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Duff shut the door behind him with a quiet click, rolling his stiff shoulders as he let out a slow breath. His body still buzzed faintly from the show, a mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion warring beneath his skin. It had been a hell of a night—the kind that left his ears ringing, sweat drying sticky on his skin, his fingers aching from pressing too hard on the strings.
But Slash had it worse.
Duff barely had time to set his jacket on the floor before he caught sight of him—already face-down on the bed, his curls spilling over the pillows in a dark, tangled mess. He hadn’t even bothered to take off his boots. His hat was tossed carelessly onto the nightstand, his shirt tossed on the chair like an afterthought.
Duff lingered for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of Slash’s back. A familiar warmth settled in his chest—not quite concern, but something close. Slash had been running himself into the ground lately, playing through exhaustion, barely eating between shows. Drinking, though.
He never said anything, but Duff knew. He could see it in the way Slash moved, the way his fingers trembled ever so slightly when he lit a cigarette, the way he clung just a little longer when Duff held him after a long night.
Shaking his head, Duff stepped closer. “Jesus, babe, at least take your boots off.”
A low, muffled groan came from the depths of the pillow.
Duff giggled. “That a yes or a no?”
Silence. Then, after a long pause, a sluggish mumble: “Tired.”
Duff crouched beside the bed, resting his forearms on the mattress as he took him in. Even in the dim light, Slash looked exhausted—his shoulders hunched with lingering tension, his fingers curled loosely into the sheets, his body a little too still. The second his fingers made contact, he felt the tension coiled beneath his skin—tight, rigid muscles refusing to relax even now.
Slash made a sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a grunt.
“Sore?” Duff guessed, his voice quieter now.
Another mumble. This time, a little closer to a yes.
Duff let his hand drift over his back, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine. “You’re all knotted up.”
Letting his hand linger, Duff murmured, “You should let me help.”
There was a pause. Then, after a beat, Slash cracked one eye open, just enough for Duff to catch the sleepy flicker of amusement there. “That your way of gettin’ your hands on me?”
Duff huffed a quiet laugh, pressing his palm more firmly against Slash’s back. “C’mon, like I need an excuse.”
Then there was a pause, then a long, slow exhale. Slash didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either.
That was all Duff needed.
Duff shifted up onto his knees, tugging Slash’s shirt higher to bare his back. The skin was golden and warm, slightly damp from the leftover heat of the show. Duff splayed his hands over it, tracing the ridges of his spine before pressing down, kneading slowly into the tight spots. He could see the tension now—tight muscles stretched taut over his frame, the sharp lines of his shoulder blades standing in contrast to the rest of him.
Duff exhaled, pressing his thumbs into the space between Slash’s shoulders. “Alright, just relax,” he murmured.
At first, he kept his touch light, smoothing his hands over Slash’s back in slow, careful motions. His skin was warm beneath his fingers, a familiar kind of heat that sent something deep and steady curling in Duff’s chest. He dragged his palms down the length of his spine, tracing the curve of his lower back before working his way back up again.
He started slow, kneading his thumbs into the space between Slash’s shoulder blades, working the tension in firm, careful circles. Slash let out a long breath, his body sinking just a little deeper into the mattress. Encouraged, Duff dragged his palms down the length of his spine again, pressing into each ridge, feeling the way Slash’s muscles tensed and gave under his touch.
“Shit,” Slash murmured into the pillow.
Encouraged, Duff worked methodically, easing his way down to the small of Slash’s back, then back up again, tracing the long lines of his shoulders with practiced fingers. Every now and then, Slash let out a barely audible sigh, and Duff swore his brain was melting. It wasn’t just about loosening him up—it was about taking care of him, about reminding him that he genuinely cared about him.
“You with me?” Duff murmured after a while, his voice quieter now, softer.
Slash made a noise— something content, almost a hum.
Then, once he felt Slash sink a little deeper into the mattress, he pressed harder.
Slash let out a low, breathy sound—something close to a moan—as Duff kneaded his thumbs into the base of his neck, working firm circles over the knotted muscles there. The tension was bad, worse than he expected. He focused there for a while, pressing deeper, feeling the way Slash’s body gradually gave under his touch.
“You really did a number on yourself tonight,” Duff muttered, voice quiet, almost absent.
Slash made a soft, noncommittal sound.
Duff hummed, shaking his head. His hands never stopped moving—slow, deliberate, methodical. He worked over every stubborn knot, every tight spot, smoothing out the tension with steady pressure. Slash’s body responded in increments, the stiffness melting away little by little.
By the time Duff reached his lower back, Slash had gone loose-limbed beneath him, his breathing deep and even.
Duff let himself linger, tracing slow circles over his skin with his fingertips, feeling the warmth radiating from him. He hadn’t meant for this to be intimate, not really—but it was. In the quiet, in the dim glow of the hotel room, in the way Slash trusted him enough to let go, in the way it was just the two of them.
“Feels great,” he voiced, although it was barely above a whisper. “I'm lucky as fuck,”
Duff’s lips twitched into a small, private smile. He felt his cheeks burn, appreciative of the comment but also embarrassed. “Yeah?”
Slash gave a nod, his breathing deep and steady. His lashes fluttered once, twice, before his eyes finally closed.
Duff exhaled through his nose, pressing one last, gentle stroke over his back before leaning down, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder.
Slash made a quiet, pleased sound. He shifted a little, leaning into the touch.
Duff’s body was warm, content. He smiled, pulling the sheets over both of them before sliding down beside the guitarist.
His arm found its way around Slash’s waist, fingers resting lightly against his hip. Slash barely stirred, but at the last second, his hand moved—fingers curling loosely around Duff’s wrist, holding on. Not tightly, not urgently. Just enough.
Duff swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.
Outside, the city still moved. But here, in this small, quiet space, there was nothing but warmth. Nothing but the soft press of bodies, the steady rhythm of breath, the unspoken comfort of knowing they had each other.