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It’s so late it’s probably early, and Jonny feels hopelessly exhausted, all his energies drained by yet another endless flight across the globe. He’s so tired he doesn’t even complain when he realizes the room only has one queen-size bed; he just collapses on his side of the mattress, buries his face into the pillow and falls asleep.
It’s hours later — and therefore, even earlier in the morning, – when he stirs awake, only slightly aware of the fact that he’s tucked under a thick blanket now, and he doesn’t have his shoes on anymore.
In the dim, pink light slipping in through the courtains, Jonny can see Chris on his back, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide and unfocused. His hands resting on his ribs, he’s tapping away a song Jonny doesn’t know, doesn’t recognize; maybe it’s something new.
Jonny just stares at him for a while, the pale curve of Chris’ neck and the swift, sharp movements of his slender fingers, until he’s not even sure he’s not dreaming. He shifts, and sees the corner of Chris’ mouth curl up into a smile.
“You okay?” he asks, softly, because that’s pretty much all he worries about inside his head, all the time.
Chris’ answer is a non-committal, throaty sound, and Jonny closes his eyes, he shifts some more.
He could just go back to sleep, and he probably should; he knows that. Instead, he opens his eyes again and he’s all but leaning over Chris, and when he looks at him, Chris actually looks back.
“I love you,” he says, their lips barely touching. Chris smiles for a moment, and then he’s pushing up and pressing his mouth to Jonny’s — and it’s just that, a kiss as dry as their songs never are, soft, and so very much like a secret.
Jonny crashes back into the mattress, then rolls over so that he’s lying on his belly; he hugs the pillow and a moment later he’s out of it, but he’s sleeping closer to Chris now.
Chris looks at him for a while; when he knows Jonny won’t wake up for less than a nuclear war, with a finger he traces the lines of his mouth, his nose, his eyebrows, and he’s not touching really. He lifts himself up onto an elbow, careful not to move too much.
“I love you, Jonny boy,” he says, softly, his mouth almost pressed to Jonny’s forehead. “I love you,” he whispers again, closer to Jonny’s ear. “Love you,” he confesses to the back of Jonny’s neck, and again to his shoulders, up against Jonny’s right arm, his wrist, his knuckles, and then his voice gets lost, everywhere on Jonny’s skin.
Chris’ words are softer and softer every time he speaks, he spills everything without thinking and Jonny, as always, is just there, drinking him in. It takes Chris some time to realize he’s singing to the slow, flawed tune that filled his head before; it’s lyrics, not just words anymore — and they are all yellow.