FIC: Broken Open - Part 4 (Adam/Tommy)
BROKEN OPEN - PART 4
Tommy is twitchy for hours. He tries to calm himself by playing old favorites on the steel-stringed guitar, then by going down to the apartment’s garden courtyard and sitting with the Plapps, who always have lots of stories to tell of their distant youth, all of them interesting if not actually phantasmagorically unlikely, so that kills an hour and makes them happy.
Back in his apartment, he organizes his horror DVDs according to amount of blood spilled and reads a couple of chapters from Drood, which he’s in the middle of. He turns on his laptop and reads emails from his mom and sis, visits cuteoverload.com, and considers hunting down gay porn. A few pictures of gigantic dicks are more than enough to make him slam the laptop shut.
He goes into the bedroom and flops on top of the covers and lies there for a long while, utterly failing to fall asleep. He gets up and prowls around the apartment, thinking about going somewhere for some greasy food. The crap on TV is beyond uninteresting, but he stares at it for way too long.
When his cell phone emits a text beep, he nearly falls off the couch. It’s well past midnight and Adam is texting him, what the fuck.
Dinner tomorrow night? After practice before gig?
got plans already Tommy texts back immediately, and then realizes that makes it look like he’s been waiting up to hear from Adam. Tommy curses at himself.
The phone beeps again. Tuesday?
busy
Wednesday?
busy
Thursday?
busy
Friday?
busy Tommy sighs. Nothing is ever easy with Adam.
Saturday?
dont you have a party?
Oh right.
Tommy fidgets at his phone keyboard. Another beep sounds.
No matter. On your sched. Night, kitten.
Tommy smiles a little. sweet dreams babyboy
The texts end and Tommy feels empty. His mind is still stuck in the spin cycle.
* * *
The band meets up at three in the afternoon in Monte’s garage.
“Who wants to do the horse sound?” asks Monte.
“I sampled a whinny already,” says Cam. “Also a French horn tally-ho.” She plays both samples, one after the other.
“Rockin’, darling,” says Monte.
“Why can’t I be the horse?” complains Adam, sauntering over to Tommy and putting an arm around his shoulders.
Tommy hangs onto his bass guitar for dear life. If nothing else, it’s a great excuse for hiding behind, a prop that can be clutched like a security blanket at need.
“Save it for the barnyard,” Cam snorts. She hits the programmed whinny button several times in a row until they’re all sick of hearing it.
Isaac starts up the drumbeat on Monte’s old drum kit and they fumble into the song, Adam belting out lyrics he reads from a photocopied sheet of paper. They make it through the song, mostly, and crash to an inglorious halt.
“That was for shit,” Monte says. “Let’s do it three times in a row, fast.”
They improve radically over the next three tries, getting back into their band groove. Adam is still reading from the piece of paper.
“I may need a teleprompter,” he says.
“You’re not quite the president,” Cam informs him.
“Yet,” says Adam.
“Write it on your hand,” suggests Monte.
Adam inspects his left palm. “My hand isn’t that big.”
“Write small.”
Adam takes Tommy’s shoulders in his hands and turns him around. “Maybe I can write it out on the back of Tommy’s shirt.”
Tommy glances over his shoulder. “I don’t think so. You have to keep your hands off me.”
Adam looks hurt while the others look surprised.
“At the gig,” Tommy says quickly. “I have to focus, I don’t want to fuck up.”
As a counterpoint, Isaac does a rat-a-tat-TAT and cymbal clash.
Adam grins and ruffles Tommy’s hair. “Okay, pretty kitty.”
Tommy doesn’t trust that tone as far as he can throw Headache Blackout’s refrigerator-sized drummer, aka Mr. Rhythm.
The other songs go mostly the same way - crap at first, but quickly turning into tight renditions.
Next they discuss the order of things, how they will show up: at one point Headache Blackout will step aside and the band will take over, invading from the wings. Monte’s already worked it out that Isaac can use Mr. Rhythm’s standard-setup drum kit. The synth and its stand will be stashed behind the stage amps before the place starts getting crowded.
“We’re rocking this old-school,” says Monte. “Agreed?”
