Lambliff: Eyelashes
They’re backstage at some venue in a city that Adam can’t remember the name of, getting ready and putting on their stage clothes. Tommy likes to call it his uniform, just a bunch of leather straps and mesh and chains, and the first time he puts it on, he looks at Adam and says, “Shit, two weeks with you and already my sex life seems vanilla.” Tommy says a lot of stuff like that.
The rooms in the back of the venue are clean, cleaner than Adam had expected, only now that he’s actually there, he can’t remember what he thought it would be like. He’s watching Tommy get ready-it’s just the two of them in the room-and there’s music drifting from the speakers that Adam doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t really mind.
“You’re lucky someone does this shit for you,” Tommy says, ringing his eyes in black. The pencil is down to its last licks, barely over an inch long, and yet he doesn’t throw it out. Adam doesn’t get that. He keeps looking at Tommy’s reflection when he talks and, sometimes, if the timing’s right, their eyes meet in mirror and they just look at each other until Tommy pulls a face or until one of them looks away.
“It’s not like I can’t do it myself,” Adam shrugs, and one of the spikes on his shoulder catches his earlobe. It’s cold and hard and Adam shivers.
Tommy laughs, and Adam can see him watching himself. His eyes are a little too wide, a little too focused, but Adam can’t blame him. He’s been guilty of vanity just as much as the next guy, although probably more.
“Trust me, babyboy,” Tommy says, his eyes peeling away from the mirror and moving over to real-life Adam. “I know.”
Adam doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just says nothing and keeps watching Tommy watch himself. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Tommy takes out a tube of mascara and Adam clenches his fists, shoves them as far into his pockets as his tight jeans will allow, and then says, “I’m gonna go see what the other guys are up to, or something,” and leaves the room.
*
Adam doesn’t really know how far back it all started. Maybe it started when he was with Drake or when he was with Brad, or maybe it even started before either of them, before anyone. Then again, maybe it’s just Tommy’s eyelashes that he can’t stop staring at; maybe it’s just Tommy’s eyelashes, long and soft and slightly curled, that he thinks about running a thumb pad over and kissing when Tommy is asleep. Maybe it’s just Tommy, and that makes Adam’s heart beat in his chest at a pace that he isn’t used to because Adam Lambert is fierce and Adam Lambert is confident and Adam Lambert definitely does not, under any circumstances, think those kinds of things about Tommy.
*
They’re sitting on the floor of a hotel suite playing War, bored as hell, while some shitty HBO porn plays in the background. Tommy’s chin is in his hand and he’s using only one thumb to flip his cards over. Maybe he’s bored because Adam has three aces and he knows he’s going to lose, but maybe not. Adam doesn’t know a lot of things when it comes to Tommy.
“I vote we make out on stage tomorrow,” Tommy says, out of the blue. “I haven’t gotten any ass this whole tour, and at this point, I’m desperate.”
Adam laughs and says, “That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m like half-way celibate,” Tommy says, but his smile gives everything away.
Later, as porn shifts into Curb Your Enthusiasm shifts into Extras, Tommy yawns and rubs at his eyes with the backs of his knuckles.
“I’m wiped,” he says. “Think I’m gonna call it a night.”
And it’s sitting right there on his cheek, an eyelash, and Adam stares and stares and stares and he doesn’t know what to do. But Tommy is sitting there in boxer shorts and a t-shirt that’s stretched out at the neck, looking at him, waiting for him to say something and, if it was anybody else, Adam would be looking at their exposed collar bones, thinking of marking them up with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. If it was anyone else, the shirt would be on the floor and they would be in the bed, with the lights on and the tv muted.
But it’s not anyone else, it’s Tommy, and so Adam stares at his cheek and doesn’t realize that he’s saying, “You’ve got an eyelash,” until the words are already halfway out his mouth.
“Where?” Tommy says, and his hand flies up to the side of his face.
“Other cheek,” Adam tells him, and after he does, he swallows hard. “Over a little bit,” he says, but Tommy’s nowhere near the eyelash so he just says, “Let me get it,” and reaches a hand out.
