i wanna hold your hand

Somehow they’ve moved from palms clasped to fingers interlocked in the five seconds before they jumped through the doors, and Willie can feel the rough drumstick calluses on Alex’s palms and fingers, some edged with torn skin and others worn to permanence with the passage of time, all now permanently affixed in whatever state they were in when Alex died. There’s a large one right on the pad of Alex’s thumb that keeps brushing over the back of Willie’s hand, smaller ones tucked into the insides of his knuckles, and Willie wants to memorize all of them, all these little reminders that Alex bled and breathed and played music and was alive.