They all nod and exchange grins because it sounds like so much fun.
“We all come from the clubs and this’ll be a groovy trip down memory lane. Keep it simple, dress down, go light on the glitter and makeup.”
“Wait a minute!” says Adam. “I already pulled together my Dandy Highwayman outfit.”
Monte shakes his head. “Remember Citizen Vein days? You can pull it back like that.”
Adam full-on pouts. “You want me to do Stand and Deliver and not wear a costume? Come on, Monte!”
Monte looks over at Tommy. “The Blackout is pretty hardcore.”
“They draw a good-sized crowd, too,” Tommy adds. “Hard drinkers.”
“I can rock,” Adam sulks.
“What if we change the order,” says Tommy. “Start with Cadillac instead of Stand. They gotta love the Clash especially ‘cause we’re doing it Metallica-style.”
“Rope in the crowd, then surprise them,” Monte concurs. “Sweet.”
Isaac pounds on the snare drums for attention. “You can’t follow a metal Cadillac with a chick song.”
“Chick song? What kind of asshole-ish put-down is that?” Cam says. “Are you trying to be subtly misogynistic?”
Isaac slaps his hand over his mouth and his eyes go wide.
“His bad,” Monte says calmly. “We all know Isaac doesn’t do subtle. Look, guys, we only have a few hours till showtime.”
Adam stamps - literally stamps - his foot on the floor. “We don’t have to accommodate the crowd. They’ll like us or hate us - isn’t that the old-school style? That we don’t give a fuck?” He glares around the garage. The band members glare back. No one is giving an inch. “If the audience doesn’t like it, we throw it in their faces.”
“Since when don’t you want audiences to suck your dick?” Cam asks. “The testosterone in this room is getting poisonous,” she adds when no one answers, waving her hand in front of her face as though fanning fumes away.
Adam turns on her. “Glad you think I have some, given that I’m a fag.”
“I’m a dyke, don’t give me ‘tude.”
“When did this become about sexuality?” Isaac asks, flinging one drumstick in the air. It lands with a clatter behind him.
“Straight men,” says Adam, rolling his eyes.
“Men,” corrects Cam, still holding a grudge about the chick song remark.
“Hey,” says Monte, “nobody meant anything bad.”
“You’re telling us to be careful in case of homophobia?” Adam says angrily. “I did enough of that on Idol, I’m sick of it.”
“Are you seriously complaining about getting that break?” Isaac asks.
“I had to just clam up about my boyfriend because otherwise no one would have talked about my singing, just that I was a big fat homo.”
“No one’s blaming you for how you handled Idol,” Monte says, deliberately serene. “Is this about Headache Blackout? Because there’s nothing to worry about, they’re good people.”
Tommy hates discord. He wants to interject but when tempers start fraying in the band, he tends to huddle into himself, growing quieter. Monte is being all grownup and reasonable, Adam is brooding, Cam is still glaring at Isaac. He gathers his courage and says quietly, “Dude, their lead guitarist is a lesbian.”
Adam throws his hands in the air dramatically. “Then why can’t I just, I don’t know, do it in drag?” he demands.
“Adam, it’s not a drag scene,” says Monte. “The Troub is a rock-and-roll venue.”
“Fuck that,” says Adam. “Nobody tells me how to dress. It’s my band.”
Tommy is pretty shocked. It’s not like Adam to say shit like that. Sure, they got on each other’s nerves on the road sometimes, but they always had to pull it together by the next gig, the show going on and all that shit. This time, it’s only one gig and then they can go their separate ways for maybe months and that’s terrifying. That kind of shit festers until it gets gangrenous and before you know it, someone’s missing an arm or a leg.
“Your band?” Cam snaps.
“Enough,” Monte says, stopping everyone. “We are a band and this is going to be fun.” He extends his hand. “One for all and all for one.”
Tommy shuffles forward and puts his hand on top of Monte’s. Monte gives him a pleased nod. Isaac and Cam come from behind their instruments and add their hands. Adam looks at them all and puts his hand on the top.
“We’re a band,” Adam says. “That was a shitty thing for me to say. I love you guys. I’m not gonna lie, I would sleep with every single one of you if that’s what it took to keep you in the band.”
