Commissons Open!

It had been a long tour. The kind that left everyone ragged, exhausted, and desperately in need of a shower that lasted longer than five minutes. Dethklok had just wrapped up another sold-out show, and the backstage area was chaos incarnate, roadies scrambling, equipment being broken down, the lingering smell of sweat and smoke hanging thick in the air.

Skwisgaar was sitting on a worn-out couch in the corner of the dressing room, his guitar resting across his knees. But he wasn't playing. He was just…sitting there, staring at nothing, his fingers absently plucking at a loose thread on his ripped jeans.

You'd noticed the shift in him about halfway through the tour. He was still Skwisgaar. still cocky, still impossibly talented, still throwing out those little smug comments that made you want to roll your eyes, but there was something underneath it. Something tired. Something frayed around the edges.

He'd never admit it, of course. Skwisgaar didn't get tired. Skwisgaar was a god.

But you knew better.

You'd been with him long enough to read the small signs. The way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was looking. The way he'd zone out between songs, his eyes distant and unfocused. The way he'd been running his hands through his hair more often lately, tugging at the ends, fidgeting with the platinum strands like he was trying to ground himself.

Tonight, his hair was a disaster. Usually, it was perfect, flowing, silky, impossibly shiny, defying all laws of physics and humidity. But right now, it was tangled and limp, some of it plastered to his forehead with sweat, the rest sticking up at odd angles. He'd pulled out the braids hours ago and hadn't bothered to fix them.

He looked like a drowned cat. A very handsome, very exhausted drowned cat.

You walked over and sat down on the arm of the couch, close enough that your knee brushed his shoulder. He didn't react at first, just kept staring at that loose thread.

"Skwis."

"Hm."

"You look like shit."

That got a reaction. He turned his head slowly, one eyebrow arching in that signature way of his. "Tanks. You really knows how to makes a guy feel specials."

"I'm serious." You reached out and touched his hair, or tried to, anyway. Your fingers immediately snagged on a knot. "What happened here? Did you get into a fight with a wind machine?"

He made a vague gesture with his hand. "It was…hot. On stage. And peoples keep touching it. Fans. Stage hands. Pickles, when he's drunk. It's just-" He stopped, his jaw tightening again. "It's nothing."

You studied him for a moment. The dark circles under his eyes. The tension in his shoulders. The way he was holding himself so rigidly, like if he relaxed even a little, he might fall apart.

"Come here," you said softly, sliding off the arm of the couch and settling onto the floor in front of him. You tugged gently at his knees, encouraging him to turn and face you.

He resisted for half a second, a reflexive, stubborn instinct. But then something in his expression softened, just a fraction, and he turned. His legs spread slightly to make room for you, his guitar set carefully aside.

"What are you doings?" he asked, but his voice was quieter now. Less guarded.

"I'm taking care of you. That's what I'm doing." You reached up and brushed the hair out of his face. "Just sit still."

He opened his mouth like he was going to argue, but you shot him a look, and he closed it again. For once, Skwisgaar did as he was told.

You started with your fingers, gently working through the tangles at the ends of his hair. It was worse than you'd thought, there were actual knots in there, the kind that formed when someone had been sweating and tossing and turning and definitely not taking care of themselves.

"How long has it been since you brushed this?"

"A…while."

"A while like a day, or a while like a week?"

He didn't answer. That was answer enough.

You sighed, but there was no judgment in it. You'd been with Skwisgaar long enough to know that the perfect, untouchable front he put up was just that, a front. Underneath all the bravado and the smug comments and the ridiculous guitar solos was someone who got overwhelmed. Someone who forgot to take care of himself sometimes. Someone who needed someone to remind him that it was okay to stop.

"Okay," you said quietly. "I'm going to fix this. Just relax, alright?"

You reached for the small bag you'd brought with you, the one that lived in your backpack at all times, full of hair ties and clips and, thank god, a detangling brush. You'd learned a long time ago that being with Skwisgaar meant being prepared. His hair was a full-time job.

Skwisgaar watched you as you pulled out the brush, his blue eyes tracking your movements. He looked almost wary, like he was waiting for something. A complaint, maybe. A comment about how difficult he was.

You gave him a small smile instead. "Lean forward."

He did, his head dropping slightly as you gathered his hair in your hands. The position exposed the back of his neck, and you could see the tension there, the tight cords of muscle, the way his shoulders were still bunched up around his ears.

You started at the bottom, working the brush through the ends with careful, slow strokes. You knew better than to yank. This was going to take time.

The first few passes were rough. The brush caught on tangles and you had to stop and gently work them out with your fingers. But you were patient, methodical, and slowly, the knots began to loosen.

Skwisgaar's head dropped lower. A small sound escaped him. not quite a sigh, not quite a hum. Something in between. Something soft.

"Told you," you murmured. "Just relax."

"I am relaxings," he said, but his voice was already going a little fuzzy around the edges.

