"I like that better anyway," Wash says, grinning as he imagines Taylor as a skinny gangly kid. It's kind of hilarious.

He just can't keep occupied with it when York is touching him, hands splaying out across his ribs, stomach, the muscles of his back. Dextrous hands. It's not surprising.

Wash hooks his thumbs into his sweats and pushes them down, underwear and all, and kicks them off to one side.