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The first thing Alanas always does is check out the hotel's shower and amenities so he can pilfer the decent-quality shower products and coffee sachets. Imagine his anger when he finds out the shower products are bottles practically shackled to the wall.
He had been grumbling about this for his entire shower—was the common decency to supply a visitor with the amenities they needed a dead concept? They had paid for this hotel, after all; something should come with it. He flicks off the water and steps out, taking the towel from where it hangs to dry himself off. He fumbles for texture powder on the counter, which was bombarded with haircare products; Emilija's, he presumed. A strange, greyish bottle called to him; he pumped it once out of curiosity and recoiled when a deep purple glob plopped onto his hand. It was thick and dense; he had no idea what it would do anywhere near hair. Alanas's hand tilts; it drools to the side, and the spot on his hand where it once sat is dyed purple. He frowned. Was it hair dye? But who'd use that?
Knocking aside several bottles that bore the legends "Conditioner", "Clarifying shampoo" and "Hair mask", he finally finds his texture powder. He shakes it on like a baker adding vanilla into their recipe—by eyeballing it. He seriously doesn't know what he'd do without texture powder to puff up his mullet.
He walks outside of the bathroom half-naked—Lukas is sitting at a little vanity desk brushing his longish straight hair. The golden colour shimmers and detaches from the brush in an oscillating wave, hypnotising, shining. Alanas's lips part. His brush glides through his hair multiple times, and he sets it down with a soft thud, picking up a little bottle with a dropper. He squeezes the tip of it, and an aggressively floral scent permeates the room—camellia flower? Lukas smelled like his childhood home's garden.
Alanas couldn't resist stepping behind him and finger-combing his hair, tilting his head towards him to kiss him, rubbing his jaw with a thumb and stroking his slightly damp, fragrant locks. Lukas jolts slightly, but leans into Alanas's grip, drool dripping down the corner of his mouth. Alanas catches it with his mouth and kisses him until he runs out of breath.
He can't stop touching and threading his fingers through his freshly washed hair, the oil's residue making his hands slippery and fragrant. He understood why Lukas's hair was so important: it was a vital part of Lukas's stage identity.
"How do you get it so perfect?" Alanas murmurs between kisses.
Lukas laughs and pulls away slightly, "Didn't you see all the products in the bathroom?"
Alanas's brows knit together, "Those were yours? I thought they were Emilija's. Is hair really that high maintenance?"
"They are mine, and yes."
"Oh," Alanas mutters, eloquent as ever, "Then was that purple thing yours?"
"Yes."
"I can't imagine what you use it for."
"It keeps my hair blond."
Alanas raises a brow, "How?"
"I honestly have no idea. I've been told it's something to do with 'colour theory'."
"Music theory was hard enough, Lukai."
He laughs and picks up his brush. Alanas moves forward and plucks it from his fingers, brushing through his hair. Lukas squeezes a few more drops from the pipette, the floral scent escaping yet again. The bottle says "arganas" and has pictures of pink flowers, the ones he used to see in his mother's garden.
His hair feels like petals, and smells like spring.
Jokūbas and Emilija are still in the hotel buffet; Jokūbas is probably trying to milk his money's worth out of the hotel.
So they are alone.
Lukas pulls Alanas to their hotel bed, clutching at his curly, brown mullet. His hair is the colour of coffee, and his eyes a beautiful sea he could drown in. He imagines being a seagull, able to glide along his banks until he folds his wings away, far from the shore of realism.
Sloppy kisses are exchanged, Lukas twirls his fingers along with Alanas's curl pattern, his hair soft like a gentle wind on a scorching summer day. Alanas, too, rakes his fingers through Lukas's straight, golden hair. Strands waterfall from his grip, smooth and pleasantly slippery as silk, healthily glossy. The light reflects perfectly off his halo of blond hair, glowing platinum, the creeping brown roots an imperfection that emphasises his beauty. A dirty angel in disguise as a human.
Alanas tears up. How did he get with someone so perfect?
His thoughts are caught and discarded as Lukas tugs his hair again, leaning in for another kiss. Their legs are tangled together. They lay on their sides and face each other with the excitement of new lovers. Alanas doesn't think he could wish to be anywhere else.