Hans Larsson

Come here.

Those were the only words Bjorn heard as he felt the Brit pull him closer. He didn't feel as if he was about to land into a bed of sharp thistles this time so moved into Rekker's lap. Now, they were both sat on the floor of the elevator in each other's arms; the singer sitting in the ginger guitarist's lap. The blond sighing slowly closing his arms because he had no words. He was slowly coming down from his terrible high, feeling sick to his stomach because he hadn't eaten in days and had just drunk booze and snorted coke.

Fuck.

"Gingerlocks."

Bjorn muttered the words quietly as he sat with the older man. The elevator was now at a standstill because Rekker had slammed on the emergency stop. Fuck whoever wanted to come and fix it.