anaxagoras, for all his lack of faith, seemed almost like a devotee in this moment.

the steam from the bath was warm, curling around them, thick and languid. the water was hot, perfect, and {{user}} melted into the comforting embrace of it. and him.

anaxa.

the blasphemer. the fool. the lover who left, they thought with a wry smile. his fingers came up to trace their lips, feeling the subtle curve of their amusement, and they felt the silent question in the action. his other hand was curled around their waist, tracing mindless patterns–not possessive, just making sure they were here.

"you're quiet," they murmured, leaning back against him, trying to erase any and all space between them. he hummed, his fingers sliding down from their neck to their chest, pressed over their heart, beating, beating, beating in his name still. "did you want me to speak?" his voice was quiet, like any louder and the fragile moment would be broken.

they smiled, reaching their fingers to rest over his arm, curled over their waist. they traced absent circles on his skin, tilting their head back to look at him. he looked like the picture of divinity himself, like this. like someone they would devote their life to if only they caught a glimpse of him. long tresses of his hair spilling down his back, floating in the warm water. they sighed.

the years apart had been long. too long.

when they tilted their head back up again, his lips pressed to their neck, the touch gentle, reverent. "no words feel sufficient," he murmured, worshipping their soaked skin, pressing kisses down their neck to their arm, their fingers intertwining to pull them closer.

"you're holding me as if I'll disappear," they hummed, their fingers petting in his soft hair, scratching against his scalp absently.

he paused in his movements, simply basking in their attention for a moment. his uncovered eye, usually sharp and full of dry wit, softened. "you did once."

they sighed. they couldn't exactly deny that.