Chapter Text
The stage lights are cooking Scaramouche alive .
He’s sweating like a pig, but Kazuha once said it adds to the performance and he ‘looks good like that’—when the lights make his skin glisten, beads of sweat running tracks down his face—so it’s… excusable. As his fingers work the strings and frets of his guitar, his muscle memory kicks in, voice pouring out breathily against the mic as it’s meant to be.
As always, Kazuha is staring from his place onstage, boring holes into his back; Scaramouche doesn’t know whether or not he’s happy about that.
It’s just a local bar performance. They have an intermission once the song’s over, and they’re halfway through their set; a good portion of the tracks they’re playing aren’t even their own, but ‘gig money is gig money.’ As it’s gotten colder, they’ve been more willing to do more shows, but there’s been no production. Their drummer is some friend of a friend, Xiao, and tends to mind his own business, but Kazuha does not .
Kazuha finds the guitarist stationed outside, drinking in the cool air; it’s sobering to clear his lungs once in a while.
The blond has clipped his hair up and brought a little towel with him. He dabs it over his face and approaches his bandmate easily; “Hah… it’s nice out here. I feel like just standing inside, I’m getting fried.”
Despite how just seeing Kazuha like that, coming over, makes him want to scoff, Scaramouche chooses to give the bassist mercy and not let it show on his face. If it did, he could say it’s not because of him—after all, his clothes are still clinging to his skin uncomfortably from sweat, and the night breeze is taking its sweet time seeping underneath it all.
“Don’t overexert yourself. We’re barely halfway through,” Kazuha adds quietly.
“I know.”
He comes close and combs away Scaramouche’s damp bangs, wiping off his face but avoiding the eyes where his makeup is.
“Are you sensitive to heat now that it’s winter again?” The bassist mumbles, rubbing the towel over the other’s neck and nape. With the way he speaks, low and barely above a whisper, and the heat of his hands, it’s hard for Scaramouche to keep from shivering.
He tries to shift away from Kazuha’s persistent fingers to no avail.
“No,” Scaramouche bites out, voice still rough and dry. “It’s just too damn hot in there. Like hell.”
The bassist chuckles. “Yeah, ‘cause everyone’s drunk and hot. I don’t think any amount of air conditioning could bring the temperature down.”
With the towel in the palm of his nondominant hand, Kazuha reaches into his pocket and fingers around until he finds the golden duo he’s looking for: a pack and a lighter. Scaramouche frowns. The blond laughs at that little expression and pulls a cigarette out before replacing the box.
Scaramouche grumbles; “You’ve got bad timing. Can’t it wait until later?” It’s a bad enough vice, and he dares to keep it up when his duo is quitting… “Besides, it’s a stupid habit.”
Kazuha’s already got the thing in his mouth, hand around the light, when Scaramouche says that. The orange flamelight directs Scaramouche’s eyes toward his slim features, the androgynous planes of his face and the soft curve of his lips. Kazuha glances over while taking the first drag.
Wordlessly, eyes on the guitarist’s, he streams out dark grey smoke that dances up toward the sky. “Looking at you makes me want a smoke.”
Scaramouche scowls at the comment. “Then stop looking.”
The guitarist is already trying not to look over at the way Kazuha’s pretty mouth purses around the edge of it. He’s so languid, careless , when he smokes… It annoys him.
“Can’t.”
Kazuha leans against the wall, smiling faintly at the other man and taking in his messy appearance. “Let’s go out after the show. The arcade or something.”
“You know that neither of us ever have the money for arcades,” he replies sourly, still glaring over from his peripherals.
Living in the city like they do, the small allowances of disposable income they get are always dedicated to other things less frivolous… or rather, it’s like Kazuha always spends his share while Scaramouche tries to stash some emergency funds.
“I forgot how expensive they are,” the blond admits promptly and takes another drag. “Then what should we do?”
His body is still facing Scaramouche’s, but he’s looking toward the street a bit, turning to avoid blowing smoke into his face. The way his lips part, and how he licks them slightly after each puff, is distracting beyond belief. Scaramouche, without thinking, shifts again to try and give himself some space.
“There’s a new movie out,” he mutters, not without a sigh. “A horror movie… But we could just watch at home.”
“Mm.” Kazuha looks down at the older man, who’s just a few inches shorter, a smile blooming curiously onto his face. “Are you really quitting? You stare so much.”
