Page 72 of Ship Happens

Jacob visibly relaxes under Owen’s touch, his head falling between Owen’s thighs, so dangerously comfortable as he lets Owen wield his brush. Owen is careful, not wanting to pull at anything. He works a handful of the knots out, the more stubborn ones requiring a bit of force that leaves Jacob hissing. By the time Superman is reversing the rotation of the Earth to save Lois Lane, Owen’s got a small pile of Jacob’s hair laid out on the coffee table.

“What’s that?” Jacob asks as Owen reaches for a pink bottle.

“Something that’ll help prevent knots in the future,” Owen scolds. “You need a haircut.”

“I know, I know,” Jacob tells him. “I just haven’t had the time. Been busy.”

Owen hums as he moves the dropper all along Jacob’s scalp, setting the bottle aside to massage the serum into the roots. Jacob’s head lifts, relaxing under Owen’s touch, rocking back and forth subtly enough that Owen can’t be sure if Jacob’s even aware he’s doing it.

These sorts of nights were a common occurrence once.

Typically, it’d begin with Owen cleaning his nails in the living room while he did hair and face masks. Eventually Jacob got curious about all the things Owen did. It hardly took any convincing at all for Jacob to let Owen slather his face with a volcanic pore mask while doing a number on Jacob’s worn cuticles, clipping hangnails and applying oils to help smooth the skin around his nailbeds.

“How does that feel?” Owen asks him, rubbing his fingers deep into Jacob’s scalp.

“So nice . . .” He can hear the smile in Jacob’s voice as he begins to massage a touch harder, the serum long absorbed.

Now he’s just doing it for his own satisfaction.

“Hand me that.” Owen motions to the small blue tub, meant to help rehydrate. Owen and Jacob don’t have the same hair texture; where Owen’s curls are far looser, a bit wavier, Jacob’s are tighter, unrulier, especially when grown out.

“Smells good,” Jacob says as Owen begins to apply the mask carefully, starting at Jacob’s roots before he spreads it.

“It helps me a lot with dryness.”

“And I’m guessing that’s an issue you deal with a lot?” Jacob’s tone is playful.

“All right,” Owen grumbles. “Who just spent the better part of an hour working out the pile of knots in your hair?”

“Ow! Okay, okay!” Jacob winces as Owen digs into his scalp. “How long did it take you to get that blond?”

“Almost all day,” Owen admits.

“All day?” Jacob exclaims. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” Owen says plainly. “We tried to do it with a box kit, but it was a mess. Took them hours at the salon to fix it.” He’d even ordered dinner for himself and the stylist.

“Hmm . . .” Jacob hums, his attention seeming to wander to the tattoos on Owen’s calf. “Is that one new?”

Owen nods. “That was the first one I got after we broke up, actually,” he says, eyeing the cowboy riding a bull that sits where Jacob stares. He tries his best to say the words calmly, like they’re normal.

“How many more have you gotten since?” Jacob asks.

Owen has to think for a moment. “Fourteen? Fifteen, maybe?” It comes out as more of a question than he means for it to.

Jacob lets out a low whistle. “Things got that bad, huh?” He means the words as a joke, but Owen can’t deny the sting he feels. Then again, maybe talking about the breakup is how they find this supposed middle ground.

“This one is new too,” Jacob says, pointing to the can of sardines on Owen’s other calf, and the mozzarella stick on his knee that he spent an hour lining up properly to get the right cheese-pulling effect when his knee is extended.

“You’ll like this one.” Owen beams proudly as he lifts his sweatshirt.

“Mechagodzilla!” Jacob exclaims as he turns to get a better look at Owen as he shows off the robotic kaiju. It’s been rendered down to just a few inches so it can fit next to his ribs.

Jacob leans closer. “Did it hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Owen cringes as he recalls the pain, Conor forcing several breaks during the session. The shading of the metal and the explosion had done a number on him.

“I don’t know how you do it.” Jacob shakes his head. “My chest was bad enough.”