Keane 20

May 2024

Tom walks up to the window, his long fingers yanking at the sheer, stiff fabric of the hotel room's curtain. Tonight's show was once again amazing, although it left him incredibly tired. Back at the venue, he has already taken a shower and changed into his black comfy joggers and a sweatshirt, its smoky colour contrasting with the silvery whites of his tousled hair.

He looks out absentmindedly. Thinking about Tim. Imagining him coming up to him from behind, Tim's hot breath on his neck. Sliding his hands over Tom's sides, his hips subtly but insistently brushing against him.

Oh, Tim.

Tom breaks away from the window and falls back onto the bed. It is never quite certain whether Tim will come, and that makes him uncomfortably anxious. He scolds himself for being weak and focusing too much on this... craving? Infatuation? Some kind of a delirious dream? He feels annoyed with his friend too, keeping him on the edge like this. Doesn't he know Tom should not lose his sleep over anything? His schedule, incredibly tight; his voice, body, mental condition, nearly every night all that needs to be—as it is!—in mint condition. For millions of fans and the press to see, hear, connect with, be delighted by. The whole band, Tim included, relies to be carried on Tom's shoulders. Emotions darken his eyes and his pulse quickens.

Drawing his breath, Tom pauses, catching himself just in time to contain the rising anger. The same technique he uses when growing impatient with his children. Of course, Tim knows this. Tim cares, always. This spring, this tour, throughout different hotel rooms, different cities, Tim would soothe him, hold him in his arms, give Tom everything he needed.

In many ways, this was like a tentative honeymoon for them. They didn't discuss the future, or what and who was waiting for them back home. That didn't matter in this reality, current rules of the tour. Bathing in the love of fans, they felt like this was a whole different world—one where everything was about Keane—and it was a way to forget that anything had ever existed outside of this setting. They were just there for each other, seizing the gentle, fleeting magic of now.

Tom closes his eyes, remembering these evenings with Tim... In hotel rooms, whenever they didn't have to sleep in the bus, and the other guys were away somewhere at a safe distance. How he wishes Tim would be here already, crawling on top of him, parting his legs impatiently. Tentative, forceful fingers finding their way into his mouth. Tom's head tilts aside with a longing yearning.

Tim's got him like this, lying helpless, waiting.

His pride made him hesitate to text Tim, asking to come directly, yet Tim nearly always did, considerate as he was. Or it was Tom sometimes, but he much preferred it to be Tim. He had already made it overwhelmingly clear—in any way he could, both on stage and off—that Tim was welcome. He had done his part. It was not a very smoothly worked-out system, but somehow it had run okay this far.

And after Tim had come, them both after the shower and changed, they would enjoy those scarce moments of free time, savouring each and every one. They had to be careful to not disturb their—especially Tom's—health or sleep schedule in any way. So, apart from cuddling and getting lost in kisses, they would usually masturbate each other, or it would be Tim's fingers and tongue, finding ways to love Tom in every delicious way imaginable.

To do more in any non-traumatic way would require preparation, which they never had time for, and anything involving Tom's throat had to be handled carefully. These limitations made them feel like schoolboys toying in secrecy, and constantly kept them dreaming of a time when everything would be possible and Tim could finally take Tom, fully. Maybe at the end of the tour?

The end of the tour. And after that? Tom doesn't want to think of it.

Tim comes finally. He has also changed, but his lenses are still in his eyes, just for Tom. He hugs Tom tenderly, tightly, urgently; his erection tells how much he has waited for this. Tim's hand caresses his hair, and Tom thinks he hears Tim quietly say, 'My love' under his breath, as his friend's fingers run admiringly through the newly short silver strands—but most likely it just seemed so. Tim would rather act than be this outspoken... or let his lyrics do the speaking.

'Sorry I didn't come sooner,' Tom hears Tim in his ear. 'Jesse spotted me in the hallway and wanted me to go watch the Aurora with him. I had to pretend I was tired and let him accompany me back to my room. But now I'm finally here.' Tom just hums and chuckles in response. Nothing matters right now, when they are in each other's arms.

Tim bends Tom over the bed, knees on the floor, ready to grind against his ass. Strong hands, impatient, hot hips. One of his hands reaches towards Tom's crotch, eliciting heavy, repeated sighs of pleasure from both of them. Tim's shoulders engulf him warmly, hypnotically. Reality both shrinks and expands. Tonight, Tom will sleep well.