Random Hearts - Chapter 7

[radiogaga33]

Chapter 7

The instant Kris turns around to find Tommy gone, he knows, with a certainty that is unshakeable, that every hour of every day from now on is simply borrowed time.

In a daze, he staggers back to the wrought-iron bench on the patio and sinks down heavily, cradling his face in the palms of his hands as he replays the events of the last hour over and over again, until the images become distorted and the sounds shrill and Kris feels as though he’ll suffocate beneath the weight of the memory.

He raises his head, looking down at the sprawling expanse of Los Angeles, chameleon-like in the shifting shades of dawn. Sharp pinpoints of color growing dull as daylight softens the harsh contrasts of night, black outlines transforming into houses and parking decks, shopping malls and trees, and empty side streets and freeways filling up with cars, white and blue and red and black, all of them like ants marching, obeying some unspoken command. Every morning Kris has left his bed to sit out here, he has seen nothing but beauty in the sight laid out in front of him. He has seen escape and the faintest traces of hope. Today he sees nothing. Because he has done the unthinkable. Foolish, careless-Kris shudders, knot forming in his throat and eyes burning with the threat of tears. Seven years spent building himself a house of glass only to go swinging a hammer at walls and wondering why he suddenly finds himself surrounded by heaps of shattered glass.

“It’s over,” he says, low and tight, nearly choking on the words.

The declaration is met with silence. No lights flicker in the house, no sounds drift through the half-open French doors leading out to the patio. He is alone, and from now on, he will always be alone, because he can’t keep this from Adam, and the moment he confesses, Adam will disclaim him. Kris runs his hand over his face and lets out a shuddering breath. Why didn’t he stay in bed? Why didn’t he turn around the moment he’d seen Tommy sitting out here? But even if he had done those things, would it have mattered? I don’t deserve this life. I don’t deserve Adam. I was always going to ruin this somehow, smash it all out of existence. An inevitable conclusion, and now it’s here.

Kris sinks lower on the bench, staring blindly into the distance. He sits there for a long while, replaying the scene over and over, until the sun is too high in the sky to ignore. He can’t stay out here all morning, delaying the inevitable. Reluctantly, he stands up and picks up his guitar and notebook. With his heart beating a frantic rhythm in his chest, he slips through the patio doors and shuts them behind him before heading straight for his workroom. He sets the guitar back onto its display stand on the wall, noting as he does, that all the other guitars are in their places as well, including the one Tommy had been playing outside. Tommy has already been here. The thought sends him staggering back, sends the memory flooding back. He recalls Tommy’s scent, the sweetness and the heat, the feel of Tommy’s lips against his own, soft and wet. His hands clutching at Kris’s shirt. The way he had moaned into Kris’s mouth.

Oh God. Kris leans against his worktable, palms flat against the polished wood, willing himself to breathe normally again even as guilt cuts through him, its path vicious and unforgiving. And why shouldn’t it hurt? Why shouldn’t he suffer when he has proven himself to be even more of a bastard than he has ever imagined himself to be? In a singular moment, he’d broken faith with his mate and taken advantage of an omega. Foolish, careless-and now, his whole world is gone to hell.

Kris isn’t sure how long he stands there before faint sounds of movement from outside reach his ears. Adam. Instantly, Kris’s heart picks up that frantic pace again, threatening to beat right out of his chest. Kris can’t bear the thought of leaving this room, of facing what he has done, but he has no choice. Borrowed time. That’s all this is.

When Kris enters the kitchen, he goes right to table, slipping into his chair opposite Adam. For the next several minutes, he does his best to follow the thread of Adam’s conversation while determinedly focusing on anything but Tommy. He doesn’t meet his eyes when Tommy sets down his breakfast plate and coffee mug in front of him. He doesn’t look over his shoulder while Tommy shuffles around on the other side of the kitchen. He forces himself not to visibly react when he catches the scent of Tommy’s nervousness in the air. He can’t look at Tommy. If he does, Adam will see everything. Adam will know. Tomorrow, he tells himself even as the guilt rises. Just one last day of this, one last day with Adam and then he’ll confess everything.

But the next day, he does nothing. He wakes up early, staring up at the ceiling, bracing himself for the confrontation, only to lose his nerve the moment Adam wakes up, flashing Kris a silly grin before getting out of bed to get ready for the day. Just one more day, he tells himself, as he willfully squanders every opportunity to tell Adam the truth, including when he walks Adam outside to his car and kisses him goodbye. With one hand shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight, Kris watches Adam drive away before turning back to the house with a heavy sigh.

“One more day,” he mutters beneath his breath as he shuts the front doors. Then he turns around to find Tommy standing on the far side of the foyer, fingers tugging nervously at the hem of his button-down shirt. It’s the first time they have been alone since yesterday morning, and Kris stands there for a long moment, awkward and unsure, before marching toward the staircase and practically racing up the stairs. He gets dressed for the day in a daze, everything lifeless and dull around him, trying not to think about the stricken look on Tommy’s face when Kris had walked right past him.

When Kris is finished, he walks out of his bedroom and across the landing, praying that Tommy is gone. But no such luck. Tommy is still there, only now, he is sitting on the bottom stair, shoulders slumped and hands resting on his knees. He jerks up when Kris starts walking down the stairs, looks over his shoulder until Kris reaches him and then moves past him, walking toward the door with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

“Are you upset with me?”

The question stops Kris dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly, utterly at a loss for words. What is he supposed to say? Nothing can undo what he has done.

“I didn’t mean to run away,” Tommy continues quietly. “I just didn’t know what to do.” He looks up at Kris, eyes pleading. “I’ve never…I…please tell me what to do.”

