bliss 🖤 imagines

7. luna 🖤 brian molko

(First imagine in forever, and I wrote it half asleep.

TW: depression, self harm)

The feeling of the mattress settling just slightly pulls you from hazy dreams that you can barely remember. You blink, trying to make sense of your blurred surroundings as the soft voice reaches your ears.

"Hey."

You grin to yourself, taking in Brian's face, illuminated by the glowing blue light of the hotel television.

There are still shadows of smudged eyeliner surrounding his eyes, and you're pretty sure his hair is wet. He looks totally and completely exhausted, wiped out from yet another show.

Just like you have been every other time he's snuck back into your hotel bed, you are absolutely delighted to see him.

"Hey, you," you greet him, voice hoarse with sleep. "What a sight for sore eyes you are. Did you get to take a shower?"

"Managed to rinse off real quick after the show, yeah." He smiles, as if he was hoping you'd notice.

You hum. "Good thing," you declare. "It's better cuddling you when you aren't all sweaty. Now, c'mere."

You pat the spot next to yours, the thus-far cold side of the bed that you'd left open for his return.

Your arms find his waist as soon as he lies down next to you, pulling him closer to you as you rest your head on his shoulder. Once he's snug against you, you brush a damp strand of dark hair away from his face and plant a kiss against his cheek.

"My pretty boy," you murmur, lightly tracing where your lips were before pulling your hand away.

Brian sighs contentedly, leaning into your touch. Idly, your free hand begins to wander once again, leaving you to lightly trace the curve of his spine.

"How was the show?" you inquire quietly.

"Was alright," Brian replies. "Wasn't really feeling like I was on it this evening, but I did it anyways." 

"I'm proud of you," you tell him, — and it's the honest truth. You know how dry the whole show thing has been lately, can see how it affects him on top of the lack of sleep and the way his moods seem to be controlled by some sort of swinging pendulum these days.

It's the elephant in the room, — the touring schedule is one of the things keeping him so low as of late. The constant moving, the lack of variety. Nothing but the same old songs in different places. A monotonous routine.

"I would have been there to watch you," you continue, turning your attention to running your fingers through his hair. "But that stupid cold I picked up on the road is still kicking my ass. Had to turn in early for the night."

"'S okay," Brian replies quickly. "Just the same as always. You know... going too fast for Stefan and Steve to keep up, playing the same stupid fucking songs, trying not to panic even though you aren't the main act. The usual."

You hear it then, — that self-deprecation that is so endemic to him, disguised in his casual tone. You know him, — know him better than you've ever bothered to know anyone else, — know how he's been known to respond when he feels he hasn't done his part.

You know you have to ask.

"Show me your arms," you request gently.

The moment's hesitation seems to be a long one, though you know it's only a second or two. It goes without saying that he hoped you wouldn't ask.

Still, ever loyal, he extends one wrist to you, an invitation.

You reach for him, holding onto his arm gently as you examine his skin in the light of the currently-playing informational.

You're familiar with this wreck. Myriad scrapes and bruises, on top of the few scars, placed there at various times by sharp objects and blunt force, scalding cigarettes and the odd needle.

You trace those imperfections on one arm, then the other, making sure to be as gentle as you can.

After a thorough examination, you release his left arm, concluding with a testing inquiry.

"No more?" you ask, just to be sure.

He shakes his head. "No more," he affirms. "Just like I promised."

Relief washes over you as you press a kiss to his forehead, wordless thanks for allowing your worries to stay quiet, if only for the evening.

As the dusky sky grows closer to daylight, you hold him close, feeling yourself beginning to drift off.

Simply happy to be beside you, Brian follows suit, quickly drifting away as you idly toy with his hair.

Holding him close, you send out a silent thank you to nowhere, thanking your lucky stars that this beautiful mess of a human being gets to be your mess.

Yours to hold as the early hours of morning tick on.

Yours to love, in spite of every self-destructive fit and glaring imperfection.

Yours, until something much bigger than you is able to intervene.

In that cold hotel bed, you hoped to yourself that it never will.