It was strange, at first. Having Quenton by his side and close like a tick on a dog (though admittedly the pale blond was more appreciated by Colin than a dog appreciated a tick). He’d not quite understood just how committed the artist was to ‘unstupiding’ him, even though his friend had come by his workspace just to inform him an intervention was to be had.
Things had gone as well as can be expected initially, with dinner going quite well as the pair worked in tandem to make and then enjoy their meal, and if Quenton kept giving him sharp looks when he started to even think of saying he was done before the man felt he should be...well, that was only to be expected. Colin was too thin and disinclined to give his body enough fuel to not cannibalize itself to keep running. No, that wasn’t any real problem, or even unexpected; the first real point of contention came when Colin announced he would be showering before bed.
Quenton insisted on joining him. Co-showering, he called it. Colin had tried to dissuade his tall friend from entering the bathroom with him - he hadn’t seen the need for them to take a shower at the same time and while he’d taken many before with other people, it had usually been because he was sleeping with them.
Unfortunately for Colin, Quenton hadn’t been about to back down on any of the things he deemed necessary - including co-showers and co-sleeping. He’d simply focused those flame coloured eyes on Colin and given the danseur one of his looks that said plainly he was certain Colin was smart enough to realize arguing would not do him any good. It took very little time under Quenton’s steady, disapproving gaze before the curly-haired blond caved in as gracefully as his friend would allow.
Nudity wasn’t an issue between them, so it wasn’t that which caused Colin to hesitate and hedge...it was being treated like a small child, errant and incapable of doing things for himself. Which, considering the really awful decisions he’d been making as of late, Quenton had right to treat him as though this were true. It rankled and made the blond want to yank at his hair or behave mulishly, which would have only further supported his friend’s theory that Colin could not take care of himself properly. And really, it wasn’t bad with the artist joining him; especially not once they were under the heated spray of water; Quenton’s strong hands, used to working with harder mediums than silky curls, worked shampoo to lather in Colin’s hair, conditioned it, and then helped scrub the ballerino down. Being given such intimate-yet-platonic attention was really nice after everything, and if he’d gotten a little damp-eyed at feeling cared for, well, they were in the shower - he’d had an excuse.
Quenton hadn’t seemed to expect reciprocity, but the danseur insisted with a smile. Deft hands handled the artist’s long hair with an ease born of familiarity. Colin’s thoughts had been simple at the time, focusing mostly on the present rather than the past. His hair is long, but not nearly so long as Björn’s...it’s easier to handle. Having Colin help to wash his hair and scrub his broad back were both things that were allowed, but Mr. Resting Serial Killer Face kept everything as platonic and asexual as possible. He was not doing this to encourage Colin to take temporary succor in using sex to ignore his problems, he was doing this to try and help his idiotic friend relearn how to be a person.
One that took care of themselves. Like a reasonable, rational adult.
Sleeping arrangements had been something unexpected as well, but he’d fallen into line on that with enthusiasm. Bedding removed from mattress and closet to make a cushy pallet on the living room floor, coffee table pushed to one side to facilitate the space. Couch cushions and pillows were used to make it more comfortable to sit and peruse the internet on his laptop - or, in Quenton’s case, to read about 16th century polyphony. When it came time to actually sleep, the danseur ended up curled half on Quenton’s chest and fell asleep that night to the sound of his friend’s heart beating steady and the feel of strong hands smoothing over his bared back.
Colin slept fairly well. Quenton, however, discovered quickly that not only did his sunshiney friend fairly crackle with excess energy during the day, but he was like a space heater at night.
He also drooled and clung like a limpet, things that the owner of the Cat Cafe would come to know intimately over the next few weeks as he worked tirelessly to unstupid Colin Hargrove with emotional support via rebuilding good personal habits and much physical affection that wasn’t ********. Slowly, it began to show effect, though how long it would continue after the purveyor of felines and tea ceased babysitting was anyone’s guess - at the very least, a great many things came of it: photos uploaded to social media (including several with Quenton making what others claimed were ’murder faces’ at the camera but that Colin insisted held emotion other than ‘I’m going to kill you’), the danseur’s mood improving dramatically, a shift back to using a proper bed, many sketches of Colin in motion (he was always in motion and it drove Quenton crazy), and Quenton being used as a ballerina stand in even though the man had very little rhythm and was very much like an awkward duck when it came to dancing at all.
The hardest part for Quenton seemed to be discovering that Colin was in fact, never still. Several times when they were back to back of an evening, Quenton would tug one of the danseur’s headphones out to request that he cease wiggling to the music. Colin always tried, but eventually a twitching of the fingers would become a full-hand movement would become full on wiggling.
Eventually the scarred Marinii would spend less time co-habitating with Colin, but for the moment...this was his life.
There were certainly worse scenarios.
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