Hands. Everywhere.
Clapping, waving, reaching. A sea of moving humanity. For as far as he could see.
Richie's fingers itch and flex but not from the amount of use during the set tonight.
Tight black pants, thin navy button up shirt stretched over taut muscles. He was smooth, hairless. Why does he do that? Doesn't he know that he just makes it harder to concentrate on the words and the chords?
Last song of the final encore; Prayer. Take my hand. Jonny will be praying to whatever god will listen before I'm through with him tonight, he thinks.
Final notes fade into reverb, hands relieve him of the guitar across his shoulders, worn plastic pick flicks into the outstretched hands of the overexcited crowd.
Familiar hands grasp in joyful celebrations of another successful show as they take their bows.
The feel of the shirt registers under fingertips first. Dare he move higher up, traversing Jon's rib cage before the tight flex of pectoral muscle lure him further.
A brush of thumb over newly exposed nipple and heat-seeking fingers has Jon yelling out in front of thousands of onlookers.
"Hey!"
His hand lingers over the sweaty flesh for a heartbeat longer before being pulled away by Jon. Thumbs tangle briefly in a silent promise before thousands of witnesses.
Jon grips his wrist just a little tighter than normal as they take their bows. They exit the stage down the stairs. Hands clap his back in congratulations as they move past him.
One hand slips perfectly into his.
Hands. Everywhere.