“Hah…?” Scaramouche quickly corrects upright, eyes narrowing and heat burning under his skin. Trying to deny that he was watching at all, he lets out a huff. “I am … and I don’t stare. I just happen to glance at you, is all.”
“Are you just waning off?” The blond hums, watching the other’s face intently. “You’re so tense. If you’re not totally off it yet, I’ll give you just one puff.”
Scaramouche can’t help but grimace at the prospect. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted at all. It’s… an addicting thing, just feeling the faint burn of smoke in his lungs and the thin tendrils of smoke streaming out of his mouth… and the buzz reminds him of something greater.
“... One or two, sure.” The guitarist relents.
“I don’t want you to have too much,” Kazuha considers, sucking a small amount of smoke and holding it behind parted lips. “Mm.” He beckons. He passes the cigarette into his other hand and grabs Scaramouche’s face carefully, fingers pressing into his cheeks to keep his mouth open.
Kazuha leans over him, eyes lowering as he allows the nicotine to fall on its own; the warmth of his hand on Scaramouche’s face has the guitarist fighting a full-body shiver. A faint gasp escapes him before he can help it, and the placebo buzz he’s already feeling has him hooked.
It’s been some time since they last did this, but Scaramouche can’t say he’s complaining. Breathing in the soft smoke, slowly and at Kazuha’s pace, is….
The bassist lets up on Scaramouche’s face and pulls back. “That’s all you get, okay?” He takes another long drag for himself and lets out a slow, deep breath, resting back against the cool brick.
“ That’s all I get?” The older complains, almost pouting. He’d gotten a taste now, and just a mouthful wasn’t enough. “How cruel of you. A real jerk.”
He looks up at Kazuha with a glare, only to have its edges melt away when the bassist lets out that breathful of smoke—that which he wants so badly.
Kazuha drops his stick and stomps it out with the toe of his shoe. It joins the graveyard of other butts flattened against the asphalt. “I’ll come over tonight,” he says definitively, as if there were never a chance Scaramouche would reject him.
“Yeah, yeah. You always do. Just don’t hog my bed again, or I’m kicking you to the floor.”
“Ah? Like a dog?” He feigns hurt. Stepping forward, Kazuha wraps both his hands around Scaramouche’s head, fingers tangling up in his hair. “You wouldn’t kick me off…” he muses, a light laugh underneath it. There’s still smoke lingering on his breath.
Scaramouche can’t help but flinch a little when his whole head is in the other’s grip. He squints at Kazuha’s forearms in displeasure, but feels himself tilting into it.
“I should. You don’t even have any cash right now, do you?” The guitarist grumbles out, annoyed further by his laughter. “What’s so funny?”
The blond smiles and steps forward again, beginning to cage Scaramouche into the corner of the indented wall. “No… I’ve got some ones, maybe.” He looks down through his lashes without so much as lowering his head. “Nothing funny. Just you.”
Scaramouche’s back goes up against the wall. He’s starting to drown in Kazuha’s heat, now, trapped between the cold brick corner and the bassist’s radiator body. A small huff escapes his lips, turning his face to the side so he doesn’t have to look at that sly little smile. “You say that as if it were a good thing. Bastard.”
“Bastard,” Kazuha repeats gently, palm nudging the other’s jaw so he’ll look up and they can meet eyes again. “It’s an okay thing. We’re getting paid for tonight anyway, so who cares?”
The guitarist lets out a low noise, silenced by the way Kazuha’s hand directs his face to look up at him. It’s almost irritating, being told what to do, but there’s a small, traitorous part inside that doesn’t mind it as much as he should.
“Fine, whatever,” he concedes, glaring up at Kazuha’s fond expression. “But I’m still kicking you out if you hog the bed.”
“You know, I have a really good idea for saving money,” the bassist says softly and presses Scaramouche further against the wall. His cheek rests on the other man’s forehead and bangs. “I could just move in with you. Then, I save rent money since I don’t really stay at my place anyways.”
Feeling the words on Kazuha’s breath against his skin, Scaramouche can’t help the way he bristles. It’s… just as Kazuha says, they’re already doing all but joining leases, so logically, formally living together would save money… but something about it doesn’t seem right.