“Blech,” says Cam, smiling crookedly.
Isaac adds, “No thanks,” and Monte pitches in with, “Maybe another time,” making Adam crack up.
That leaves all four of them staring at Tommy. “Um, not necessary, I’ll stay no matter what?” he mumbles.
Adam claps his hands together loudly. “That’s settled. My virtue is intact and I still have a band. I mean we have a band. And you are all required to be at my house-warming party this Saturday and bring your sweethearts and friends, end of story.”
“Yeah,” says Isaac. “Can I bring my nemesis?”
“You can bring your kindergarten teacher if that floats your boat.”
“We cool now?” asks Cam.
“All cool,” says Monte.
“Can I at least wear a marginally dandy outfit?” asks Adam contritely.
“Absolutely, just don’t make me have to give you the lecture about the difference between musical theater and rock-and-roll again.”
“And don’t be channeling Adam Ant,” Cam adds.
“I’ll be channeling Dick Turpin,” Adam promises.
“Dick Turpin?” snickers Isaac.
“Shut up,” Monte says mildly. “Let’s work on Turning On.”
They finish up with just enough time for Tommy to make it to the Smokehouse to meet Jillian and Heath. He’s glad to have a dinner date with them; it’ll take his mind off things. As he zips the Squier into a gig bag, only Monte and Adam are still there. Monte is going to take Adam to the Troubadour so that no one sees the Mustang - unfortunately paps know license plate numbers. Monte pulls Adam by the arm over to the far side of the garage but, just as Tommy’s shouldering the gig bag and preparing to leave, he can hear Monte scolding, “What is up with you, Adam?”
Not meaning to, not able to help it, Tommy looks right at Adam just as Adam turns to look at him. Their eyes lock together across the space. Adam looks almost guilty. Monte tugs him behind a tall amp. Tommy scurries out of there.
* * *
Dinner is fun and really tasty, steaks and hush puppies and fries and cornbread and root beer and even a few vegetables. Jillian teases Tommy mercifully, but then that’s her job as lezbro. She doesn’t really know or understand; it’s not her fault Tommy’s falling apart inside.
Heath is kinder in a brusque, masculine sort of way that Tommy appreciates. He’s really liking Heath and hopes that she and Jillian stick together awhile. Plus which Heath likes Metallica and you can’t go wrong with Metallica.
While the girls are off on a ladies-room break (and Tommy honestly worries about what that means… are they getting it on in there?), Tommy pops a buttered hush puppy into his mouth and chews and thinks about why he lied to Adam about being busy all week. He’s about as busy as a sloth. He can’t wrap his brain around the idea of that third date. Technically there’s been no second date, but he’s afraid Adam doesn’t see it that way. What he really wants from Adam is just to be with him, in whatever way binds Adam to him the best. He figures that has to be sex. So… it’s third-date time.
Jillian slides back in the booth, followed by Heath.
“Daydreaming about Mr. Wonderful?” Jillian asks.
“What a joker.” Tommy tosses a hush puppy her way.
Jillian catches it. “Don’t waste these, they’re delicious.”
Tommy looks at his watch. “Damn, I want a mimosa.”
“Order one.”
“Shouldn’t.”
Jillian flags down the waiter and orders three mimosas. “You’re a bundle of nervous energy.”
The drinks loosen his tongue, and probably also his bass-playing fingers. He orders another plate of fries to soak up the alcohol and butterflies in his stomach.
“Pretty sure I convinced him I’m bi.”
Jillian looks suspicious, but Heath just asks, “Are you?”
Tommy nods. “I think.”
“Have you forgotten about -“ Jillian starts.
“Nope,” Tommy interrupts. “You’re coming to the show, right?”
* * *
Tommy barely escapes Jillian with his dignity undamaged. At nine-thirty he parks three blocks from the Troubadour - he can hear Headache Blackout from here - and slouches in through the alley door with his bass. Monte’s downstairs in the open area, running through some riffs. Drums and bass from the stage pound through the ceiling. As arranged, Cam and Isaac, as the least recognizable band members, are in the crowd upstairs.
