Sean sleeps more often than he wakes, lately. The show high lags faster and faster until his heartbeat hardly raises under the spotlights.
Tom's shoulder becomes a welcome pillow when the bus shunts through midnight traffic, Max's jacket is a part-time blanket.
Movements become sluggish and his brain gets swampy and things slip away before Sean can catch them.
Tom asks him, soft and sleep-rough on an early bus-call,
the two of them bundled together in the bus lounge as Max wrangles coffee and Mike from the hotel bed - because Max is an angel with cherub's curls and demonic levels of cunning.
Tom presses his face into Sean's neck, bones cracking at the movement, and whispers warmly against his skin, "You okay, man?"
And Sean doesn't have to ask. He yawns and pushes Tom's hair back off his forehead, mumbles, "Just tired."
"Old man", Tom grunts, and splays his hand out over Sean's chest, tips of his fingers pushing into the gaps between his ribs. They both slip under before Max steps back on the bus.
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