“... Your rent isn’t that much,” the guitarist bites out. “Are you already in trouble with your money again?”
“No,” he says a little damply. “I’m just joking.”
Kazuha takes his hands away and turns back toward the door. Scaramouche can’t help but feel a wash of relief once the blond pulls back—he isn’t sure he could handle being pinned up against a wall any longer. “Yeah, you don’t joke,” he retorts, smoothing his shirt out, but Kazuha’s already gone and been beckoned inside. The door falls shut. “You say a lot of things… and… you mean them with all seriousness, anyway.”
After the intermission, the back half of their set goes fine, nothing particularly special happening. The stage lights have been dimmed a bit by some act of God so Scaramouche doesn’t sweat so hard, and Kazuha stares at the guitarist’s back for a long time, playing whatever he wants. He sings his verses nicely. It seems like the cigarettes haven’t left a single scratch on his voice.
Xiao leaves early since he’s got something going on with his partner. With a pre-recorded drum track, they’re a little less flexible, but it’s not so bad. They’re used to playing without him.
The whole night, Scaramouche can’t stop feeling the eyes on the back of his head, but can’t spare the glance back at Kazuha while he’s playing. He keeps his eyes between the crowd and his strings; sweat beads up on the sides of his face again, but he never goes and smudges it off, focusing completely on the music. As long as the lights are dimmed, he feels less gross about it.
By the time their show is done, there’s a small crowd waiting at the mouth of the stage exit to talk to them, many of whom have seen them play before. He and Kazuha pack up their gig bags and drag their things down the walkway, instruments on their backs and amps and cables stuffed onto a dolly.
Both stop at the barside to chat with those who wanted to flag them down; only Kazuha is particularly receptive and somehow still has the energy to talk to people, especially really drunk people, happily nodding and thanking them; Scaramouche is much more subdued, raw voice quiet as he talks to a couple girls who wanted to chat. While he may act like a prick onstage, he’s not terrible to fans, per se… and in return, they hand over some large bills as tips, which are stuffed into the performers’ pockets with gratitude.
Once they get out onto the sidewalk, the guitarist feels as if he’s about to collapse to the ground. He’s sore as if he’d been beaten, and as Kazuha follows him out, the same can be assumed.
Scaramouche’s pocket is lined with cash and there’s a pending payment into his bank account, so he doesn’t have anything major to complain about… but if he speaks any more he might die.
“I already ordered a ride,” Kazuha sighs, craving a shower.
“Good… I really want a smoke,” the older mutters, bathing in the fresh night air—as fresh as ‘fresh’ can be in this part of the city.
Kazuha glances over. “No, you’re quitting.”
Scaramouche glares at Kazuha for the short period they’re looking at each other, but struggles to make up a reply before they lose eye contact.
“It’s your fault.” His voice comes late, and half-dry, as if he weren’t ready to spit out the words yet.
The blond stares out into the street, searching for headlights, and wets his lips. “Mine?”
“... Yeah, yours. All yours.”
Scaramouche sinks the sound into his lower lip. His teeth ache with pressure against his snakebites. He coughs. “Shit.”
It’s not long before their lift pulls in front of the bar and Kazuha confirms it. They load their stuff into the trunk, and after a silent ride and some silent walking, they make it up to Scaramouche’s apartment.
It’s a humble little fix at the end of the hall with a small tunnel-like kitchen right in front, a living area to the front left, and a bedroom and bathroom on the right. The bedroom has a small balcony. Scaramouche only has this place because he caught the landlord at a desperate time and got a deal with the lease, chopping a good part off what would’ve been his rent. Kazuha groans lightly; he loves it here, and is quick to drop all their stuff in the front, pull off his shirt, and let the other man shower first.
Scaramouche makes his beeline for the bathroom. Hot water soaks his skin and cleanses away all the sweat that’s stuck to his skin, and he almost immediately feels better. But he still groans loudly when the pressure falls onto some particularly sore spots. He’s sure Kazuha can hear it.
By the time he’s clothed, blow-dried, and emerging from the steamy box draped in a loose shirt and boxers, Kazuha has had the good graces to heat up whatever leftovers were in their fridge. He’s eaten half of it already, but the remnants are waiting for the guitarist on the table in the living room, still warm.
