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'Shit, guys, I think I cut myself,' Pete says, standing like a distorted antique statue. Tall, thin, and white. He holds a dirty can opener in his right hand. His left arm is raised arrogantly above his head, bent at the elbow. A thin scarlet thread runs down his forearm, trickling down his elbow and dripping onto his T-shirt.
John, Keith, and Roger stand in the ghostly smoke, watching.
'Mate, you've got blood here,' Keith says, after a brief hesitation, raising his left hand and casually pointing at it, as if to say, 'Look, right here.' Pete lazily turns his pinkish gaze to the shaggy drummer. John and Roger watch, silently lighting a joint.
'Yeah, Bone, and you know it's not safe, you could get blood poisoning or something. You could get something from a can opener, like microscopic UFO spawn or something.'
'Yeah, thanks, Keith,' Pete chuckles, looking at his bleeding hand with interest, as if it had nothing to do with him.
'This needs to be washed,' a thought begins to form in Roger's dazed and confused mind. His broad, bronze hand pulls Pete along, so fragile and raw. The door creaks, heels click on the tiles, a cough in the damp air of the bathroom. Leaning his angular back against the mirror, Pete peacefully watched Roger rummage through the cabinet, his strong hands prowling between the shelves, his golden brows furrowing. 'Found it.'
Pete's pale and sore hand was in Roger's tanned and healthy ones. With his calloused, working fingers, Daltrey carefully cleaned the cut. The peroxide hissed and foamed on Townshend's hand, like the waves of a bloody sea. The weed had dulled Pete's reflexes, and he felt nothing. A strange smile played on his thin, scarlet lips as Roger so carefully tended to the cut and bandaged it.
'Well, I think it's done.' Daltrey let go of the guitarist's long arm and looked up. 'Oh, your shirt's stained.'
Pete looked at it in confusion: indeed, there was a stain here and there. Throwing his healthy right hand behind his back, he pulled off his T-shirt and crumpled it.
'Oh.'
Pete's shoulders were slender and chiseled. Roger rested his hands on them. Smooth.
'You know, I think you have a drop of blood on your chin,' Roger whispered. They were so close that there was no need to speak louder. Daltrey gently wiped the blood away with his finger. 'Oh, and here too,' he cooed, referring to Townshend's mouth. He leaned forward and wiped away a drop of blood with his lips. Pete liked the way Roger kissed him. Softly and without fuss, as if it were a normal act for a guy.
They held eye contact with their clouded eyes, simply touching each other's faces and hair. Smiling tenderly.
'How's your hand?' Daltrey asked so quietly that Pete was more likely reading his lips than actually hearing the question.
He answered no louder: 'It's okay.'
Daltrey carefully raised the bandaged hand to his lips and silently kissed it. His eyelashes tickle the back of the guitarist's hand.
'Time to get back to the guys.'