When he has the eyelash pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Tommy grabs his wrist and says, “Hold on, let me make a wish.” He shuts his eyes and Adam laughs because he doesn’t really know what else to do, although it comes out sounding less like a laugh and more just like air out of his nose. He hasn’t wished on an eyelash since he was still in school and Tommy smiles lopsidedly like he had assumed as much.
“Okay,” Tommy says, pursing his lips.
Adam blinks; the eyelash is gone.
*
This time they’re at a photo shoot, just something Tommy tagged along to, and Adam’s getting his makeup done. The makeup artist takes out some concealer and Tommy says, “I don’t see why you use so much of that shit, man. They’re just freckles.”
Adam doesn’t really know why he does, either, other than he just doesn’t like them, and he tells Tommy as much. Tommy just shrugs, whatever.
A few minutes later, Tommy’s playing around with an eyelash curler, saying, “I’d probably poke my eye out with this shit,” and squeezing it in Adam’s general direction.
“You don’t need one,” Adam says, and Tommy says, “Yeah, but I want one.”
“You don’t need one,” he repeats, and Tommy shoots him a look.
Adam just shrugs, whatever.
*
It’s early in the morning on the tour bus and Adam’s not really awake, not really asleep, when he stumbles out of his bunk. Tommy’s there, sitting on the couch alone with a bowl of cereal, and it’s obvious that he fell asleep with his makeup still on.
“Morning, babyboy,” Tommy says, and when he blinks Adam sees a piece of glitter light up as the light hits it. He wonders how it got there, because glitter has always been his thing, never Tommy’s, not really.
He’s not thinking, still in that dream haze, when he reaches out and cups Tommy’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along Tommy’s closed lash line.
“Adam?” Tommy asks, and he doesn’t sound freaked out or anything, just curious, just wondering.
Adam yanks his hand away and clears his throat. “Coffee?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for Tommy to respond before ducking over to the little kitchen, hiding his face behind the cabinets as he searches for a mug.
*
They’re backstage again at another venue in another city that Adam still can’t remember the name of. There’s no mirror this time, so Tommy asks Adam to do his eyeliner for him.
“Otherwise I’ll fuck it up,” he says.
“You fuck it up even when you do have a mirror,” Adam shoots back, and Tommy hisses and says, “Ooh, zing!”
Tommy hops up onto the countertop to be closer to Adam’s eye level, and with the heel of one hand resting on his forehead, Adam says, “Look up.”
He has the pencil poised and ready to go when Tommy looks up, so obedient, and Adam idly wonders what else he could get Tommy to do. When he’s done, Tommy holds out the mascara and Adam smacks his hand lightly away.
“I told you, you don’t need that.”
Tommy looks a little confused, his eyebrows furrowed, and he says, “Funny.”
“No, really,” Adam says, smacking his hand away again.
It’s quiet for a minute and Adam wipes his palms on his jeans. He doesn’t understand why they’re so sweaty. He steps away from the counter, takes a deep breath, and says, “I should probably go get ready. Show’s starting soon.”
Only then Tommy says, “What’s up with you and my eyelashes?” and it’s so direct and blunt and Adam doesn’t know what to say. He had thought Tommy wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t acknowledge that there was anything going on, but Tommy has made a habit out of surprising Adam.
“Nothing,” Adam shrugs, trying to keep it light, keep it casual. “I just like them.”
“I like your freckles,” Tommy says as Adam’s halfway out the door, and it sounds a lot like a challenge.
*
They don’t see each other again until they’re being herded onto the stage and Adam can see someone slinging a bass at Tommy as he’s crouching down, walking to the lift. The show is good, great even, although for the most part it’s pretty similar to all those that have come before.
Then, in the middle of ‘Down the Rabbit Hole,’ Adam stalks his way across the stage and towards Tommy, slinging his free arm around Tommy’s neck and placing his palm flat on Tommy’s chest. His fingers catch on one of Tommy’s nipples beneath the leather and Adam hears Tommy moan, his head falling back as he turns to look at Adam. His gaze is intense and his eyes widen as he notices Adam’s not wearing any concealer, not at all, and all Adam can think of is Tommy’s eyelashes, long and soft, and what they would feel like moving against his skin.