The blond disappears into the bathroom. The way he’s always around, anyone else would probably think he lives here… though that’s against the rules of Scaramouche’s lease. It’s just because Kazuha’s real apartment is split between a good few people to the point the bassist can’t stay long without getting overstimulated—a lot of his stuff is stored here, too, since he doesn’t trust his roommates not to go through it when he’s always away.
Scaramouche is quicker to eat than he expected. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d gotten. A little while after he’s settled, sitting thoughtlessly at the table, Kazuha emerges from the bathroom a new man.
He already has a lot of his clothes lying around, so he’s able to come out with his own pants on, loose and warm material, but no shirt. The soft, cream-blond locks of his hair are damp and lightly curling along his shoulders; the back has grown out a little down past his nape and his hair streak is fading into a dusty orange, but his bangs are trimmed fine. Scaramouche’s eyes have already trailed down to the blond’s bare chest. He takes a selfish moment to stare. He lets a small sigh out through his nose—he’d half-expected Kazuha to at least have the decency to cover up when it’s already chilly in the apartment.
“Mm,” Kazuha languidly greets the half-asleep guitarist at the table, carding slender fingers through his hair. “Your shampoo smells so good.”
“It’s just whatever I found at the supermarket,” he says lazily, leaning a little further back against his chair and lifting his head slightly. The frame is rectangular and bordered with square black metal, so it’s cool against his scalp.
Kazuha’s bare body is, unfortunately, something he tends to let his mind drift towards often. It’s slim because Kazuha is fairly active, and carries enough lean muscle to fill out into something on the masculine side of androgynous. And, while never admitting it, Scaramouche has a favorite part: the chest. It’s a bit funny. Kazuha has one pierced nipple, his right (as Scaramouche’s left), a simple silver bar with round stops, and he’s never bothered to ask why not the other.
“Your hair’s soft,” the bassist compliments, closing his eyes and leaning over Scaramouche’s head from the side. Both his hands play into his hair. “I need to dye mine again. Touch up the streak.”
The older lifts a hand, placing it on Kazuha’s waist, his grip light. He slides up the bassist’s ribs, feeling along the sinewy muscle, until he reaches the area near his pierced nipple. His palm grazes it slightly before coming to rest in the center of Kazuha’s chest.
“I… have some purple left, if you want,” he murmurs, a sluggish tone still lingering in his throat. “How come you’re half naked…”
Kazuha shakes his head. “No… I’m keeping it red. Purple will bleed too much, anyway.”
He smiles at the curiosity and touch, continuing, “I don’t feel like wearing a lot.”
Even when it’s cold like this? I’m not turning up the heating for you, Scaramouche would love to bite.
“See, you never touch me when we’re outside, but now I’m here and you’re all over me.”
They’re not dating. No, it’s not that kind of thing–they’re just friends. Kazuha just happens to have gotten cushy over the past year that he’s spent mooching off the apartment.
Scaramouche lifts his eyes, glancing up at the blond still standing over him. His palm still rests upon Kazuha’s chest, his fingers trailing along a pec; there’s a small frown tinting his face, brows pulling together indistinctly between annoyance and confusion, but also mixed with a hint of something else.
“There’s a difference. Here you’re half naked. Out there, you’re fully clothed,” he mumbles, almost as if he’s slightly upset over something, in some… odd, roundabout way.
“You’re so handsy,” Kazuha muses softly. “More than me.”
Maybe so.
His hand curls lightly around Scaramouche’s wrist and follows it up to his collarbones. “Mm… you know, your face… It’s cute. Pretty, like a girl’s. Always frowning.”
“Like a girl’s?” Scaramouche repeats as if it’s burning through his tongue, expression souring. He twists his hand out of Kazuha’s grasp and moves back in his seat, fingers curling around the edge. A sharp glare digs into Kazuha’s face. “What a shitty thing to say,” he snaps, brows finally committing to their pull.
The bassist pauses and his expression shifts a bit apologetically. “Sorry,” he says softly, watching Scaramouche’s face. “I just meant, you’re…”
It’s clear to see on Kazuha’s face when he finds that there’s no real way to phrase it, and again when he promptly gives up.
“... Do you want me to sleep on…”
“Let’s just—” Scaramouche’s eyes search his face for a moment after the apology from the bassist, seeing the shift in the man’s expression. He leans back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s quiet for a moment; it was a careless remark, Kazuha always says careless things… he doesn’t have a filter.