Tommy gets out his bass and feels in his jeans pocket for extra picks, which are there.
The door to a dressing room opens and Adam bursts into the room, dressed like a highwayman, but at least a somewhat subdued highwayman. His black leather boots go up to the knee and are buckled six ways to Sunday. He’s found an amazing frock coat the color of cabernet, decorated with dozens of gold buttons, and a ruffled white shirt open at the neck, not exactly period but very sexy.
“Stand!” he yells, one arm out as though pointing a gun, then laughs delightedly at himself.
“Marginally dandy.” Monte clearly approves.
With fake hauteur, Adam looks down his nose at them. He whips out a black dime-store bandit mask and ceremoniously holds it in front of his eyes. “Too much?”
Monte and Tommy exchange glances and shrug.
“Up to you,” says Monte.
“Does that outfit come with a hat?” asks Tommy.
“Come in here,” Adam answers, disappearing into the dressing room again.
Tommy sets the bass aside and goes in.
“Sit,” says Adam, “I’m going to finish you.”
Adam’s got the makeup kit out and when Tommy doesn’t move, Adam grabs him by the waist and hoists him on the counter. Tommy squirms back against the mirror. Adam pushes Tommy’s legs open so he can stand between them. He gets out the eye shadow and positions his hand with the makeup brush next to Tommy’s face.
“Close your eyes, honey.”
Tommy obeys. He’d only put on liner and mascara earlier, too nervous for more. He lets himself breathe slowly while Adam’s hand rests on his cheekbone and the brush tickles his eyelids. Adam’s thighs are warm against his knees. The sensation is intense.
“You know how beautiful you are?” whispers Adam. Tommy can hear him picking up another pot of shadow.
“Pretty kitty,” Tommy whispers back.
“More than that. You’re the most beautiful person on the planet. Hold still.”
Tommy’s body is thrumming and he’s pretty fucking sure he’s about to pop a boner. He’s not going to survive this gig. It’s a tiny stage and the audience is right there and even the bass isn’t going to hide it.
“Done,” says Adam, setting aside the shadow and brush. “Keep your eyes closed.”
He feels Adam’s breath on his face and then Adam’s lips on his own, touching lightly. It’s nothing like the stage kisses. This is private and real, soft and sweet. Adam licks Tommy’s upper lip lightly and Tommy’s lips part.
“I want you,” whispers Adam against his mouth. “Since forever.”
Then Adam is kissing him properly, tenderly and thoroughly, tongues together, the sharpness of teeth now and then. Tommy surrenders to the tsunami, leaning against a dirty mirror in the graffiti-covered lower level of the Troubadour, muffled thrash metal reverberating through the building.
Outside the room, Monte calls, “Let’s go, muchachos, showtime.”
Adam pulls back and Tommy’s eyes open. Adam looks so sweet, a smile on his face and stars in his eyes.
“I lied about being busy,” Tommy says quietly.
“I knew,” says Adam. “It’s okay to be nervous. I’m going to take good care of you, baby. I’m going to lick and kiss you everywhere. Everywhere, starting with your adorable toes.” He leans in and lays a last, chaste kiss on Tommy’s lips.
“Okay,” Tommy agrees, a promise and a benediction.
“Let’s go!” Monte barks from the other room.
The throbbing music is gone, it’s quiet. Tommy goes out first, grabbing his guitar and switching on his body pack transmitter. They go single file up the stairs to the side of the stage where they hide in the shadows. The place is decently full, probably 200 people in the audience, many of them dressed like the band, all black leather, chains, piercings and tattoos.
The Blackout’s frontman growls into the mic, “We’re gonna take a break, go powder our noses, our backup band will entertain you for a few minutes.”
“Fuck that!” yells someone in the crowd.
Mr. Rhythm steps to the stage edge, eyes blazing. “Shut the fuck up, Mike, you better behave or I will fuck. You. Up.”
There are scattered titters in the crowd and Mr. Rhythm grins demonically.
The lights are killed suddenly and Tommy gets jostled by stage hands who grab the synth and set it up fast, guided by glow-in-the-dark X’s on the floor. A gigantic hand grabs his shoulder and Mr. Rhythm says near his ear, “They give you trouble, let me know. Hey, Monte, ‘sup.”