You moved up a few inches, working on the next section. Your fingers slid through his hair, detangling, smoothing, coaxing the platinum strands back into submission. It was almost meditative, the rhythm of it, the quiet intimacy of the act.

Skwisgaar's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. Then another.

"Feels nice," he mumbled.

"Mmhm."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly you almost didn't hear it: "Nobody's done this for me. In a long time."

You paused, your fingers stilling in his hair. "What do you mean?"

"You know." He shrugged, the motion stiff and awkward. "The…taking care. The little things. Peoples always want things from me. My playing. My time. My…" He gestured vaguely at himself. "Whatever. But nobody just…does this. Without wantings anything."

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. You knew Skwisgaar was complicated, that he put up walls, that he kept people at arm's length, that he'd been hurt and used and treated like a commodity more times than he'd ever admit. But hearing it out loud, in his voice, so quiet and raw…

You resumed brushing, your strokes slower now, more deliberate.

"I'm not anyone," you said firmly. "I'm your partner. This is what partners do."

"Even when I'm-" He gestured at himself again, a frustrated little motion. "Difficults. Even when I'm-"

"Skwis."

He stopped.

"Look at me."

He lifted his head, turning to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes were red-rimmed, his expression carefully blank in that way he had when he was trying not to feel something. But you saw through it. You always did.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said. "I don't care if you're difficult. I don't care if you forget to brush your hair for a week. I don't care if you act like an arrogant asshole sometimes. That's just…you. And I love you. All of it."

His breath caught. A tiny, almost imperceptible hitch.

"You…loves me?" He said it like it was a foreign concept. Like it didn't quite compute.

"Yeah, dummy. That's why I'm sitting on the floor of your dressing room detangling your hair like some kind of fairy godmother."

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crept across his face. It wasn't the smug, cocky grin he usually wore. It was smaller. Softer. Almost shy.

"You're a weirdos," he said quietly. "You knows that?"

"Takes one to know one."

He huffed a laugh, and something in his shoulders finally, finally relaxed. He turned back around, letting his head drop forward again, and you resumed brushing.

"You're pretty good at this," he mumbled after a few minutes. "The hair things. You could be a… what do you call it? A hair persons."

"I'll put that on my resume."

"Mhm. 'Experienced in detangling Skwisgaar Skwigelf's hair. Also can handle his emotional breakdowns.'" His voice was teasing now, but there was something grateful underneath it. Something genuine.

You smiled and kept working, moving section by section until his hair was smooth and silky and free of tangles. Then you set the brush aside and started working your fingers through it, gently massaging his scalp.

He made another sound, low, rumbling, almost like a purr. His head tilted back, just slightly, and his eyes fluttered closed.

"Feels good," he murmured.

"Good."

"You should do this more often."

"I should, huh?"

"Mhm. I'm very importance. I need regular maintenance."

You laughed softly, your fingers still moving in slow, soothing circles. "You're impossible, you know that?"

"I'm Skwisgaar" he said, like that explained everything. And honestly? It kind of did.

You kept going, working your fingers through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp, watching the tension drain out of him with each passing moment. His breathing evened out. His shoulders dropped completely. His head lolled to the side, heavy and relaxed.

"Hey," you murmured. "Don't fall asleep on me."

"I'm not sleepings. I'm just…resting my eyes."

"Sure you are."

He was definitely about to fall asleep. His breathing had gone slow and deep, and his body was practically boneless against the couch.

You smiled and leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. His hair smelled like sweat and smoke and something uniquely him, a scent you'd come to love, even if it was objectively kind of gross.

"I've got you," you whispered. "You can rest now."

And he did.

You stayed there for a long time, sitting on the floor, running your fingers through his hair, watching him sleep. The noise of the backstage area faded into white noise. The exhaustion of the tour seemed to settle around you both, heavy but manageable.

When someone, probably Pickles, poked their head in to check on you, they took one look at the scene and backed out again without a word. You could hear muffled laughter from the hallway, but you didn't care.

This was where you belonged. Right here, taking care of the man who pretended he didn't need it.

Skwisgaar stirred after a while, blinking sleepily. He looked disoriented for a second, then his eyes found you and he smiled, that soft, rare smile that he only ever gave you.

"Hey," he said, his voice rough with sleep.

"Hey yourself."

"I-" He paused, swallowing. "I means it. What I said before. Nobody's ever…you're…"

He couldn't quite get the words out. But you saw them in his eyes-the gratitude, the affection, the love he was too guarded to say aloud.

You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I know. Me too."

He caught your hand before you could pull away, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

"Tanks," he said quietly. "For…all of it."

"Anytime, Skwis. Anytime."

And you meant it. For all his arrogance and his bravado and his carefully constructed walls, Skwisgaar was worth every moment of effort. He was complicated. He was difficult. He was a lot of work.

But he was yours. And you were his.