He lifts his eyes in a quiet glance to the other man. “Let’s… just go to bed,” he tells Kazuha. “I’m tired.”
“… Yeah.”
Kazuha follows him into the bedroom and climbs into the covers. As much as Scaramouche would like to say there’s room for two, there really isn’t unless they sleep back to back, and Kazuha would never.
The blond struggles between keeping whatever distance he can and sleeping in their normal arrangement, which is tangled together kind of intimately. He figures that not getting close would almost be an offense and wraps his arm around Scaramouche’s waist, pressing his front to the smaller guitarist’s back, transferring all his heat.
The guitarist doesn’t help his nerves by paying such close attention. It's… a comfortable feeling, being warm instead of cold…
He doesn’t say a word as he feels Kazuha’s breath on his neck, and his eyes slowly fall shut.
Scaramouche slowly blinks awake as something wakes him from his slumber, and for a moment, he just lays there, trying to register what had disturbed him. The room is still dim, but there’s a very distinct pressure against his backside; the guitarist’s eyes widen slightly, and a small gasp escapes him. His hand reaches back to grab ahold of Kazuha’s hip, fingers pressing into the flesh of his waist.
Of course, this kind of thing has happened before, but it’s rare. Kazuha’s always woken up quickly and gotten up to fix himself, but this time, exertion from the show the night before seems to keep him out cold. Or out hot. His body’s crazy warm.
Scaramouche can feel it distinctly. It’s hard to miss. Something about that stirs him a bit… but he has more shame than that.
He remains still for a little longer, his breath shaky and shallow in the early morning. The guitarist can feel his heart beating just a touch quicker as his chest tightens with something he’s unable to name. In his sleep, Kazuha shifted upwards, his head nuzzled into the crown of Scaramouche’s rather than against his neck. He can almost feel Kazuha’s breath in his hair, faint, quiet, and steady—and he can’t stop thinking about how the bassist’s body presses against him in the middle, hard .
Before he can stop it, Scaramouche is getting uncomfortably hot and bothered by it all. He fights the urge to go ahead and get himself off right away. Even if he’s quiet as he can be, Kazuha could still get up at any moment and catch him in the act… plus it just feels a bit dirty to do it with someone else up against him.
It feels dirty to be getting so agitated in the first place. Kazuha’s a straight man, so there’s no reason for Scaramouche’s thoughts to be going so fast, quickly twisting along the filthier path, a more fantastical part of his imagination.
Scaramouche’s breath hitches once, sharply, and he shivers as his mind floods with impure thoughts mixed with the feeling of Kazuha’s body gently grinding against his back. The heat of his bare upper half and the stiffness of his erection against Scaramouche’s backside feel nearly overwhelming in the morning light. The guitarist presses his hips back just slightly towards Kazuha to feel him more, almost without thinking. In response, Kazuha groans, his hand resting around Scaramouche’s chest and groping thoughtlessly. He rolls his hips forward.
This can’t… be right.
That groan echoes against Scaramouche’s ear, and he gasps, his own body rolling right back against Kazuha’s. The heat of the other man’s palm against his chest burns through the material, the guitarist’s breath shaking and erratic from Kazuha’s hips grinding against his. His skin feels like it’s on fire and his body’s sensitive, the need in his belly pooling between his thighs.
It’s all too much, but there’s just enough distance between them for Scaramouche to try and… discreetly slip a hand down, past the waistband of his underwear.
When his fingertips brush over his length, Scaramouche feels a brief moment of shame wash over him… and then his need blots all that out, and he moans softly, eyes fluttering shut—he takes himself in his hand, shallowly and without moving too much.
He can’t help but curl into himself a little, his hips coming forward into the pressure of his fingers. The warmth of Kazuha’s breath on his neck, grip around his waist, grinding carefully against his back… it all feels so good, and it’s making Scaramouche ache with a needy kind of desire he’s not used to.
“Kazu… nnh…”
Scaramouche can’t help the small gasp that falls from his mouth when his own touch brings the wave of desire in him to crest, his breath shaking as he lets the bassist’s name escape between his lips. It almost feels wrong, imagining the other man’s name in that way, but the way Kazuha grinds right back against him only sparks more of the feeling and hotter .
