Aether's long sleeves

Other times it’s little presents, gifted here and there. Always totally random but incredibly thoughtful. Aether knows Dew’s interests as well as his own, and he loves the way Dew’s eyes light up when he surprises him with a vintage band tee or obscure horror movie. Just because, he says every time. And Dew is always so impressed and touched. A movie he’d mentioned once, briefly, in passing, a band he was listening to in his free time. Aether always notices, always remembers. And sometimes it’ll become a little treat, Aether’s way of saying I was thinking of you.

Sometimes it’s a hot bath at the end of the day, just when Dew needs it the most. On those never-ending long days of band practice just before tour that leave Dew bone-tired and sore, walking into their bedroom stretching his aching shoulders. On those days, he’ll find Aether in the bathroom, just turning off the steaming hot water in the tub. Ready and waiting for him with a fluffy towel and a look of pure adoration.

And when they’re apart it’s no different. With Dew out on tour and Aether back home at the ministry. They talk on the phone as often as they can but it’s the little pictures and text messages throughout his busy days and nights that keep Dew’s heart full. Dew will pull up his phone to a text from Aether - a photograph of something silly and mundane. A pair of socks in a heap on the floor, a fork and spoon side by side on the table, two lone apples in the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter. Each one accompanied by the same exact caption every time. Look, it’s us. Dew follows suit with his own pictures, the sillier and more ridiculous the better. A dirty old pair of tennis shoes hanging from a power line, a half eaten hot dog and a pickle on a paper plate. Look, it’s us, Dew will text. And Aether will answer back the same each time, Aw, babe - and a heart emoji. Now they try to outdo each other with the most ridiculous pairs of objects. As it stands, Dew is winning. And even though they joke, every picture Dew gets makes his heart feel full.

Dew says I love you in a hundred different ways of his own. Sometimes it’s a home cooked meal. A spread of all of Aether’s favorite things, meticulously prepared and laid out on the table. Sometimes it’s a surprise, and sometimes Aether spends the day in the kitchen alongside him, helping where he can. There’s nothing Aether loves more than to watch Dew flit across the kitchen, from the table to the stove to the fridge. Hair messy and shirt dusted with flour. And when they finally sit down to eat, he can feel the love put into every single, delicious bite of food he takes.

Dew takes care of Aether’s guitar just as well as he does his own. He almost never says anything when he does it, but sometimes Aether will sit down to practice and he’ll find his Fantomen freshly serviced. New strings and perfectly tuned. Shiny black body wiped down and free from a single fingerprint. Sometimes he’ll do an entirely new setup, adjust the neck and strings. Whenever Dew does a whole setup, he’ll leave him a little handwritten note, scribbled bullet points of everything he serviced. Always signed with a little “xx - Dew.” Aether always feels like he plays his best after Dew’s worked on any of his instruments. 

Dew knows just when Aether is in need of a backrub from warm, strong hands with deft fingers. He can tell right away, even without Aether saying anything, long before he’s wincing in pain, that just what he needs is a backrub from his fire ghoul. Usually, he doesn’t say anything, just takes Aether by the hand, leads him to the bed, whether that be in their bedroom, tour bus bunk, or hotel room, lays him down, straddles his hips, and gets to work. It doesn’t take long before Aether is lying face down, blissed out and dozing off. Muscles loose and feeling good, aches and pains long forgotten under the care of Dew’s perfect, warm hands.

And when they’re apart, in between phone calls and text messages and video chats, Aether gets post cards. One for every stop Dew makes on tour. Each and every one picked out by Dew and with a long note scrawled on the back in Dew’s scratchy handwriting. Telling Aether about his day, about what he ate, how the previous night’s ritual went, or the funny things that happened on the bus. Dew sends them all without fail, and despite having amassed hundreds, Aether feels his heart race each and every time he opens the mail box to find a post card with his name on it. Like a little piece of his ghoul has come home to see him, even for just a moment’s time.