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To call it a fetish would be an oversimplification.
His favorite thing about Dennis - besides well, everything - was his hands.
They were strong and capable. There were callouses, a remnant of younger days, learning to play guitar in an empty bar. They showed a past that made Long want to learn to read palms. He’d practice often, running his own fingertips aling the expanse of skin, tracing every line to commit to memory. He had the scar on the inside of his palm, a story not yet told. When he was stressed, he’d ask Dennis to hold his hand, and he’d use his thumb to brush over it. Tan lines tanced around each finger, an outline of where his habitually worn rings laid. A younger version of Lonny longer to be the reason one of them was there.
He was fascinated by the size of them.
Lonny himself had pretty long fingers, providing ammunition for a pick up line a lifetime ago, and they complimented his lanky frame well.
But Dennis’ were in a category of their own. His palms were big and warm, fingers matching. When they interlocked, Lonny could see a faint dusting of hair on his knuckles, having begun to silver from age.
He washed his hands far too frequently, a habit he picked up as a kid. So much so, the soap went out much faster, and it all dried his hands out. Lonny makes sure that there is lotion everywhere they go, splurging a bit because he likes how soft it makes his skin.
These were the hands that got Dennis here to him. The same ones that helped build the Bourbon, that hired him, that saved all they had created together. These were the hands that turned red from clapping for a band for to long. These were the fingers that combed his hair back into a low ponytail when he was working, a sight that makes Lonny want to kiss him raw. These were the hands that held Lonny in the early morning, the ones that he’d press his lips to after a long night.
These were the hands belonging to the love of his life, and Lonny thinks that’s pretty fucking special enough.