Scaramouche doesn’t expect himself to finish so quickly. It must be sensitivity from the morning, he lies to himself, rather than pinning his arousal on the man still faintly grinding against his back.
His eyes open blearily, and his hands tighten around his aching length when it spills, hot and messy in his palm.
Ah, this is definitely wrong.
Scaramouche wakes up for the second time with his hand stuffed into his boxers, sticky and uncomfortable, and an absence of Kazuha behind him.
He feels a wave of shame flush through his whole body in an instant, but it’s too late to do anything when he hears the sound of the water running.
There are a couple beats of silence in the apartment as the water continues in the bathroom, but Scaramouche doesn’t waste time—he moves as fast as his fuzzy mind can, taking a brief glance to see that Kazuha is still in the bathroom before he slides off the bed. Swiftly, he changes his underwear and throws his old ones into the hamper, returning right in time to see Kazuha emerge from the bathroom.
“Ah… morning,” the blond murmurs, his face flush with heat but looking fresh as if he washed it. He moves past and slips out to the living, upper half still bare. His hair is a little tousled, but mostly managed into a ponytail down his back.
The guilt is still there, but Scaramouche tries his best not to show it even as he brushes past the other man—he tries not to notice the blonde’s naked back, the way his muscles stand out more distinctly when he raises his arms to fix his hair—he’s embarrassed for something he can’t control.
As Scaramouche disappears inside, he can see the pale color of his cheeks in the mirror, and the disheveled look on his face. He washes it all off.
Time is money, so he returns to sit with Kazuha at the table once his morning routine is taken care of. That one pierced nipple never fails to catch the older man’s attention, even when it’s brushed behind his knee, leg pulled up onto the chair.
“… So we got paid two-fifty for the show, right? We have three hundred in tips,” Kazuha laughs softly, his voice a little different in the morning. He trails his pointer across the table where their cash has all been laid out, separated by bill. “That means a total of eighty for Xiao plus whatever tips he got, two-thirty for me, and two-forty for you.”
He manages his wallet and leans back. Then continues.
“Ahh… for a six hour set, I don’t think it’s so bad, you know? That’s more than three times minimum wage. But since there’s three of us, without tips, we’d be making thirteen an hour…”
Scaramouche’s eyes follow the piercing, just for a moment, before he tears his eyes away to keep from lingering.
“It’s not good, but it’s not bad,” he agrees after taking a moment to do the mental conversions, stretching his arms over his head with a groan before he drops one elbow on the table and covers his face with his hand. “I need a smoke.” His eyes flutter shut.
“Did I set you off or something last night, with the shotgun?” The blond’s eyebrows raise. “You’re quitting, aren’t you?”
He leans forward and folds his arms on the table. He looks at Scaramouche, his gauges, the snakebites hidden behind those slender fingers.
Scaramouche opens his sharp eyes and looks at Kazuha, his brow piercing, his double lobes and the two small silver hoops in each. He can’t see it, but he knows there’s a tongue piercing in there somewhere. He’s got to stop getting distracted.
“... What, the smoking?” Scaramouche groans again, but he rolls his eyes and looks up with a frown, dropping his hand away from his face. “Yeah, well...” He hesitates, his gaze sweeping over Kazuha again. The other man is just so bare , like that, that it’s a little distracting. “No… No, I don’t think you set me off. You just…”
Scaramouche shrugs, a soft grunt escaping his lips. “You always do that stuff. It’s annoying.”
“What stuff?”
He leans back and stretches his arms up, resting on the high, cool metal back of the chair. It feels nice against his skin. “You know I’ll stop if it really bothers you. Whatever it is.”
Scaramouche’s eyes roam over Kazuha’s arms, the lines and dips of his muscles as he stretches, the movement of tendons in his wrists. There’s something attractive about the way his muscles seem to work so fluidly… “It’s just the touching,” he mumbles, shifting to turn away a little, eyes on the open window opposite the couch. “I don’t mind that we sleep together, but you’re always all over me…”
Kazuha follows his eyes. “Mm. … Shit, what time is it?”
“What?” he guitarist’s brows furrow. He’s going to develop crease lines if he keeps it up. “You got something on?”
“I have work , ” Kazuha groans, sliding off the chair and disappearing back into the bedroom. Scaramouche’s eyes follow him back, but only barely catch his long fingers where they trail across the doorframe.