Joey stares at the ceiling, unseeing, as muted laughter echoes from the mint green tiles. What sounds like a drunken, muffed shout rips through the room; then, a cacophony of hysterical giggles.
He exhales slowly, the smoke billowing lazily towards the ceiling in the semi-darkness as his head lolls back.
“Fucking cheerleaders.”
The low grumble lacks any heat, and honestly, getting angry sounds like far too much trouble anyway right now. His skin prickles where milky water ripples against his chest periodically, perfectly in time with the excruciating techno playlist blaring on the first floor.
He lets himself slip a little lower with a sigh.
Fuck, he loves this shitty little bathroom. If it weren’t for those six square meters of pure bliss, tiny tub and even tinier skylight directly above and all, he’d have surely dropped out already. As it is, the fancy little milk-and-honey bath oils Jean got him for Christmas make him feel like he’s floating on goddamn air, so he really can't be bothered with thinking about classes or work.
Not that he’ll ever tell her that.
He sighs lowly - entirely too relaxed and boneless and not really giving a fuck because the warm liquid feels so incredibly nice against his body. His fingers are already starting to prune, but the silky feeling of his tight skin smoothening slowly as he soaks is too alluring to get out just yet.
Instead, he takes another deep drag, feeling the warmth spreading down to his toes before letting his hand drop away over the edge of the tub. If the smoldering tip scatters ashes everywhere across the tiled floor, he’ll just rinse it down later.
He absentmindedly lifts his calf from the murky water and onto the rim to mitigate the heat slowly rising within him. The weak moonlight hits layers upon layers of black ink, and he’s vaguely thinking about getting his leg sleeves touched up soon, hand halfway to his mouth to take another drag.
At least, until the door gets thrown open.
It’s probably a testament to how incredibly stoned he already is, perhaps he shouldn’t have lit that second bowl after all, but who gives a fuck. Joey just turns his head to the silhouette suddenly standing in his doorway, uncomprehending.
The dim lights from where he left his bedside lamp turned on momentarily flood the bathroom and make him squint. Then, the door is pulled shut with a tiny little click that sounds too loud even with the thudding white noise from the first floor.
His eyebrows raise to his hairline.
What the actual fuck...?
The other person isn’t too tall as far as he can tell in the returning darkness, but he’s pretty sure it’s a guy. His hair looks dark, maybe black, and ruffled, and the mess is made even worse when a hand reaches up to agitatedly run through it with a low, deep sigh.
He doesn't seem to notice he isn't alone, and that's just as well, considering Joey's a few feet away with his junk more or less out.
He should probably say something, but he can't imagine addressing the guy out of the blue will go over all that well, and he can't really be bothered to move right now either way.
Besides, if he's being completely honest, Joey can't quite help but stare, and all thoughts of handling the situation flee his quickly emptying head as he notices the dark circles under the other man's eyes, a dark contrast to his fair skin, and the way it accentuates his high cheekbones and sharp chin?
Even in the shitty light, Joey's deeply, truly stoned self is sure he's never seen a more beautiful person before.
And it's not just his face, no. His shoulders seem broad and strong, but the outline of his waist looks absolutely tiny as his arms lift.
