A Tragedy With Tits

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It’s barely past noon and they don’t go for another four hours, so Dag’s lounging around outside. It’s not too hot today, there’s enough of a breeze that it’s actually really nice. He’s on a white plastic chair situated under the shade coming off one of the trailers, sunglasses on, thoroughly enjoying himself. He’s content enough that he’s considering a beer, even though he doesn’t really drink before shows. Something cold and fizzy would be perfect right now.

“Hej baby.”

Dag grin and twists around in the chair to see Tommy walking towards him.

“Hiii,” Dag holds his hand out and reaches back. “C’mere.”

He pats his thigh and wiggles his eyebrows.

“We’d break that fucking chair,” Tommy lowers his own sunglasses just so he can look at Dag pointedly, before shoving them back up his nose and continuing in Swedish. “Is humid.”

“It is,” Dag agrees, grabbing Tommy’s t shirt and pulling. “C’mere.”

Tommy ignores him and goes to stand behind Dag’s chair instead. Dag tips his head back until it bumps against Tommy’s stomach. He can see right up Tommy’s nose.

“Do you want to sit?” Dag asks in English.

“No, I’m good.” Tommy’s still speaking in Swedish, which means he’s in his stubborn ‘I’m fucking practicing’ mood right now. It’s cute, but as a result his vocabulary is limited. “Finally done setting up.”

“Hell,” Dag says, not bothering with English because that’s probably what Tommy wants. “That was a long delay.”

Tommy nods and puts his hands in Dag’s hair, pushing Dag’s head back to a normal angle. They talk for a little while, Tommy slowly giving Dag a play by play about how goddamn annoying it was that the band that’s supposed to go on after Phorid has the most fucked up LED screens known to human kind. Dag doesn’t say much, just gently corrects Tommy’s grammar when he needs it, and enjoys the sensation of Tommy’s fingers combing aimlessly through his hair.

Eventually Tommy trails off, and the movement of his hands get more purposeful. Tommy scratches along Dag’s scalp, tugs a little bit, even though he knows that’s playing dirty, before starting to divide it into sections.

“Are you braiding my hair?” Dag asks, tipping his head back so he can look up Tommy’s nose again.

Tommy blinks at him, brows furrowed, so Dag repeats the question in English.

“Yes,” Tommy smiles widely down at him. “Give me your uh…”

“Hårband?” Dag hazards a guess, and then pulls it off his wrist. Tommy takes it.

“I didn’t know you could braid,” Dag says, letting Tommy push his head back down again.

“Mmhmm,” Tommy nods and then switches back to English. “I wasn’t allowed to cut my hair as a kid, I had to do something with it.”

Dag frowns at the grass in front of him. Tommy begins to work with the hair at the crown of his head, carefully crossing each section over on itself.

“Not allowed?” Dag asks hesitantly.

“My dad was old fashioned,” Tommy explains.

Tommy doesn’t really talk about his parents, but Dag’s gotten the impression from his grandmother that his dad was a real piece of shit. Silence stretches between them. Dag can hear the roar of the crowd as another band begins to play in the distance.

“That sucks,” Dag says eventually, because he can’t think of anything else. “Is that why you don’t grow it out now?”

“Kinda,” Tommy says. “I think it’d be more trouble than it’s worth, my hair is curlier than Jan’s.”

“You would look handsome,” Dag tips his head back for a third time, and reaches up to touch the tip of Tommy’s chin.

“You always think I look handsome,” Tommy ducks down to kiss Dag’s fingertips.