“Thanks, man,” whispers Monte. “See you after.” He and Tommy find their way in the dark to their usual spots, nearly colliding with Cam and Isaac who are clambering onto the stage.
The natives are restless in the dark.
Cam hits the tally-ho and Isaac pounds into the opening drumbeat like a herd of stampeding stallions, stretching it out for several extra measures. The lights blaze into being. The stunned looks on the faces of the audience are fucking funny and Tommy has to drop his hair in front of his face so he can’t see them because otherwise he’s going to break out laughing. Then Cam hits the crazy horse sound and Adam runs out from the wings - wearing the mask and also a totally over-the-top tri-corner hat; after all he’s still Adam - and jumps right into the spotlight in the center of the stage, points at the audience, and yells, “Stand and deliver!” into the mic.
After that it’s all gravy because the crowd loves it as soon as they figure out who’s onstage. Adam prances around like a very dandy highwayman, sometimes stooping to let the people in front touch his hand. Tommy thinks he spots Heath and Jillian in the back of the room, waving at him, the dorks. The song goes by at light speed and Tommy maybe fucked up here and there but it doesn’t matter, Monte covered everything like he always does.
They don’t even stop when the song is over; they pitch right into Brand New Cadillac. Adam frisbees the hat into the crowd and pulls off the mask, dropping it on the stage, and they go roaring through the song.
This is what Tommy loves best, the camaraderie of band mates, the audience, the electricity of the music, the vibrating floor. It doesn’t matter that this audience is a tenth of what they’ve been playing to on the Glam Nation tour. Rock music makes him feel powerful - look how much racket we can make! He feels so in tune with Cam and Monte, and especially with Isaac since the two of them are responsible for laying down the beat and rocking it steady as Poe’s pendulum. He’s in a hazy groove, the walking bass line is classic even if it’s simple and he loves playing it. Adam is all over the tiny stage, bumping into Monte and Tommy half the time and laughing about it. During the musical bridge Adam blows right past Tommy’s admonition to keep his hands off by grabbing his hair and reeling him in, kissing him filthy and deep to the cheers of the audience. Tommy loses the bass line for a few seconds but at least he keeps his feet under him. And sure enough, there’s that awkward boner.
By halfway through Back Off My Baby it’s obvious that Twitter has been going wild because the place is getting really crowded, the people in back shoving up against those in front. Monte judged it about right - do four songs and then flee like the forces of hell are on their heels.
During the last song, the Citizen Vein one, Adam hangs near the mic stand and Tommy is reminded of the old video of him and Monte and their band doing this song. Adam with no glitter, no tats, no holes in the ears, just brown hair and a beautiful voice, halfway between the unloved, chubby, red-headed teenager and the awesomeness that is Adam Lambert. Forming, Tommy thinks, and he falls a bit more in love with Adam.
The song ends, Adam yells “Give it up for Headache Blackout!” The lights go out and they scramble off the stage to screams and applause, colliding into each other and barely getting away unscathed.
In the wings they pass the Blackout members. “Thanks for warming up the crowd,” says the frontman with friendly sarcasm, bumping Monte’s fist.
“Hope we didn’t spoil them,” says Monte.
“We’re tough, we can take it.”
“Maybe you’ll make some new fans tonight,” Adam throws in.
In the dressing room Monte hurries them along. “We don’t have much time to escape before some of those people figure it out.”
They stow instruments and shrug on jackets and sneak outside the back of the building but Monte won’t let them slow down until they reach his van a few blocks away.
“That was so rad,” Tommy says, still buzzing with the performance high.
The others grin like maniacs. Isaac is bouncing up and down on his toes.
“Group hug!” cries Adam, opening his arms wide, and they all snuggle in and hug the shit out of each other. They decide to rendezvous at the Roost on Los Feliz because they’re not ready to be apart yet. It’s a red-walled dive with a jukebox heavy on the country, but the drinks are cheap and it’s a haven for both oldsters and hipsters, not celebrities and definitely not paparazzi. No one bothers them as they crowd into a circular booth.
