"Want Some?"
by spiteful angel



I emerge from the hotel bathroom, a towel wrapped firmly around my hair and another around my waist, heading for the hairdryer; if I don't do something about my hair now, it'll be completely uncontrollable once it's dry. Well, more uncontrollable than it usually is, anyway. I stop for a second when I realise that you're sitting in an armchair by the window - you must have let yourself into my room, because I'm sure I didn't leave the door unlocked. You're painting your toenails and humming something that might possibly be 'Harvest Moon' by Neil Young. I have to smile, your fixation with Neil Young's always amused me; he doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd be into, on the surface, but then I know you better than that. I imagine it was probably Ville's influence that got you into him in the first place - Valo, I mean, not your brother; somehow I can't see your brother being into Neil Young - but something about his lyrics seems to appeal to your quiet, thoughtful side.

You look up at me and smile, wriggling your toes and holding up the bottle of nail varnish. "Want some?"

I look at it; it's bright pink. With what looks like silver sparkles in it. Not really my style. I shake my head. "I don't think so. You can do my fingernails black though, if you like."

A happy smile makes its way across your face. "All right. I already did Kristian." I raise my eyebrow, and you amend, rolling your eyes. "Did his nails, idiot. He had his pink." You sound slightly reproachful, and I laugh.

"Well, it fits his image a little better, doesn't it? Besides, Hanoi Rocks are on the bill, he has to look his best if he's going to be meeting his big heroes, doesn't he?"

You giggle. "Very true. He was trying not to bounce about meeting Andy McCoy the whole time I was doing his nails. Although," your voice is low and teasing, "I bet you'd be wanting to look your best if Aerosmith were on the bill. Or Guns n' Roses."

I shrug. You're right, of course, but I'm never going to admit it. You giggle again. "You know, Lauri, I didn't even need to ask you about your musical influences when you joined the band. You just walked in looking like the bastard son of Slash and Joe Perry, and that was all I needed to know."

I laugh, taking the towel off my wet hair and shaking my head a little as I grab the hairdryer. "Am I that obvious?"

You roll your eyes, flinching away from the drops of water I'm shaking all over you. "Yes, Lauri, you really are. Frightening as the thought of Slash and Joe Perry having babies is, it's what you are. Does your mother know?"

"Not to my knowledge," I grin. "Anyway, that's a bit rich coming from the similarly bastard child of Steven Tyler and Stevie Nicks." You stick your tongue out at me at that, but I just grin again and switch the hairdryer on, which drowns out whatever you were going to say next. I can't help smiling to myself, you're obviously in an excitable mood, and I can't say I blame you; it's a big festival today, close enough to home to feel like we're really back there, and loads of our friends and favourite bands are on the bill. I wouldn't mind betting that a lot of your mood is down to nerves, you do still get horribly nervous before going on stage, although at least it doesn't make you throw up any more. I might have to distract you a bit, once I've dried my hair, see if I can calm you down just a little.

I've barely finished sorting my hair out when I feel a pair of arms snaking around my waist from behind me, a slim body pressing against my back. "So," you murmur into my hair, resting your chin on my shoulder, "if you're the bastard son of Joe Perry, and I'm the bastard son of Steven Tyler...what does that make us?"

I consider for a moment, but it's quite difficult to concentrate on coming up with a smart answer because I'm very conscious that I'm wearing nothing but a towel and you're pressed right up against me, your fingers skittering over my chest and stomach.

"Well," I manage. "Not brothers, anyway."

You giggle again. "No. I wouldn't be doing this with my brothers," you murmur as you pull my hair out of the way and kiss the side of my neck, just under my ear.

I can't help laughing. "Oh, so are you not giving us 'brotherly kisses' any more?" That throwaway comment of yours has always amused me, and I never pass up an opportunity to tease you about it.

"You know I'm not, Lauri." Your voice is dark now, almost all the playfulness gone, and I can't help but shiver. "You know I was only saying that to shut them up."

I smile. Result. You always fall for that one, every time, you're always so quick to justify yourself.

Your hands drift down to the edge of my towel, resting on my hipbones for a moment. "You're a little overdressed, don't you think?"

I laugh again, you're so blatant sometimes. "Jonne. I'm wearing a towel. If anyone's overdressed here, it's you."

"Well. Maybe we should be doing something about that." You wriggle against me, shimmying out of your impossibly low-slung jeans, and manoeuvre me towards the bed. I manage to catch a glimpse of the clock, it's all right, loads of time before we have to be leaving for the festival, and then I forget all about the show, the band, your promise to paint my nails, everything. My towel's gone, abandoned on the floor with your jeans and your very fetching zebra-striped shirt, and there's only you, so distracting as always, making me forget about everything but you, just for a while. You've always been spectacularly good at that.

~The End~