saturn

after constant touring, this day off was well deserved. the finnish band went out to explore what the states had to offer, amused by the vulgar sun's heat during the mornings and the afternoons turning into cool and quiet nights, with only the moon and stars to accompany them as they roamed the dim streets for some cheap beer.

after acquiring their needs and settling into the shared hotel room, the group sat in the hot, sweat-heavy air of the space and tore the pack of room-temperature booze open, as a bong and its partner lighter were passed within the circle while the cheap radio blared its fuzzy-sounding classic rock, consisting of cream all the way to bon jovi.

within that mix, oddly came the sweet charming signature beat of the icelandic artist, björk's, "venus as a boy."

odd for such a distinct song to sneak its way into a classic rock radio mix, but did it really matter?

linde, who sat criss-crossed on the ground with his turn with the bong, could feel the song's introduction beat ring through him. leaning back against nothing, he shut his eyes as he tuned himself in with every beat of it.

across linde, was ville scattered with empty modelo bottles, who’s figure was embraced by the flame of the fireplace of the hotel room. migé threw a plague of arguments into some drunken conversation he was having with ville, who was drunkenly pensive at these ideas his band mate proposed about some theory about society.

how handsome he looked, linde’s mind wandered. never slipped past his breath to say it to face to the gorgeous man directly in front of him. how breathtaking ville looked when his face bloomed the flowing blood into his cheeks whenever he drank. lips so plump from sipping on the bottles constantly, in an uneven fashion. he drank in a way that was not "on beat," sort of off beat, if that made any sense? linde was clearly way too gone this time around as compared to his usual sessions.

“ville, y’look really beautiful tonight,” he blurted.

in truth, these moments of capturing the handsome angles of that man were fond to linde always. sober, or not, ville charmed him to the core. romantic, philosophical, and gentle in his respective nature. there was never a time such deprived, sunken eyes made linde feel extreme guilt for not acting upon his instincts.

ville turned his chin, resting in his palm as his eyes fluttered with that exhausted, whimsical expression of his. linde felt his eyes as a temptress to his will, feeling that ville could see it through the mirror of his own eyes. blinking yet so suggestively, assuming from the influence of so much alcohol, he muttered, “you’re not too bad yourself, linde.”

shivers ran up linde's spine, flushing him with embarrassment from the words that slipped past his lips.

ville shifted his position to face linde, fixating on linde’s features as a wasted migé’s philosophical babbling was drowned out by björk’s vocals in his head.

the circle in which they all sat in suddenly felt as wide as a football field to linde. it looked to him that ville was stretching across the ritual space into his face. or maybe it was the weed taking him to a new high — regardless, he squeezed his eyes shut in hopes it was simply the dope messing with his vision.

wrong — he swore he could start feeling beer-reeking breath with a dash of a suspiciously familiar oriflame cologne polluted the air in front of him. to his surprise, it wasn’t his cross getting to him. ville was literally inches away from his face.

“your nose ring looks new. is it?” ville slurred richly, his eyes slowly studying every feature of linde’s face.

he knew it wasn’t knew; ville was saying anything to have as an excuse. that nose ring has been there for a hot second now. and how the energy between him and linde has always been different as compared to the other guys.

… maybe it’s because of how much closer they got when migé served military those couple of years ago when the band was just starting. or how they’ve had a couple of different drummers and pianists added to their mix. regardless — the unaddressed intensity between them two was undeniably different.

after an eternity of heavy and hungry silence, ville’s limbs seemed tangled into linde’s. they almost seemed like puzzle pieces as ville held himself up with his hands on either side of linde, knees trapping his right leg. as ville towered above him, linde gulped, scooting the bong away from his side to make space for his own arms. he didn’t know how to approach this — a high and being wasted are very different. he wasn’t as bold as ville was at the moment, so linde could only ground himself in silence by gripping the rug that rested underneath them.

so much brewed with linde; being fried, his heartbeat running wild as the alluring man clicked on top of his own body, the song on the radio feeling so damn long. not to mention how the fire was still caressing ville’s most defining features. it was so much to take in. the burning questions how ville looked up close being answered: one eyebrow always more prominent than the other, the shadows contouring his cheekbones and jawline, how long his lashes were that complimented his earthly, tiresome eyes.

with his own study, he stretched his time into ville’s impatience. his lips slightly brushed over his, linde experiencing those booze drenched crevices of ville’s lips against his as an introductory, soft and sweet, only to be collapsed into within the next second. linde’s mind felt like it could explode at any second, as ville worked his swollen lips onto his, slipping his tongue in and out mischievously as he leaned his face into linde’s.

he couldn’t freak out — his mind was only fogging up with overwhelming emotion. as ville worked alone on the starved, awkward kiss, linde began to return the passion. he began slow, savoring and licking whatever beer ( or beer-infused saliva ) stained ville’s lips, welcoming his tongue with his own. his once frozen limbs began to click into ville’s kneeled legs, hands beginning to unclench the rug.

the rest of his environment fell blank. this performance felt like everything they’ve created before. it was familiar, almost secondhand, only this time, the mere spits of spark bursted into a malicious flame that consumed every fiber in its surrounding. the way the clash of ville’s dark vocals and linde’s guitar leads was the only connection he thought there was to only exist between them. the grotesque beauty and mysteries of such a sentiment that ville wrote about were beyond words, as linde found this to be his whole being.