For a second, Adam loses his place and he falters as he quickly backs away from Tommy, trying to find it again. He doesn’t look at Tommy again, not for a good long while, and the few times he does all he sees is Tommy tilting his head back, exposing his neck, and Adam flushes red.
*
After the show, Adam doesn’t expect to have any time alone with Tommy. After every show he’s got interviews, meet-and-greets, and bus call. Tommy doesn’t seem to have the same expectations; he reaches a hand out and drags Adam into the bathroom, locking the door behind them.
Adam doesn’t know what’s going on, not until Tommy throws him up against the wall, pressing their hips together as he kisses him, hard and with too much teeth. Adam knows that game, knows it well, and he wastes no time in pushing Tommy, flipping it so that it’s Tommy’s back against the cold tile wall and Adam’s the one pinning him there. Then:
“Wait, wait,” Adam pulls back, “I thought you were-”
“No,” Tommy cuts him off, grinding his hips up against Adam’s. “No.”
“Okay,” Adam says, although he doesn’t really need to because his hand is already snaking its way underneath the mesh shirt of Tommy’s uniform, Tommy’s skin soft and warm under his hands. Adam’s curling his fingers into the waistband of his jeans when Tommy says it again.
“No,” he says, only this time it’s harder, less breathy, and he pushes Adam away. He backs Adam up against the opposite wall and then drops to his knees, his hands reaching up to grab Adam’s belt buckle.
When Tommy finally has his lips wrapped around Adam’s cock, Adam threads his fingers through Tommy’s hair and tugs in a way that’s meant to encourage. He looks down and sees Tommy looking up at him through his eyelashes-those fucking eyelashes-and he comes embarrassingly fast, without giving a warning.
Before Adam can offer some sort of reciprocation, Tommy’s got his hand down the front of his jeans and is jacking himself off, quick and dirty. Adam can’t look away, and a part of him supposes that it should be weird, watching his friend do that, but it’s not; it’s really, really not. Someone whines, high and cut off at the end, and Adam thinks it’s Tommy until he realizes that Tommy is panting, just panting and watching Adam’s face, and Adam has to place his palms flat on the tiles behind him in order to keep himself from reaching out.
Tommy finishes and when he stands, he zips them both up. That surprises Adam; he’d always thought he would be the one doing the zipping, and it’s such as small detail but Adam latches onto it and it makes him feel unsteady. Tommy leans against Adam and when he blinks, Adam can feel it against the side of his neck, right underneath his ear.
Adam’s not used to being so out of control. He’s used to having the upper hand and he wants that again, wants that so badly although he’s never had it before, not with Tommy. He fakes calm, says, “See you on the bus, Glitterbaby,” and heads out of the bathroom, not looking back and not looking back and not looking back.
*
His hands shake for the next couple of hours and if anyone asks, Adam tells them that he drank too much caffeine. An interviewer asks him about Kris, and Adam thinks of Tommy and the way his hands felt on Adam’s skin. They ask him about Allison, and Adam thinks of Tommy and the way he looked on his knees. They ask him about Idol and Out magazine and his album, and all Adam thinks about is Tommy and how his laugh sounds and how he can’t spell to save his life and how, before the AMAs, Tommy had told him, “You can grab me and stuff, if you want...you can do whatever you want, man.” There was so much that Adam had wanted to do then, so much that he thought he’d never get to do. Finding out that Tommy wants those things just as much as he does is almost too much for him to handle. He takes a couple of deep breaths, but then he can. He can handle it.
Tommy’s eyelashes are more of an afterthought and that, if anything, lets him think, Okay. Okay.
*
That night, Tommy crawls into his bunk and whispers, “You’re freaking out. Are you freaking out?”
Adam says that he’s not, and he means it. “But are you?” he asks.
Tommy says, “No, but that eyelash thing is kind of weird. I don’t mind it, I just don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” Adam says, and he can feel Tommy’s breath on his face.