Mimosas seem to be the drink du jour so Tommy gets one, now that he doesn’t have to concentrate on playing a coherent bass line. He’s crammed up against Adam’s side; he didn’t fail to notice that as soon as he’d slid into the booth, Adam had made a feint around Isaac and gotten in the booth next. Now Adam’s arm is over his shoulder, resting on the back of the banquette, fingers playing with the ends of Tommy’s hair. He’s still wearing the frock coat, which is very soft up close, which Tommy only knows because he seems at some point to have laid his cheek on Adam’s shoulder.
He sits quietly, fielding a text from Jillian, and listens while the others relive the gig. Whenever one of them comes up with a toast, he picks up his mimosa and clinks glasses with everyone. Mostly it’s about the band and the tour and the new album, but at some point Isaac throws in one about how lesbians so totally rock and Cam adds another about how straight men are the bomb.
Tommy smiles. He’s glad his friends are friends again. Music is awesome because it brings them together. He loses track of time and then suddenly Adam is nudging him and asking, “Give me a ride home?”
He gets out of the booth and sways a little, but it’s tiredness or stress, it’s emphatically not because of one fucking mimosa. He walks out in the straightest line he can manage so Adam won’t offer to drive Bessie. She’s temperamental for anyone but Tommy anyway.
He chooses a route through the Hills where it’s dark and quiet, the winding roads soothing. He used to drive through here when he was young, looking out at the Los Angeles basin glittering in the night and wishing he could live up here one day. Adam fiddles with the radio but keeps it low, puts a hand on Tommy’s thigh and strokes lightly.
The meditative journey is disrupted by a sudden thumping as the front wheel pulls to the right.
“Whoa!” Adam says, grabbing the handle above the passenger door.
“Feels like Bessie threw a shoe,” Tommy sighs, pulling the car over on the side away from the drop-off. They get out and look at the flat tire.
Adam gets his phone out and dials.
“Don’t do that,” Tommy says, “I can change a flat.”
“Huh? Why bother, I’ll just call a car service.”
Tommy’s already rummaging in the trunk. He hauls out a Maglite, flicks it on, and hands it to Adam. “I’ll be done before they get here.”
Adam taps his phone off. “Really?”
“I need light,” says Tommy, so Adam aims the flashlight into the trunk. Tommy unscrews the spare and hefts it out, setting it on the road. “Keep an eye out for cars going fast around the curve. Not a lot of room here.” He finds the jack and moves to the front of the car, where he assembles the jack and shoves it beneath the car until he finds the undercarriage. He goes to the side of the road and finds a large rock which he shoves against the left rear wheel.
Adam is staring at him, practically gape-mouthed. “Tommy, I didn’t know you could do this.”
Tommy grins wryly. “I’m a guy,” he says, using the tire iron to loosen the lug-nuts on the right front wheel.
“What should I do?”
“Chill, I got it. Just keep the light steady.” Tommy jacks up the car. It takes awhile. He spins the lugs off and removes the tire, then goes to the spare and wheels it over. This isn’t the first tire he’s changed by a long shot, but the booze has loosened his muscles and the thing is heavy even though it’s not a full-service spare. He gets it in place and reverses everything, screwing the lugs in, tightening them with the iron, lowering the car, removing the jack, and then tightening the lugs again.
“This is so educational,” Adam says. “It’s really pretty hot. You’re manly, Tommy.”
Tommy flips his hair out of his eyes. He’s not sure what to think. Is Adam teasing? It’s obvious he’s never changed a tire, though, so he figures maybe Adam’s serious. “Can I have the flashlight?” he asks. When Adam hands it over, Tommy rolls the flat tire slowly, inspecting it carefully until he finds what he is searching for.
“What’s that?” asks Adam, fascinated.
“A screw. It’s in there pretty good. Probably from that construction site near my apartment, there’s always shit all over. They track it out in the streets.”
“I’ll put the tire in the trunk,” Adam offers, “you did all the other work.”
Tommy steps back and gives a be-my-guest gesture. He expects Adam to be surprised at the weight. Which he is, for one second, and then he lifts it and settles it in the trunk like it’s light as a feather, turning around with a big smile, brushing at his dusty frock coat.
