Work Text:
Lewis wakes to the sun streaming through the blinds, falling in slices across the sheets beside him. The empty space illuminated by the morning glow makes his heart ache.
An ever changing backdrop of cities. It has never felt like home.
But it was easier, then.
He crawls out of bed and into the bathroom, gags when he meets his own eyes in the mirror.
He can feel the phantoms of his lover's hands skimming along his chest, the ghost of his kiss in the crook of his neck and the remains of his breath on his ear, his whisper echoing, good morning.
He splashes some water in his face. He misses him.
He stands under the shower's spray, and tries to push away thoughts of the door creaking open and a nervous body stepping in beside him, the tenseness of the shorter dissipating beneath the water and the taller's embrace.
All the little things about life on the road, the little routines of daily life that are kept alive within the walls of a hotel room, are suddenly too much. These fleeting domesticities, the few tethers he has to the structures of his life back in London— it makes his stomach turn.
Lewis brushes his teeth and sets his toothbrush back into its travel container instead of the shared storage cup. He scrunches a bit of mousse into his hair and imagines it is not his hands helping to saturate the back.
He fumbles through the motions of getting dressed and meets the rest of the band in the hotel's restaurant for breakfast and asks if they can keep The Wrong Trousers off of tonight's setlist, and he pretends not to see the sadness in Tyler's smile when she nods.
He thanks her and takes a bite of his eggs— over-easy. He pretends he likes them, just as he does when Isaac makes them.