though this seemed as ville’s impulses, he had always held back at even suggesting this idea to linde. sure, he’d kissed the other band mates multiple times on the lips in public, or even just other mates as he didn’t think too much if it, because what’s the issue?

but linde was different to him. it wasn’t as easy to just do it with other guys for jokes. even drunk, he knew this is what he wanted.

linde felt himself be set off by the prohibited temptation on him. the music became seemed to become his own thoughts being sung out loud.

to some extent, it felt like a competition.

linde’s fingers found their way into the tangled curls of the unkept shag of ville’s, clawing to keep these affections on him that which he was deprived of. how embarrassed he felt to be grabbing selfishly onto what linde felt was an angel blessing him.

the corners of ville’s lips curled smitten. he fell more into a drunken whimsy influenced by how he starved to taste linde. one of the hands that he’d been using to keep himself up off the ground made its way to feel linde’s forearm, exploring both linde’s muscle and his weed-tasting mouth. not like he minded.

it was literally suffocating how in much need they were of one another, refusing to break apart for even a second for breath.

this had been going on for too long — it started feeling pornographic to the rest of the guys, who kept staring as they cracked cans and packed bowls. a still-drunk migé blurted to burton, who was struggling to spark a drunk cigarette, “y’ve noticed that gay tension between ‘em too, yeah?”

ville's body was fitting into linde's like a puzzle piece that had been missing, his fingers lightly grazing the crevices of the back of linde's neck. his gentle touches became his hand supporting linde's nape; making the kiss deeper, as if linde’s handful of curls pressing into the back of his head wasn’t making it close enough.

sloppily pulling his face away enough to breathe, linde jokingly mumbled some airy sappy words he could phrase, “arousin’ me.”

ville, who was practically panting above him looking starstruck, drew his bottom lip into his teeth. “you’re one to speak, mikko," he managed to whisper through sighs. his focus was on his artwork on linde’s lips; brushed with his alcohol slobber and gentle bites, before slowly tracing to linde's blown-out, and just as in equal awe, expression.

upon seeing how struck linde was under him, ville's face was bright with pride, and with a shit-eating smirk whispered:

through the gigs, he couldn’t resist the need to take a peek at the delicate black swan before him. though linde was dedicated to his guitar skills and use of his distortion pedals, there stood his longest friend.

ville hermanni valo; the boy who had stuck with him through his mid to late teenage years and the development of their band. the vocalist. the face of the band, for hell’s sake.

while the audience got to roar and whimper at ville’s any move and gaze, linde got the most painful view. he couldn’t resist watch ville’s hands wrap tenderly onto the microphone and the stand clearly and so up close, but what he was envious of the crowd of was their view of ville’s face was. sure, he would turn to check if linde was ready for the next song or not, maybe even asking if he was holding up right. but the crowd got to see ville with that striking glimpse in his eye, how his hips moved from the upfront. how his porcelain skin was so smooth had the beads of sweat on his face rolling off as if he was made of glass.

the “look” he would use to charm some of the fans at the barricade of the show. but not linde. ville solely did the act to get the audience engaged, build some energy for every song — give the people what they paid for, a show. the rest of the guys never saw ville like that, because why would they? just a performance, whatever. but linde could hurl at the swarm of warthness and tickle in his stomach erupted to at the mere thought of seeing ville like that.

esa negra linda . . .

squeezing his eyes after seeing ville for a second, his neck snapped back to look down to his guitar. he kept his eyes shut, trying to erase the perverted thoughts of his lifelong friend and bandmate from blooming into his mind. he felt his face burn —

. . . que me tiene loco . . .

sickly green, sunken in eyes giving linde the most handsome expression. those brown, unkept curls standing on their ends and framing ville’s ghostly complexion. dressed in his mopey clothing, pairing the most sports casual shirt with that long trench coat he always wore. his large hands entangling in linde’s flimsy dreads. the very slight tooth gap encased between lips warmest, and slightly dry with the aftertaste of a cigarette.

que me come poquito a poco . . .

linde gnawed on the flesh in his mouth, tearing the skin on his lips. how odd to think.

ay , mi negra linda . . .

the rhythm section dropped. burton’s fingers pulled away from the delicate keys on his keyboard. only linde’s guitar plucking accompanied ville’s vocals during this part of razorblade kiss. linde’s mind snapped back to his chords. how intimate to support such a verse. usually ville is locked in to the audience, his words wrapping around every member’s beating heart, like a vampire about to bite the neck of his next victim. it’s almost as if ville did bite the neck of someone — as his slow , serpent ready - to - strike vision slithered onto linde.

his heart dropped, as he ever so gently caressed every note into his guitar strings. his breath was stolen from him, as he witnessed this moment he was jealous of that the audience received every time this song was performed. ville sung the words to linde — not to seduce him, but rather to make sure linde hadn’t lost it and signaled a questioning thumbs up with an “are you out of your mind?” stare, as linde was severely out of tune. embarrassment swept over his face, as he clicked back into his performance and gulped down his wild imagination.