âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• John Entwistle •

Of all the hands in the world, you were certain that guitarist hands were the best. The fingertips were roughened and scarred, but the palms were soft and warm, ready to soothe your skin and hold you tight.

You could imagine a drummer's hands being too coarse and peeling, and a singer's being too soft and unexperienced. And you didn't even want to entertain the thought of thought of a mixing engineer's hands.

Yes, guitarist hands were definitely a cut above the rest. Naturally, though, your guitarist's hands were the best. Your John's.

The fleeting touches that he unselfishly granted you throughout the arduous days didn't indicate the strength, the softness, the nobility of your guitarist's hands. Yet now, while you lay huddled tightly into the sofa cushions with streaks of tears haunting your cheeks, you were able to revel in the beauty of the bones, muscles and skin that played your heart as easy as they played the strings. It was almost enough to let you forget why you were crying in the first place.

John, however, was at a complete loss. His hands were running over your skin on impulse, the carnal need to protect you, soothe you, touch you, make sure you were still complete. He didn't realise the effect the ghost of his fingertips had over you. Instead, he remained on his knees on the sofa beside you, repeating your name in hushed tones like a healing incantation.

"Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?" John was asking, desperately. He wanted so badly to bridge what was left of the space between his body and yours and reach out to hold you, pull you so close to him that all he would be able to know was the sight, the smell, the sound, the taste, the feel of you. But you were crying, in pain, and it would break his heart to make you feel worse.

So, instead, he did the thing he knew would always cheer you up. Momentarily abandoning the side he so desperately wanted to cuddle up against, he padded over to the record player, picked out your latest favourite, let the turntable spin, then slipped out into your kitchen.

Meanwhile, you peeked through your water stained eyelids as the music began to fill the cavernous space. Procol Harum. With one of the most beautiful albums you had ever heard. And as A Whiter Shade of Pale began to bounce between the walls and flow into your mind, the calming sound of domestic movement rose above the mystical introduction.

Through the open door of your cramped kitchen, you could hear John bumbling through your cupboards and the faint whistle of your kettle boiling. Of course - the thing he knew would always cheer you up. A beautiful piece of music, and a steaming cup of tea.

By the time John was wandering back through the kitchen door, two cups of tea gripped between his fingers, you were sat up on the sofa, your legs crossed beneath you and tingling fingers swiping dolefully at your teary eyes.

Although you were far from back to your usual self, it was certainly an improvement, and John gave you a warm smile as you dropped your hand awkwardly back into your lap and shyly met his eyes.

He didn't know what to say. It was clear you weren't okay, so he knew there was no point asking you that. And he was aware that asking you what was wrong could make you curl back into the sofa cushions.

So, John said nothing. Beneath your drying eyes, he padded over to the sofa, placed the steaming cups of tea on the small table before you, and sunk into the sofa cushions, watching you warily from the corner of his eye.

To his immense relief, almost immediately you inched over to him. Without hesitation, he took you under his arm and wrapped you up in his ceaseless embrace. A deep sigh emitted from your lips when you nestled in even closer, and John couldn't hide his smile as he felt your entire body loosen up beneath his strong, stable hands, relaxing completely against his own.