Work Text:
Having the ability to bathe more than once a week was still a novel to Thorfinn, and especially having the ability to bathe more than once a week alone. Bathing, to Thorfinn, happened on Saturdays, and was always filled with freezing water from the nearest natural source; be it from a stream, a river, or a lake. Sometimes even the sea, though the salt did weird things to his hair. Maybe that was why that, tonight, he’d been dragged to Canute’s private quarters by the prince himself and forced to sit in what had to be the largest wooden tub he’d ever seen.
Thorfinn wasn’t a stranger to being unclothed around other men (he lived with a band of vikingr after all, it was hard to find moments alone when they had to stay in a group), but there was something about being nude around Canute that still made him feel… shy.
Canute himself was sat up on his knees in the tingly-warm water behind him, his soft stomach pressed against Thorfinn’s back and one of his too-fancy combs in his hair. The thing was embossed with metal filigree for fucks sake. Thorfinn had grumbled about it being a waste of material, but Canute had rolled his eyes and pushed at a shoulder to turn him back around. He had to admit though, having his hair brushed by someone else felt nice. Thorfinn hadn’t had this done for him in a very long time, not since--
No, he thought, keep that memory where it belongs- in its box, never to be opened. Canute had managed to wiggle his way under most of Thorfinn’s walls so far, but that one will stay fortified, just for a while longer.
A stream of water running down his neck and shoulders interrupted his oncoming inner storm, washing it away as easy as leaves in a brook. He sighed, eyes closed and chin tilted down toward his chest, as Canute’s hands followed the rivulets down his shoulder blades.
“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”
The smile on Canute’s face was evident in his voice, soft and sweet, like the atmosphere in the room.
“Don’t push your luck, princess.” Thorfinn grunted in response, though there was no roughness in his words. He was in too much of a good mood for that tonight. He felt boneless, malleable like fresh dough left to rise. He leaned back just a little when Canute’s skinny arms found their way around his middle, one warm cheek pressed against a wet shoulder and delicate hands resting over his sternum.
“I missed you. Its… it doesn’t feel right. I don’t feel right. Without you here with me.”
There’s a silence then, for a while; a comfortable yet weighted pause. Like with every confession or gentle word that came out of the prince’s mouth, Thorfinn feels something small and hidden inside him shift. Like a river stone rolling over, exposing it’s wet side to the sun.
(Sometimes, when they’re laying together and Canute is asleep, that stone feels as heavy as a boulder in his chest, big enough to push out hallowed words that he hasn’t got a clue about how to say with the grace they deserve. He chokes them down instead, pushes against the boulder until its a sizzling stone deep in his belly once more, though its presence is never forgotten.)
Thorfinn wants to say something in return, but he’s never once confessed for anything in his life and he doesn’t know where to start, so he turns his head to rest it against Canute’s hair.
“Careful now, don’t get all soft on me. You’re a king, aren’t you?”
He can feel Canute’s smile against his skin, and the quiet laugh shaking his chest. “I’m not your king, remember? You were the one who said as much.”
“Yeah, Icelandic heathen n’all that.” Another comfortable silence, and he lets his head roll forward once more, his back against the warm body behind him.
“Missed you too.”