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[Tate's watching Marcus as he showers a bit, his eyes indeed following a few raised lines on his skin but not in any intrusive way. Much rather he looks at the scars like they're just another interesting part of him, nothing Tate hasn't really seen before. He's butchered and been butchered, blood and guts and little faded scars are nothing but signs of an interesting story to Tate. He looks up when he talks, hand raised to skim over the curve of Marcus' arm before he nods his head and turns around.

Facing away from Marcus, Tate feels the water run down his back and the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, arms hanging at his sides as he leans into the idea of letting Marcus take care of him for just a second. Just like the face Marcus made, Tate hasn't forgotten about the promise of a blowjob either - he'll have to get to that too, but first:]

Do you like any of your scars? Or hate any in particular?

[He asks absently, blinking away some water off his lashes.]

I don't hate mine even though I think I should.

[ Marcus has never done this for anyone before, obviously, but he assumes there's no real trick to it. He soaps Tate down, his touch careful and attentive, making sure every inch of Tate's back is tended to. Tate's question is kind of a heavy one, and he's not sure how to answer it, so he deflects, at first, lightly squeezing Tate's shoulder in the silence that leads up to his response, just to show that he's listening. ]

Why don't you hate yours?

[ And then - when Marcus figures out what he wants to say, he follows up without waiting for Tate to answer. ]

I like the ones I gave myself more than the ones I got from other people. The scar on my face gets people's attention, given that it's the most visible, but... I'm not the only kid out here with damage, so. Don't get questioned half as much here as I did back home.

I guess it's because I don't wear mine like most people do.

[That's an odd way to phrase it but he's not entirely sure how else to say it, so he lets that sit in the air for a moment as he digests what Marcus said to him just now. 'I like the ones I gave myself more than the ones I got from other people'. He thinks he can agree with that - might be why the only ones Tate 'wears' are the stripes on his wrist that he got when he was alive, young and depressed. He holds up his wrist, where those faint lines are somewhat visible in the afternoon light and thumbs them over.

He likes the feel of Marcus' hands on his back and tilts his head one way and then the other, shoulders relaxing a bit under the touch. He wants to lean back against him again, feel his weight behind him like he did when they were laying in bed together. He could really afford to just go back upstairs, lay down and sink into one another for a while. Maybe forever.]

A few of mine would give you a run for your money.

[ Tate might be speaking literally, rather than figuratively, thanks to his ghost powers... but Marcus takes that comment metaphorically, nodding as if it makes sense to him, however he's choosing to interpret it. His eyes flicker over Tate's wrist and he holds back any comment he might want to make, opting to instead smile sardonically and focus on the second half of their conversation. ]

I doubt it. The guy who gave me this one likes to fuck dogs.

[ Marcus clicks his tongue, cocking his thumb to the scar covering his eye before returning to washing Tate's back. One clean cut with a nice, long blade gave him that one. He's not sure what Tate means by a run for your money, exactly, but Marcus thinks his scars all tell some pretty dark stories. Between the suicide attempts, the needlebomb, the physical abuse... there's not really anything Tate's scars have on his, he thinks.

He finishes rinsing Tate's back, then steps selfishly back into the water, letting the heat run down his shoulders and flow down his spine. He stretches his arms, cracks his neck, then heads out from underneath the shower, searching out a towel and roughing his hair up with it when he finds it. He gets sick of Tate taking his time in the shower, apparently, because before too long, Marcus is hooking the towel around Tate's neck and trying to tug him inside. ]

C'mon. It's cold. I wanna go back to bed.

I like that one.

[Tate says after turning back around, half roped into leaving the flow of water by Marcus' needy demands. All of the soap's run off him after a quick wash, but Tate could've stood in there longer - and would've, if alone. He still has a dull ache of tiredness somewhere deep in his bones that'll take more than one night's sleep to banish but he does feel a great deal better than he did some twelve hours beforehand. He turns off the water taps with a squeak of the dials and rolls his eyes but follows Marcus, half-smile on his lips.

Pinching away the towel from Marcus' grip, Tate will use it to tousle his hair and cause the once stuck-down curls to bounce up again. The sliding door was left ajar and Tate'll head back through it, wet footprints left on the wood floor as he slowly makes his way to the stairs. He can't really make a lot of commentary about fucking dogs considering he's had a knot in his jaw but... he doesn't like knowing someone gave Marcus the scar, at least not now that they're... something.]

I like your scars, actually. All of them.

[One foot on the stairs, he nods for Marcus to head up first - he'll follow behind, if only to see if he'll let him see his ass.]

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