IT IS CHIVALRIC TO KISS ONE'S BROS

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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.

Tonight, though, it feels especially hazy, cool air wrapped around him that leaves him shivering, walls and windows he hasn’t grown accustomed to yet, shadows buried deep in corners he hasn’t learned the shape of when the lamp’s flicked off.

A small wooden clock passed down from his father’s father’s father ticks loudly in the kitchen, and the heat kicks on when wind knocks against glass windows and rattles the front door.

Headlights shine across the back curtains when cars drift by over the fence. The lingering scent of ash streams from the living room where a candle dims when the wick runs out.

A creeping feeling of dread starts at the base of Buck’s spine and crawls up his neck, branches tethering to veins that snake down his arms and into his ribs. Despite the heat, Buck feels a rush of cool air. When he swallows, the taste of copper sits on his tongue.

Three sharp knocks at the front door startle him out of his stupor and he shakes the feeling loose, chalking it up to the squatter in his attic and the remnants of Bobby’s memory.

When he looks through the peephole, it’s dark, the street empty save for a collection of toy firetrucks, ambulances, and helicopters collected on his neighbor’s lawn. The kids next door always leave thei–

Another knock hits in front of him, startles him so much he jumps back, the bang kicking against him like a punch straight to his chest.

But still, there’s nobody there, nobody waiting on the other side of the door. He checks the lock once – twice – and backs into the living room, pressing palms to jeans where cold sweat lingers with anxious energy he can’t seem to escape.

Eyes locked, unblinking, at the front door, the hair on the back of his neck rises. It feels like someone’s watching him, like he left the back door open, and someone stepped carefully inside. As if he’s being pulled back by the feeling alone but unable to turn away from the darkness that hangs at the front door, Buck’s caught in a battle where he’s the only soldier.

The chill that was hanging in his chest grows, spreading over him in a dark cloud, a fog trapping him behind the ticking clock and the howling wind and the distant ghost of Bobby Nash.

Until – all at once – it disappears. The Ouija board on the table is untouched, box closed and set neatly beside a book about twentieth century architecture.

The room brightens and the candle on the table glows brighter, the hum of the heater sings a friendlier tune, and the quiet settling of the house is warm, not threatening him with the icy trap he was ensnared in moments before.

There’s another knock at the door, but this time it’s lighter, the porch light ticking on when someone moves in front of it, bathing the porch in warm, honeyed light.

When Buck peeks through the peephole this time, he’s surprised by the man on the other side, lips tight, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His eyes are downcast, like he’s avoiding the threat of emotion that could overwhelm him if his gaze finds Buck’s.

Buck doesn’t hesitate, though, never has with him.

“T-Tommy,” he says when he swings the door open. “What are you, uh…” Buck looks past Tommy, tracing the sidewalk and asphalt for something sinister waiting in the setting sun. “Why are you here?”

Tommy still doesn’t look at him, not quite. His shoulders are tight and he’s curled in on himself, like he doesn’t want to be there. Or that he’s in pain.

“I, um,” Tommy starts, shaking his head just barely, a thought or two spilling free with the movement. “I guess something told me that…that you might–”

“Do you wanna come in?” Buck asks, desperately trying to find Tommy’s eyes, longing for him to look at him like he used to.

“Can I?” Tommy asks hesitantly. “You…you sure you want me to come in?”

“O-Of course,” Buck says, shifting out of the way and guiding Tommy inside. He stops at the couch, gestures for Tommy to sit. He’s still tight, his movements sharp and uncomfortable. Buck still isn’t sure he wants to be there. Or why he is.

When Tommy finally looks up, his eyes are dark. Icy blue shifted close to black, red-rimmed and strangely stoic. Like Tommy’s not really behind them, like he’s back on the front porch where Buck found him.

Something draws Buck in, and he shifts closer to Tommy, their skin finally connecting, and Buck can’t tell if he’s the one that’s so cold or if Tommy is, but the candle that was shimmering with warmth is burning brighter with every breath.

The rest of the room fades, shifts back into something deeper and darker than the ocean, leaving a quiet storm in its wake. It lulls him in closer still, and the wind rattles against the windows, the front door bangs in its hinges.

When Buck finally leans in for a kiss his chest has been aching for since Tommy left him in his old kitchen, it feels like a piece of him escapes when they part, sucked into the sea with the storm.

Buck doesn’t notice the room darken, growing colder still, doesn’t notice the attic door shake against the ceiling, doesn’t realize the board’s unboxed again.

The planchette glides across the letters in a rushed frenzy he’ll never see.