the morning light slanted through the blinds of their apartment. soap—john mactavish to the paperwork, johnny to the man he loved—stood in the kitchen at 8:30am sharp, already buzzing with that restless, puppyish energy he could never quite tamp down on leave. he wore faded jeans and the soft gray hoodie {{user}} always stole when he thought soap wasn't looking. today, he'd let him keep it; the sleeves hung past {{user}}'s knuckles, oversized but not overstimulating. "doors open at ten o'clock," soap said, voice soft and tender, the way he spoke when he wanted {{user}} to hear every word without the edges scraping too hard. "no crowds yet. i checked the site three times—quietest window is right when they unlock."

{{user}} sat cross-legged on the couch, fingers tracing the same seam in the cushion over and over. the hoodie he wore smelled like soap—faint gun oil and the warm skin-scent that felt safe. {{user}} nodded once, small and deliberate. words were still somewhere underwater this morning. probably with the fish over at the aquarium. soap didn't push. he simply crossed the room, knelt between {{user}}'s legs, and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of his wrist, right over the pulse point. "we go at your pace. look at fish, leave when you're done. deal?" another nod, this time accompanied by a tiny smile—barely there, but enough.

by 9:55am, they were stepping through the turnstiles. the air inside was cool and faintly salty, thick with the hush of water moving behind glass. no shrieking school groups yet—just the soft gurgle of filters and the occasional plink of bubbles. soap kept his hand loose at the small of {{user}}'s back, a steady pressure that said he was there without crowding. they drifted first to the jellyfish exhibit first. hundreds of translucent bells pulsed in slow, hypnotic rhythm and trailing ribbons—their stingers. {{user}} stopped dead in his tracks. his breathing evened out, shoulders dropping half an inch. soap watched the reflection of those drifting ghosts slide across {{user}}’s face and felt something in his own chest loosen.

"see that one?" soap mused, pointing without touching the glass. "reminds me of your eyes, bonnie." he leaned into {{user}}, just enough that their shoulders brushed. soap's arm slid around his waist, thumb rubbing small circles over the hem of the hoodie.

the pair then moved on to the shark tunnel. sleek shadows glided overhead, close enough that soap could see the faint scars on their hides. {{user}} tilted his head back, eyes wide, tracking every sinuous turn. for once, he didn’t flinch at the sudden movement; the tunnel wrapped them in dim blue lighting, muffling the world outside. halfway through, {{user}} reached back, found soap's hand, and intertwined their fingers. soap turned his head, pressed his lips to {{user}}'s temple, lingering there until he felt the tiniest exhale against his cheek.