Tommy is always astonished at how strong Adam is, because he doesn’t seem like he would be. But yep, he is. And boy is that ever hot.
* * *
When they reach Adam’s driveway he’s not sure what he is supposed to do, drop him off or what.
“Are you coming in?” Adam asks, one hand on the door handle but looking at Tommy all hopeful and shit. “Please?”
Tommy turns off the engine. His legs feel rubbery once he’s out of the car and walking. Adam unlocks the front door and holds it for Tommy. He hits a switch to bring up soft lighting, then leads Tommy down into the sunken living room, telling him watch the steps. He picks up a remote and aims it at the stereo, and dreamily quiet and sexy Arabian music floods the house. What the fuck? Where’s Adam been keeping that musical taste? They keep walking, up the steps into the dining room and then the kitchen, where Tommy remembers sitting at the kitchen island, eating ice cream in perfect contentment. It seems a long while ago.
It looks different, though, in the dark. Adam strikes a match and lights two candles, and then Tommy sees a bottle of wine, a cork-puller, and two wine glasses.
For me? Tommy thinks, and then stutters it out: “For me?”
Adam smiles that I’m-in-charge smile. He picks up the bottle and expertly uncorks it. He may not know how to change a flat but he definitely knows his way around a wine cellar. “I need to get out of this coat. Let the wine breathe and I’ll be right back.”
While he’s gone, Tommy drapes his jacket over one of the tall stools and washes his hands at the sink, then wipes them off on his jeans. He checks the freezer to see if there’s any ice cream. Nope. He sits on one of the stools and drags the wine bottle closer to read the label. Pinot noir. He has no idea how to pronounce that.
Adam reappears, barefoot, wearing one of his many grayscale graphic tees and a pair of jeans. “This stuff is really good,” he says, picking up the bottle and holding it over the glass nearer to Tommy. “Want to try it?”
Tommy’s tongue seems stuck in his mouth. He nods in lieu of speaking.
Adam keeps talking while they drink, about where the wine came from and how he got interested in Middle Eastern music. The wine is good, like, really good. Tommy is on his second glass when he realizes that Adam is standing and tugging on his hand. Tommy sets the wine glass down and allows himself to be towed into the living room (watch the steps), where Adam pulls Tommy into his arms and starts to sway to the music.
“Are we dancing?” Tommy asks, astounded.
“Mmm, yeah, isn’t it nice?”
“I told you more than once, I can’t dance,” Tommy reminds him, trying to sound cross and failing completely, wrapping his arms around Adam’s back and pushing his head under Adam’s chin. Because, seriously? Being held by Adam is incredible, and if Adam wants to sway around and waltz him across the floor? What the fuck ever.
“Shush,” Adam whispers, “I’ll do the dancing for you.”
It’s mesmerizing… the sinuous music, the soft lighting, the warmth of Adam’s body and the way he smells, a little bit sweaty but not in a bad way.
“Bet you even took ballroom dancing,” Tommy mumbles against Adam’s tee.
“Of course I did. Musical theater, remember?”
Tommy giggles.
“Hey, I can even do a Highland fling, so don’t laugh at me or I might have to show you.”
“Kay, I won’t.” The music goes on and on, making Tommy feel sleepy. Drinks and dancing, yep, this is a date. He goes all loose, lets Adam take most of his weight. He starts to feel like he’s in an old movie about a handsome Arabian sheik and caravans crossing the sand at night, swaying to the sounds of the camels’ hoof beats, tents of silk, heaps of pillows and dancing girls - or boys, he’s not particular so long as the sheik pays attention only to one of them, the bleached-blond one - and oh fuck he’s fantasizing Lawrence of Arabia.
“Are you laughing again?” Adam teases.
“Mmhph,” Tommy says.
“You’re getting heavy,” Adam says, hauling him over to the red velvet sofa. He flops down and pulls Tommy onto his lap.
Tommy blinks and rubs at one eye with a fist.
“Sleepy, honey?” Adam asks.
