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Everything else is up to the author, even though I'm an Adam/Tommy shipper who loves happy endings.
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The reply isn’t immediate, and Brad’s immersed in YouTube when his phone vibrates. ‘Haha, working on it. Catching up on my DVR.’
Brad smirks and shoots off, ‘You aren’t still wanking to my ep of Torchwood, are you?’
‘In ur dreams, smartass’
Grinning, Brad turns off the screen, feeling better.
*
The next day, Brad texts again: ‘What are you up to today?’ He’s not wanting to be overbearing, but still feels the need to check up. Along with Alisan, and Leila, and God knows how many other people… He rolls his eyes at himself. Adam’s going to see right through him ( ... )
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He must be asleep, Brad thinks, and pads quietly to the side of the bed ( ... )
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Leila had returned home abruptly after hearing about her oldest’s decline in health; Brad wasn’t sure how Adam had told her, but he knew he was glad to have not been around for that conversation ( ... )
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“Did you hear me that time? IT WON’T HELP!” Adam’s voice cracks and gives out on his shout, the words felt in his breath more than heard. “You know what they said about your stupid fucking therapy? That it’s worthless. That I’ll be lucky if I can ever sing again at all.”
The words hit Brad with a dull thud, and he can do nothing for a moment but stare at Adam, whose face is terrible and twisted with rage. When he can’t muster a response, Adam snarls and stalks away, kicking viciously at the mess on the floor.
Brad stands for a long minute, absorbing this new reality, sorting through the shock of what Adam has just said. It won’t help It won’t help It won’t help. It pricks at him, Adam’s words feeling all wrong, Adam’s ( ... )
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And yet, he knows he can’t apologize for what he said; if his words spur Adam into action, they’re worth whatever harm was inflicted. He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t want to get caught in Adam’s anger again.
*
Brad’s checking his Twitter feed a couple of days later when one @reply catches his eye: ‘Did u see ur ex getting wasted last night?’ with a link attached. Mentally flipping off the sender, Brad almost doesn’t click it; wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been surprised that Adam was out at all.
He must be feeling better, Brad thinks as the pictures load on JustJared. When they come up, however, his heart sinks. He’s ( ... )
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Brad’s eyes widen. “That’s great,” he says, feeling hope surge in him again, but something in Adam’s manner makes him refrain from asking all the questions that spring up in his mind.
Adam picks more violently at his jeans. “What if…” His hand curls into a tight fist. “What if it doesn’t work?”
The words are whispered, barely audible, but Brad hears them. Reaching out, he puts his hand on top of Adam’s fist and squeezes. “What if it does?”
Adam’s breath hitches, and he raises his other hand to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his lips. “I just-“ He hesitates, and Brad can hear his throat closing around the words. “If I try… and want it… and what if it doesn’t work?” His lips tremble and he presses them together, eyes wide and unblinking to try and keep the moisture in them ( ... )
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On the fourth day, Brad hangs up from a phone call that he’s taken to the bedroom, and as he walks back to the living room he stops short to listen. Adam is… singing, the chorus of Whataya Want From Me thin and off-key, the high notes breaking, before Adam’s voice dies out altogether.
Brad holds his breath as he steps into the room, not sure what he will find. Adam is sitting on the couch, staring off towards the window, a couple of wet trails down his face.
“I can’t do this,” Adam says into the empty space, and Brad’s breath catches before Adam continues. “I can’t… not sing. I can’t.” There’s a note of desperation under his words. “Even if I try and it doesn’t come back-“ Adam stops, then takes a deep breath ( ... )
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