They don’t say anything else, just move around to get comfortable, and when they finally settle down, Tommy’s mouth is hot and wet, open against Adam’s neck as he sleeps.
The rooms in the back of the venue are clean, cleaner than Adam had expected, only now that he’s actually there, he can’t remember what he thought it would be like. He’s watching Tommy get ready-it’s just the two of them in the room-and there’s music drifting from the speakers that Adam doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t really mind.
“You’re lucky someone does this shit for you,” Tommy says, ringing his eyes in black. The pencil is down to its last licks, barely over an inch long, and yet he doesn’t throw it out. Adam doesn’t get that. He keeps looking at Tommy’s reflection when he talks and, sometimes, if the timing’s right, their eyes meet in mirror and they just look at each other until Tommy pulls a face or until one of them looks away.
“It’s not like I can’t do it myself,” Adam shrugs, and one of the spikes on his shoulder catches his earlobe. It’s cold and hard and Adam shivers.
Tommy laughs, and Adam can see him watching himself. His eyes are a little too wide, a little too focused, but Adam can’t blame him. He’s been guilty of vanity just as much as the next guy, although probably more.
“Trust me, babyboy,” Tommy says, his eyes peeling away from the mirror and moving over to real-life Adam. “I know.”
Adam doesn’t really know what to say to that, so he just says nothing and keeps watching Tommy watch himself. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Tommy takes out a tube of mascara and Adam clenches his fists, shoves them as far into his pockets as his tight jeans will allow, and then says, “I’m gonna go see what the other guys are up to, or something,” and leaves the room.
*
Adam doesn’t really know how far back it all started. Maybe it started when he was with Drake or when he was with Brad, or maybe it even started before either of them, before anyone. Then again, maybe it’s just Tommy’s eyelashes that he can’t stop staring at; maybe it’s just Tommy’s eyelashes, long and soft and slightly curled, that he thinks about running a thumb pad over and kissing when Tommy is asleep. Maybe it’s just Tommy, and that makes Adam’s heart beat in his chest at a pace that he isn’t used to because Adam Lambert is fierce and Adam Lambert is confident and Adam Lambert definitely does not, under any circumstances, think those kinds of things about Tommy.
*
They’re sitting on the floor of a hotel suite playing War, bored as hell, while some shitty HBO porn plays in the background. Tommy’s chin is in his hand and he’s using only one thumb to flip his cards over. Maybe he’s bored because Adam has three aces and he knows he’s going to lose, but maybe not. Adam doesn’t know a lot of things when it comes to Tommy.
“I vote we make out on stage tomorrow,” Tommy says, out of the blue. “I haven’t gotten any ass this whole tour, and at this point, I’m desperate.”
Adam laughs and says, “That’s bullshit, and we both know it.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m like half-way celibate,” Tommy says, but his smile gives everything away.
Later, as porn shifts into Curb Your Enthusiasm shifts into Extras, Tommy yawns and rubs at his eyes with the backs of his knuckles.
“I’m wiped,” he says. “Think I’m gonna call it a night.”
And it’s sitting right there on his cheek, an eyelash, and Adam stares and stares and stares and he doesn’t know what to do. But Tommy is sitting there in boxer shorts and a t-shirt that’s stretched out at the neck, looking at him, waiting for him to say something and, if it was anybody else, Adam would be looking at their exposed collar bones, thinking of marking them up with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. If it was anyone else, the shirt would be on the floor and they would be in the bed, with the lights on and the tv muted.
But it’s not anyone else, it’s Tommy, and so Adam stares at his cheek and doesn’t realize that he’s saying, “You’ve got an eyelash,” until the words are already halfway out his mouth.
“Where?” Tommy says, and his hand flies up to the side of his face.
“Other cheek,” Adam tells him, and after he does, he swallows hard. “Over a little bit,” he says, but Tommy’s nowhere near the eyelash so he just says, “Let me get it,” and reaches a hand out.
When he has the eyelash pinched between his thumb and forefinger, Tommy grabs his wrist and says, “Hold on, let me make a wish.” He shuts his eyes and Adam laughs because he doesn’t really know what else to do, although it comes out sounding less like a laugh and more just like air out of his nose. He hasn’t wished on an eyelash since he was still in school and Tommy smiles lopsidedly like he had assumed as much.
