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Pete looked over at Roger.
It was the middle of nowhere and the night, yet another hotel room. Just one bed- all that the two of them needed. Roger was facing away, trying to sleep, a pursuit that Pete wasn’t ready to resign himself to yet.
The world was a pathetic yellow cast by the nightlight on the far side of the room. And yet, Roger’s hair shined in the light, a few slivers of gold amidst the shadowed mass slyly signaling the splendor awaiting illumination. It was a sight meant for the spotlighted stage, not dim squalor, and the threads lit pale served as testament: not even the darkest night can steal this beauty.
Or maybe Pete was just very, very tired. But even with that thought in mind he couldn’t resist putting a finger against a single curl, gently feeling the bounce of it as he traced the golden line. He was suddenly struck by the mental image of diving in, swimming amidst the gilded sea, and the desire to feel just one lock wrap around himself like a toga.
“Like what you see?” Roger mumbled, and flipped over to face Pete. Where the lines of his hair had been a passive treasure, an even brighter light now shot right through Pete: that of Roger’s eyes, blue rendered colorless yet still striking.
Pete opened his mouth but no words came; he didn’t think Roger would want to hear about his fantasy of becoming a hair louse.
“I’m more than just a pretty head of hair, you know,” Roger added, voice teasing but clearly tired.
“I know,” Pete croaked, and shut his eyes. He couldn’t take Roger looking at him like that, not when he was too tired to look right back and give as good as he got.
Instead of his eyes, then, he used his hand. Darkness, indeed, could not steal Roger’s beauty, as Pete brushed the back of his hand along Roger’s forehead and the edge of his hair.
Then, as if to play-act at a certain character he’d created, he felt at Roger’s face: tracing his brow with the back of a finger, feeling along his cheek to his nose with a finger tip, brushing his soft lips with four fingers.
“What’s going through your head, Pete?” Roger asked, a bit of roughness finding its way into his voice. He may be their star, high in the pantheon of Rock Gods, but he was only human. And damn it if that didn’t make him all the more perfect.
“You,” was all Pete managed to say. Then, he opened his eyes to see Roger’s once more, but what he’d taken as cutting intensity he now saw for the softness it truly was.
Pete stayed motionless as Roger leaned forward to capture Pete’s lips in an achingly gentle kiss. Then, a kiss to his cheek, to his nose, to his forehead. Eyes half-closed, he felt Roger’s nose against his own in a delicate nuzzle which became a soft tap, nosetip-to-nosetip.
“Sleep,” Roger said. Not a command, not a suggestion, just an observation: you are going to try to sleep now, and so will I.
Pete let himself be turned over to face away from Roger, so that the other man could wrap his arms around him and tuck his face against his neck.
The last thing Pete heard before falling asleep, barely registering to his mind, was a mumble from Roger.
“I want to swim in your hair…”