Tommy nods. Adam holds him firmly in place with an arm around his waist. Tommy lets his forearms drop onto Adam’s shoulders. Adam reaches up and strokes two fingers across Tommy’s mouth, tracing the line of his lips, soft as a whisper.
It’s always Adam kissing him, not really the other way round. Oh, he’s given Adam a kiss on the shoulder or the cheek. But never his mouth. So he decides he’s going to do it right now, kiss Adam. Adam’s fingers move along his cheek and touch his ear, and then his hand goes around the back of Tommy’s head, but before he can pull Tommy forward, Tommy leans in and touches his lips to Adam’s.
He can feel Adam’s gasp more than hear it, can feel that Adam is hard. He wants, he wants, so much. He knows Adam is waiting for him.
Tommy licks Adam’s lips and they open and then Tommy really kisses him and that’s about as much initiative as Adam lets him have because suddenly he’s crushed against Adam’s chest with Adam’s insistent tongue in his mouth and Adam’s grabby hands under his shirt, on his back, pushing inside his jeans and underwear until he can squeeze Tommy’s ass. It's pretty snug in there. Tommy pushes back because, hey, he’s the one who changed the tire and if he hadn’t done that they would probably still be out on that dark road instead of here, making out like two horny teenagers.
Still, there’s that size difference, no denying it, so when Adam grabs his waist and puts him on his back he can’t prevent it, even while his legs and arms are flailing for purchase on the sofa back, the coffee table - anything. Too late, because Adam’s on top of him, one hand scrabbling awkwardly at Tommy’s zipper.
“Fuck!” Tommy cries out.
“Let me,” Adam whispers. “Let me, let me.”
But he can’t seem to get coordinated enough to make the zipper work, maybe because Tommy is squirming which is not at all helpful, so he dips his head and kisses Tommy messily instead. Tommy’s fingers find their way into Adam’s thick hair. Adam’s hand squeezes his dick and Tommy can’t help it - he groans and his mouth goes slack and -
And Adam stops trying to kiss him and stares down at him. “Did you just come, Tommy Joe?”
That’s embarrassing enough without being fucking asked about it. Tommy turns his head away.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m so flattered, baby.” Adam takes one of Tommy’s hands that is hanging off the edge of the sofa and kisses the palm. “I know what, we’ll grab a shower.”
He clambers off Tommy and that’s not right, Adam didn’t come. Tommy catches up to him at the bottom of the stairs and grabs Adam from behind, clutches his arms around Adam’s waist and presses his cheek against Adam’s back. He hasn’t had a dick other than his own in his hand for over a decade but this is Adam so he undoes the belt and is way more successful with Adam’s zipper than Adam was with his. Adam waits, breathing heavily, one hand over the arm that Tommy has snugged around him. Tommy gets Adam’s dick in his hand and it’s big all right. It’s never going to fit in his ass, that’s something he’s damn sure of. He’s not too sure about his mouth, either.
“More,” says Adam, a pleading note in his voice.
Tommy strokes him - gives him as much more as he can. Then Adam’s free hand covers his and he shows Tommy what he needs, faster and harder until he’s panting Tommy’s name and comes all over both of their hands.
That’s about the worst sex Tommy has had in a long while. He feels like shit, like he messed it all up. It’s totally his fault. But Adam doesn’t seem to notice, because in short order Tommy finds himself surrounded by hot water, delicious-smelling shampoo, fluffy towels, naked Adam, naked Tommy, and then soft silky sheets and down comforters. In the dark, Adam spoons around him like Tommy knew he would, and whispers against his hair, “Tommy, oh my god, Tommy,” over and over. He squeezes the arm that encircles him, to let Adam know it’s okay.
* * *
When he wakes the room is bright with sunshine. He can hear birds singing; a window is cracked open, it promises to be a warm day. He smells something sharply incongruous. Lifting his head from the pillow, he finds that one of his feet is protruding from the covers, resting in Adam’s lap where Adam sits cross-legged, fully dressed, at the foot of the gigantic bed.
Adam is painting his toenails purple.
“You bastard,” Tommy says.
Adam smiles sunnily. “Coffee, tea or me?”
“You, of course,” Tommy answers and flops back down.
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