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Dave’s on stage. He just finished a verse and picks up a bottled water, taking a swig. The lights dim darker and other than the few shouts and whistles, the crowd quiets down . He goes over to the opposite side of the stage from you and someone hands him an acoustic guitar.
You can see everything from your side of the stage behind the curtains.
“My last song. Hope you don’t mind.. We’re gonna slow it down a bit.” He moves back to the center of the stage and starts to play.
It’s slow and intimate.
His fingers gracefully pass up and down, strumming the wires. You think, how could a wooden capsule hold such beautiful sounds . You find yourself unconsciously swaying from side to side as your body picks up the beat. Dave’s neck cranks upwards and his voice heightens. His brows furrow as his voice shakes for effect. He tried to teach you once. To sound like you're on the verge of tears as you sing. You didn’t do so good and you lost your voice for a week.
The chorus kicks in and he stops strumming. He reaches his hands to the mic stand, holding it tight, his mouth close to the microphone. The chorus is your favorite. It has a soothing rhythm, it makes your heart flutter, leaving you feeling light headed. Thankfully you're sitting so falling over shouldn't happen so easy. The crowd sings along.
The song is over before you know it, and Dave gives his goodbyes to the crowd. They continue to cheer and roar until he walks off the stage.
From the little light the stage lights project you see a thin layer of sweat graze his forehead. His mouth hangs open in a grin as he walks over to you on your the side of the stage. He has one hand holding the neck of his guitar and uses his free arm to loop its way around your waist, pulling you into a gross kiss. You huff against his embrace because kissing Dave all wet and sticky isn’t what you imagine to be hot. He pulls away, palming his sweat and rubbing it on your shirt. You squirm and he laughs. You hear someone call him over, and before leaving, he gives you a peck on the cheek.
He always gets like this after a show and personally, this was probably one of the best performances he’s had. Not that he’s had a lot either. Dave’s still starting out, but you can both tell that things are actually getting somewhere. After a show he gets more people handing him their business cards and giving contract spews; you can even see the fan base growing. It makes you so proud and you can only imagine how Dave must feel.
You pull out your phone to text him that you're heading for the hotel. He’s way too busy collecting all his gear and talking that you’d just be in the way. You aren’t too social but you're always trying to put yourself out there, even if it doesn't turn out how you like. But hey, its a stepping stone, right?
You make it out of the venue with your hoodie up and zipped tight. Tonights show was San Francisco, and though it’s way too cold for your liking, Dave absolutely loves it.
You remember where the hotel is and you're glad it’s close to the concert building because you really wouldn't want to spend your night out in the freezing cold getting lost in a city you can hardly maneuver in. You get to the hotel and its warm air embraces your body. You've both already checked in so you just head for the elevator to the 4th floor. You make it inside your room and don't even bother turning on the lights as you collapse onto the bed. You should probably take a shower or at least change into different clothes before sleeping, but you've been exhausted since the tour started and need some rest. You've overall enjoyed it though, and when Dave first invited you to come along you just couldn't say no.
How'd you land such a hot stud like him?
As the old tootsie pop commercial goes, “the world may never know”.
You have a mental battle with yourself and finally give in to at least change your shirt and take off your pants before passing out. You quickly pull off your clothes and grab a random shirt from your suitcase, then flopping back onto the mattress for some well deserved rest.
Your eyes drift open and it's the next day. Well, it's technically the same day; you did fall asleep at 2 in the morning. You feel a weight over your body and extreme heat pressed against your back. You adjust the blankets draped over yourself to turn your head.
His blond hair is placed perfectly over his eyes. Blending almost as well into his pale eyelashes. His cheeks are flushed just the slightest and his lips part slightly from his face being pressed against the pillows. His breath is even and small as his blankets rise and then fall. It's Dave.
He's back safe and sounds.
It would be a lie if you said you didn't worry about him. For his health and safety. Being out so late, being sleep deprived, not eating well, drinking too much-
A grunting noise comes from Dave’s throat as he stirs in sleep.
And so it’s times like these: waking up entangled next to him, his body relaxed and at peace, is what pulls you out of worried thought and back to him. You look over at the digital clock on the bedside table and it’s almost noon.
“Don’t get up.”
You’re startled, “Ah, did I wake you? Sorry.” You use a free hand to pull the blankets over both your shoulders under your chins. His eyes are half-lidded and his lips turn upwards in a drowsy smile.
“No, it’s fine.” He adjusts himself, grabbing your torso under the sheets and pulling you into his arms. He nuzzles his face into a space in your neck as his hair droops onto your skin. “Just don’t get up.” Breath warm on your body.
You marginally flush, “I-I won’t.”
You both stay like that for a while and you think he may have fallen asleep. White light seeps from the closed curtains as the clouds of the day have covered the sun in a foggy haze. It is SF afterall. The hotel doesn’t look too bad in the lighting. When you first checked in you and Dave mostly just left your baggings and headed out. And when you came back from the show you didn’t even turn the lights on. The room definitely isn’t a new place, but you can tell it’s well maintained. The wallpaper is peeling slightly at the edges of the walls and has owned its own yellow tint. The furniture is fairly basic: bed, armchair, tv, some tables. There’s a small bathroom, a closet, a heater. The simplicity of the room is somewhat peaceful and reminds you that you did good not booking an expensive 5 star hotel. And it’s quiet as you lay in the tranquility the room provides.
“What are you thinking about?”
Silence broken, slightly spooked again, “Dave, you have got to stop pretending to sleep.” You can feel him smile into your skin.
“So?”
“So what?”
“What are you thinking about?”
You pause, and reply in a low voice, “I’m thinking about you.” He snaps his head upwards from your neck to stare at you, messy hair draped over his emotionless poker face.
He just stares. “You fucking liar,” and then clunks his forehead onto yours, hands squeezing at your sides as you twist under his hold. You suppress the urge to laugh. Why are you so ticklish?
“Stop, stop, stop!” But you can’t help it. You’re about to burst into a laughing fit when he mercifully lets go of you and instead places his hands onto your face. He kisses you.
It’s soft, like the light enclosed in the room. His lips fumble over yours, warm, slightly chapped. Yours probably the same.
He pulls away, the small pressure of his mouth gone. Your eyes flicker open, (when did you close your eyes?) you don’t want it to stop. He pushes himself up from the mattress with his back, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. You make a noise in the back of your throat and reach for his arm, but he catches your wrist.
“It isn’t your last one, ya know.” He leans in to peck your lips again, “You’ll get more later,” he smirks, winking, while you flush. He gets up with a shaky stand. Then bending down and bringing his arms over his head, stretching.
“O-Okay.” You say dejectedly, deprived from smooches.
Mid-yawn he turns to you, “Come on. I want to go sight seeing. Do the usual tourist shit. Get dressed, babe.” With that, he heads to the bathroom not bothering to close the door. You hear the shower start. You best start getting dressed.