“Okay,” Tommy says, pursing his lips.
Adam blinks; the eyelash is gone.
*
This time they’re at a photo shoot, just something Tommy tagged along to, and Adam’s getting his makeup done. The makeup artist takes out some concealer and Tommy says, “I don’t see why you use so much of that shit, man. They’re just freckles.”
Adam doesn’t really know why he does, either, other than he just doesn’t like them, and he tells Tommy as much. Tommy just shrugs, whatever.
A few minutes later, Tommy’s playing around with an eyelash curler, saying, “I’d probably poke my eye out with this shit,” and squeezing it in Adam’s general direction.
“You don’t need one,” Adam says, and Tommy says, “Yeah, but I want one.”
“You don’t need one,” he repeats, and Tommy shoots him a look.
Adam just shrugs, whatever.
*
It’s early in the morning on the tour bus and Adam’s not really awake, not really asleep, when he stumbles out of his bunk. Tommy’s there, sitting on the couch alone with a bowl of cereal, and it’s obvious that he fell asleep with his makeup still on.
“Morning, babyboy,” Tommy says, and when he blinks Adam sees a piece of glitter light up as the light hits it. He wonders how it got there, because glitter has always been his thing, never Tommy’s, not really.
He’s not thinking, still in that dream haze, when he reaches out and cups Tommy’s cheek, rubbing his thumb along Tommy’s closed lash line.
“Adam?” Tommy asks, and he doesn’t sound freaked out or anything, just curious, just wondering.
Adam yanks his hand away and clears his throat. “Coffee?” he asks, and doesn’t wait for Tommy to respond before ducking over to the little kitchen, hiding his face behind the cabinets as he searches for a mug.
*
They’re backstage again at another venue in another city that Adam still can’t remember the name of. There’s no mirror this time, so Tommy asks Adam to do his eyeliner for him.
“Otherwise I’ll fuck it up,” he says.
“You fuck it up even when you do have a mirror,” Adam shoots back, and Tommy hisses and says, “Ooh, zing!”
Tommy hops up onto the countertop to be closer to Adam’s eye level, and with the heel of one hand resting on his forehead, Adam says, “Look up.”
He has the pencil poised and ready to go when Tommy looks up, so obedient, and Adam idly wonders what else he could get Tommy to do. When he’s done, Tommy holds out the mascara and Adam smacks his hand lightly away.
“I told you, you don’t need that.”
Tommy looks a little confused, his eyebrows furrowed, and he says, “Funny.”
“No, really,” Adam says, smacking his hand away again.
It’s quiet for a minute and Adam wipes his palms on his jeans. He doesn’t understand why they’re so sweaty. He steps away from the counter, takes a deep breath, and says, “I should probably go get ready. Show’s starting soon.”
Only then Tommy says, “What’s up with you and my eyelashes?” and it’s so direct and blunt and Adam doesn’t know what to say. He had thought Tommy wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t acknowledge that there was anything going on, but Tommy has made a habit out of surprising Adam.
“Nothing,” Adam shrugs, trying to keep it light, keep it casual. “I just like them.”
“I like your freckles,” Tommy says as Adam’s halfway out the door, and it sounds a lot like a challenge.
*
They don’t see each other again until they’re being herded onto the stage and Adam can see someone slinging a bass at Tommy as he’s crouching down, walking to the lift. The show is good, great even, although for the most part it’s pretty similar to all those that have come before.
Then, in the middle of ‘Down the Rabbit Hole,’ Adam stalks his way across the stage and towards Tommy, slinging his free arm around Tommy’s neck and placing his palm flat on Tommy’s chest. His fingers catch on one of Tommy’s nipples beneath the leather and Adam hears Tommy moan, his head falling back as he turns to look at Adam. His gaze is intense and his eyes widen as he notices Adam’s not wearing any concealer, not at all, and all Adam can think of is Tommy’s eyelashes, long and soft, and what they would feel like moving against his skin.
