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The adrenaline thins out, and consciousness finally seeps back into Head’s mind. The realization of the warm dampness and heat curling in his gut, when he comes close and grips his stomach, barely registers at first.
The metallic scent of the set, fresh and hot, could have shifted with a single touch. He could barely keep playing with Fred on top of him, the frat weighed a ton, but even so he was completely captivated by the singer. A low, vibrating growl forms in his throat before Fred grabs him and throws him down onto the stage like it’s a boxing match, yanking at his leg. And still, Head keeps that teasing, defiant attitude, trying clearly without success to fight back, the stolen microphone clutched in his hand, propped up on his elbows.
When their eyes lock, he laughs like they’re the only two people there, playing around as if they’d known each other their entire lives.
Their first meeting hadn’t exactly been welcoming. Back then, Fred was still working as a small-time tattoo artist. But the passion and pride in his eyes were unmistakable every time he spoke to Jonathan, weaving his “magic,” talking his way into whatever he wanted. He reminded Head of a cartoon villain; ridiculously charismatic, completely incapable of shutting up. He seemed to love the sound of his own voice. And not really knowing him at all, Head couldn’t say for sure whether he was mocking everyone who had given him a chance: his manager, Jonathan, even his own bandmates, all while openly reveling in the influence he held over others.
But when, in that moment, their hands finally connected, Head felt an imminent heat. Like a missing piece snapping into place, the red thread finally tying itself off. And when he looked up at him from the floor, he saw it clearly: a warm face, soft, with no real malice behind it.
What felt like hours to him ended when Fred leaned back down, dropping to his knees, reaching for what he claimed as his. Head struggles back with a crooked grin and pushes himself off the ground. He can’t stop watching him now. Those baby-blue eyes, frighteningly fragile, pulling him in like a magnet.
Much later that night, when the performance had faded into nothing more than a lingering memory in Head’s mind, Fred walked beside him toward his hotel room.
There was an unshakable calm in having him there, even though they hadn’t really spoken much. At all. Fred was aggressively unpredictable, and tonight he’d proven it. Head knew his presence wasn’t something to take seriously, not really. Still, it rewired something in his head, permanently altering the way he saw him.
He could still smell him, his toxically strong cologne mixed with the metallic tang of blood from his cracked lips lingering on his skin. For a moment, he wondered whether the scent was real because Fred was right there beside him, or if his imagination was simply spiraling out of control.
Fred had tossed out some excuse “My room’s right next to yours”, “I’m too tired for the after.” Head only pursed his lips in response, trying to downplay it, but that was impossible with him so close. The night replayed in his mind like a worn-out VHS tape, like an overly sweet, addictive song. And yet, nothing about the walk felt forced or awkward. Fred’s words faded into a kind of comforting white noise; endearing, but nothing worth holding onto. His ability to say everything and nothing at the same time was almost admirable; now, his rambling uncertainty was just funny.
Head unlocks his hotel room door, and Fred lingers awkwardly in the doorway. Head notices the subtle sway in his stance, the tension in his body, the restless bounce on his feet. Like he’s hesitating. Nervous in a way that clings to him. As if, for the first time, what he was about to say actually mattered.
He steels himself and steps closer, decision settling in his chest. Close enough that their knees brush—both wearing jorts, nu metal somehow both identical and wildly different at the same time—their thighs touching. Head feels his ears burn.
“I can stay here… If you want,” Fred murmurs.
Even though his posture still betrays his nerves, he doesn’t break eye contact. He knows exactly what he’s doing. No stutter, no uncertainty in his voice. It’s bold, brave even, for someone standing beside a man who has no idea what to do next.
A soft, quiet silence falls between them. It’s enough for Head to take a deep breath and steady himself. His heartbeat slowly settles, and for the first time, he can really take in what’s happening right in front of him. His muscles relax; relief washes over him from the top of his head down to the tips of his toes.
He exhales, breath rising fully before he answers “Yeah, sure.”
For a brief moment, Head’s eyes linger on the soft pink of Fred’s lips before they crash into his. The blue-eyed man’s hands rest on his hips, more gentle now, more deliberate with every touch. Like he’s handling something expensive and he’s a spoiled kid who doesn’t care about the price. Fred had been quiet for a long time. Unnerving, coming from someone so openly proud.
They pull apart just enough for him to tilt his head.
“You alright?” Fred only nods. Head hums softly, relaxed. It barely counts as half an answer. He frowns slightly, glancing at him before Fred can notice. Fred chuckles under his breath. His laugh was lovely; he'd never heard him laugh like that before. It was always a sarcastic laugh, a bit off-key, but not entirely genuine, as if he were taking an invisible weight off his shoulders.
“Nothing… you’re just cute.” He tugs affectionately at the tip of Head’s nose, and they both burst into laughter. Head cups Fred’s cheek in his hand—the softness of his face meaning everything to him.