His hands were the hands that had touched so much of the world, yet so little. They were hands rough and calloused from years and years of guitar, yet gentle when they needed to be, wiping tears or mussing hair.
They were cold hands when he was nervous, clammy and sweating, and they were warm when he was comfortable, softer and lighter. And sometimes they burned.
His fingers were strong, playing those chords so often that it just came as easy as breathing, and they were light and fast, too, changing easily from one to another.
His hands were full of contradictions: rough and gentle, cold and warm, strong and light.
And Mark had felt all of those, and knew just how much of those things they could be.
His hands had been rough as they shoved Mark into the wall, holding him there as his eyes burned and his mouth contorted with rage; rough when his fists smashed into Mark's face again and again; rough along his back as Roger grappled for something to hold onto and found only Mark. Gentle when he held the crumpled t-shirt to Mark's bleeding nose as tears ran down his face; gentle as he ghosted his fingers along Mark's cheekbones; gentle now as he brushed Mark's sweaty hair back from his forehead.
They were cold at April's funeral, when he clung to Mark's hand, too numb and scared to go through it alone; cold for so long during his withdrawal and still even these days, especially when he reached to take his AZT, that Mark knew what warm hands meant for Roger; cold that first night when he clung to Mark's arm and wouldn't let him leave, that burning panic and darkening passion deep in his eyes. Warm when they slept on the couch, a blanket over their legs, and Roger's head resting on Mark's shoulder; warm when he wrapped his arms around Mark as he lay in Roger's bed when Roger refused to sleep alone; warm as they brushed along Mark's face, both of their eyes closed, and the night's events done. Burning now, as they were too deep to stop now and all Mark could think of was Roger's hands and he knew he'd never look at them the same way again.
Strong as he stood on the stage again, smiling at the cheering crowd and playing with the kind of skill it only seemed Roger Davis had; strong as they crushed Mark to his chest the night he came home; strong, even as they trembled, when they fumbled with the buttons on that old black shirt. Light as he ran his fingers through his short hair when he got it cut for the first time in months; light as he gently slapped the back of Mark's head for some joke neither of them could remember now; light now, too, as he slid his fingers all over Mark, from his face to his neck, and his shoulders, his chest, stomach, hips, legs, as if trying to memorize every plane and curve.
Mark wanted to lose himself in those hands, knowing that he'd never see them without finding a million more memories they held. A million more little things they could do. What they were doing now, though, was very nice… Hell, more than nice, it was… it was… oh god, he couldn't even think straight.
Those hands had possessed him, taken him, learned him, so much and so hard and so well and it was amazing he'd never noticed what amazing hands Roger had before. Hands that made his face flush and his breath come ragged and his stomach flutter.
Hands that had certainly changed his world, at least for tonight.