That's what I'd paint our bathroom."
Ice is quiet. Mav listens for his response, but all he can hear is the thu-thump, thu-thump of his heart.
"Okay," Ice finally says into Mav's hair.
"Okay?" Mav repeats.
"Okay. When I'm past this, when my hair has grown back and my voice is stronger, you can paint the bathroom orange," Ice says.
Mav closes his eyes. He pictures their bathroom, no longer the yellow he's come to associate with Ice's sickness and coughing and vomiting into the toilet. He pictures the sunset they'd see when they walked together, the streaks of vibrant orange and pink and purple.
Once Ice is better, when his cancer is in remission and he sleeps through the night comfortably and he gains weight back to soften his jaw, they paint the bathroom together. Orange is in Mav's hair and streaked down Ice's arms and flecked all over their shoes. There are streaks of purple mixed into the orange above the shower and pinkish white clouds painted around the mirror above the sink.
And when Mav catches their reflections, older and happier and healthier, he finally feels at peace with their bathroom again, and he knows he's going to hold it over Ice for the rest of their lives.