Anson
"Oh good," Bastian said, leaning over Anson's chair to pluck the book out of his hands, "you're not doing anything. Come on, get showered and dressed. Actually," he added, tossing the book onto the table and pressing his face into the crook of Anson's neck. He breathed against his skin. "Hm, no, skip the shower--where we're going, it'll play in your favor."
He pulled back, dropping his bag on the floor and whipping off his shirt in one lithe, easy gesture. "I brought clothes for both of us."