"Stop scowling," John demanded. "You'll get wrinkles."

"I'm not scowling," Ginger sneered, a little miffed.

"Your pinched face says otherwise," John said. "You even have a wrinkle on your nose."

John was right; Ginger was scowling. But not for the reasons John probably thought. At the moment, the two men were standing in the laundry room of the hotel that the band were staying in. They each held a large tub full of dirty clothes, and not just theirs, but also the other band members as well. It was gross.

Doing the laundry wasn't part of their job, but after the main laundry guy had lost one of Manson's shirts, the guy was promptly fired on the spot. Thus, Manson dubbed Ginger with laundry duty, saying he was the only competent man for the job. John was only with him because he had volunteered to help, citing that two pairs of hands were better than one. Bless his little heart.

As for why they were standing around instead of doing the laundry? Well, it was because of two old ladies who were doing their laundry at a delicate, snail pace. Being the gentlemen they were, they let the two birds fulfil their task — even though they were taking their sweet-ass time and seemed to be oblivious of their presence.

So it was understandable why John would mistake his scowl as a result of his annoyance towards the business at hand. In all actuality, Ginger was scowling because he had a bothersome itch on his nose that he couldn't scratch. He had no way of relieving it, his hands were full, and it would be uncouth of him to rub his nose against something. So he settled for surreptitiously sniffing, but that was about as helpful as a flower in a room full of skunks. And so he scowled.

Damn it.

"My nose is itchy," he finally explained. His nose took that moment to itch with burning agitation, and Ginger snorted loudly in a futile attempt to relieve it. Politeness be damned.

John looked at him, half scandalized and half amused. "Oh," he said. "I see. Ha."

Ginger grunted, not at all amused. They stood in silence, the only sounds being the rustling of clothes and soft chitter-chatters from the two old ladies. But then—

"Would you like some help with that?" John asked casually.

"What?" Ginger all but barked. His nose twitched.

"Here," John said, turning to him. "Let me just..."

He leaned in. His face was coming close to his own. Ginger automatically closed his eyes and then — Oh, god, that felt so good. John was rubbing his nose against Ginger's, relieving him of the Devil that was the itch. It was heavenly, and it felt so orgasmic in a way that Ginger couldn't help but purr.

He purred. He actually fucking purred like a fucking cat.

Mortified, Ginger popped his eyes open in time to see John pull back. He was sporting a massive blush; it was a miracle that his head didn't burst from all the flush. Ginger felt the same.

Very shyly, John coughed and asked, "Better?"

Ginger was pretty sure that he portrayed the image of his namesake. Eyes wide, mouth opening and closing, and he was undoubtedly sporting a mad blush as well. Despite this, he attempted to play it cool.

"Yeah," Ginger said with feigned nonchalance, then added, "Thanks."

From the corner of his eye, Ginger saw John smile.