For a second, Adam loses his place and he falters as he quickly backs away from Tommy, trying to find it again. He doesn’t look at Tommy again, not for a good long while, and the few times he does all he sees is Tommy tilting his head back, exposing his neck, and Adam flushes red.
*
After the show, Adam doesn’t expect to have any time alone with Tommy. After every show he’s got interviews, meet-and-greets, and bus call. Tommy doesn’t seem to have the same expectations; he reaches a hand out and drags Adam into the bathroom, locking the door behind them.
Adam doesn’t know what’s going on, not until Tommy throws him up against the wall, pressing their hips together as he kisses him, hard and with too much teeth. Adam knows that game, knows it well, and he wastes no time in pushing Tommy, flipping it so that it’s Tommy’s back against the cold tile wall and Adam’s the one pinning him there. Then:
“Wait, wait,” Adam pulls back, “I thought you were-”
“No,” Tommy cuts him off, grinding his hips up against Adam’s. “No.”
“Okay,” Adam says, although he doesn’t really need to because his hand is already snaking its way underneath the mesh shirt of Tommy’s uniform, Tommy’s skin soft and warm under his hands. Adam’s curling his fingers into the waistband of his jeans when Tommy says it again.
“No,” he says, only this time it’s harder, less breathy, and he pushes Adam away. He backs Adam up against the opposite wall and then drops to his knees, his hands reaching up to grab Adam’s belt buckle.
When Tommy finally has his lips wrapped around Adam’s cock, Adam threads his fingers through Tommy’s hair and tugs in a way that’s meant to encourage. He looks down and sees Tommy looking up at him through his eyelashes-those fucking eyelashes-and he comes embarrassingly fast, without giving a warning.
Before Adam can offer some sort of reciprocation, Tommy’s got his hand down the front of his jeans and is jacking himself off, quick and dirty. Adam can’t look away, and a part of him supposes that it should be weird, watching his friend do that, but it’s not; it’s really, really not. Someone whines, high and cut off at the end, and Adam thinks it’s Tommy until he realizes that Tommy is panting, just panting and watching Adam’s face, and Adam has to place his palms flat on the tiles behind him in order to keep himself from reaching out.
Tommy finishes and when he stands, he zips them both up. That surprises Adam; he’d always thought he would be the one doing the zipping, and it’s such as small detail but Adam latches onto it and it makes him feel unsteady. Tommy leans against Adam and when he blinks, Adam can feel it against the side of his neck, right underneath his ear.
Adam’s not used to being so out of control. He’s used to having the upper hand and he wants that again, wants that so badly although he’s never had it before, not with Tommy. He fakes calm, says, “See you on the bus, Glitterbaby,” and heads out of the bathroom, not looking back and not looking back and not looking back.
*
His hands shake for the next couple of hours and if anyone asks, Adam tells them that he drank too much caffeine. An interviewer asks him about Kris, and Adam thinks of Tommy and the way his hands felt on Adam’s skin. They ask him about Allison, and Adam thinks of Tommy and the way he looked on his knees. They ask him about Idol and Out magazine and his album, and all Adam thinks about is Tommy and how his laugh sounds and how he can’t spell to save his life and how, before the AMAs, Tommy had told him, “You can grab me and stuff, if you want...you can do whatever you want, man.” There was so much that Adam had wanted to do then, so much that he thought he’d never get to do. Finding out that Tommy wants those things just as much as he does is almost too much for him to handle. He takes a couple of deep breaths, but then he can. He can handle it.
Tommy’s eyelashes are more of an afterthought and that, if anything, lets him think, Okay. Okay.
*
That night, Tommy crawls into his bunk and whispers, “You’re freaking out. Are you freaking out?”
Adam says that he’s not, and he means it. “But are you?” he asks.
Tommy says, “No, but that eyelash thing is kind of weird. I don’t mind it, I just don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” Adam says, and he can feel Tommy’s breath on his face.
They don’t say anything else, just move around to get comfortable, and when they finally settle down, Tommy’s mouth is hot and wet, open against Adam’s neck as he sleeps.