“I have to go,” Kris says dully. Tommy’s face falls-all of him seems to collapse where he’s sitting on the stairs. His body curls inward, making him look even smaller than he already is. Fragile. Breakable. Kris turns away, silently cursing himself. “I have to go,” he repeats. Then he walks out the door and slams it shut behind him before he can give into the temptation to tell Tommy the truth.

He doesn’t know what to do either.

* * *

Kris doesn’t tell Adam what happened the next day. He doesn’t tell Adam the day after that, or the day after that. Each night, he falls asleep resolving to tell Adam the following day, and each morning, he bites back the confession, resolve lasting all of a few minutes before he digs his head into the sand again, avoiding his new reality. During their breakfasts in the kitchen, he speaks to Tommy only when absolutely necessary, each word he utters a feat in itself. And he never once looks directly at Tommy, still convinced that his eyes will reveal what his carefully masked scent does not: that he kissed Tommy, that he wants to do it again, hold him, touch him, fuck him. One look, and Adam will know, and Kris’s borrowed time will run out.

So he avoids Tommy’s gaze and Tommy’s stilted attempts at engaging him the few times they are alone. He feints and evades for days, until one morning when dawn finds him sitting up in bed, staring blindly into the darkness, same as he had done all night. He showers and dresses quietly before walking out of the room. Perhaps if he works a little, grinds down the frantic racing of his mind just enough, he can catch a few hours before his afternoon call time at the studio. He flips the switch by the door when he walks into his workroom, flooding the place with light, before setting up shop at his desk, pulling out notebooks filled with half-finished lyrics and hastily penciled guitar chords. By the time a half hour has passed, Kris is deeply engrossed in his work, which is probably why he misses the slight creaking of the hinges as the door swings open and doesn’t look up until Tommy says his name in surprise.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” Tommy says, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. He is wearing a navy blue t-shirt and fitted light-blue jeans slung low on his hips. His hair is a tousled blond mess on his head and his eyes are heavy-lidded, like he hasn’t quite woken all the way up just yet. He looks amazing, and Kris wants nothing more than to discover if the skin along the curve of his neck feels as delicate as it looks or tastes as sweet as his lips had.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kris answers honestly, pencil still poised over the open notebook in front of him.

“Neither could I,” Tommy admits, letting out a wry, almost sad smile.

An awkward silence descends. Kris fidgets in his chair. He wants out of this room.

“I thought I’d play a little to pass the time until breakfast,” Tommy says, breaking the silence. He glances at the wall of guitars before turning back to Kris. Unlike the last few days, he meets Kris’s gaze firmly and holds it. It had taken Kris a little while to notice that, the fact that Tommy was doing his hardest not to look at Kris either. But he is looking now, with wide brown eyes that are too soft, too open, too hopeful. Someone should have cautioned him before now, Kris thinks. Someone should have warned him against leaving himself exposed like that. Do that, and anyone can hurt you. And they will. Case in point-

“You shouldn’t be here.” The hopeful look in Tommy’s eyes dims instantly, and Kris hates himself for it.

“You said I could come in here whenever I want.” The hurt in Tommy’s scent is palpable.

“That was before.”

Tommy finally looks away. He stares down at the carpet, frowning for a long moment before he looks up again. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

Kris swallows hard. “There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing.”

“There’s everything to talk about,” Tommy protests, voice barely rising above a whisper.

“I’m working here.”

“And when you’re not working?”

“You should leave.”

“Kris-”

Tommy steps forward, and Kris drops his pencil and presses the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I can’t,” he says, low and hoarse. “I can’t.”

Tommy doesn’t move or say anything for a long moment. Then finally, “I was there too, you know.”

Kris looks up, confused. “What?”

“That morning. I was there too. I just thought I’d remind you, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Before Kris can form a coherent response, Tommy turns around and walks out the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

That day, Kris stays in his workroom all morning, avoiding both Tommy and Adam, unable to sit through another meal in the kitchen, pretending, clutching tightly at the reins to a carriage inexorably headed straight for a ravine. When he finally makes an appearance, Adam shoots him a worried look and insists on walking him out to his car.

“Is everything alright with Tommy?” Adam asks.

“What do you mean?” Kris replies, looking away, fingers tightening around the set of keys in his hand.

“Did something happen with Tommy?”

Kris’s heart skips a beat. “Why? What did he say?”

“Nothing, but something is clearly wrong. It’s like we’ve gone in reverse.” He takes a step toward Kris. “Listen, whatever he did, I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”

Kris looks up at Adam. Everything about him speaks of love and trust, from the earnest look on his face to the way his body instinctively leans toward Kris. Guilt washes over Kris. “Tommy didn’t do anything. I’m the one that-” He stops abruptly. Here it is, the perfect opportunity to tell Adam everything, but like the coward he is, Kris ducks reality once again. “It’s the album,” he says. “I’m stressed out over the album, that’s all.” He closes the gap between them and kisses Adam on the cheek. “Everything is fine.”

* * *

The next morning, Kris braces himself, taking several calming breaths before he enters the kitchen and launches into a charade, into a poor imitation of the mornings before he lit the match that will incinerate everything he holds dear. His food tastes like lumps of cardboard in his mouth, his juice and coffee like bile. His words are careful, painstakingly so, as he engages Tommy in conversation, asking after the housekeeping, talking about meaningless things, useless things. He doesn’t mention music, doesn’t ask Tommy anything remotely personal, doesn’t dare to look him straight in the eyes with Adam sitting there watching. Tommy’s replies are halting, and the exchanges between them are altogether stilted, each moment awkward and painful until Kris runs through his repertoire of meaningless questions and silence falls.

An hour later, Kris heads downtown with a mixture of relief, guilt and fear climbing its way up his spine. He has bought himself time, but for how long? Another morning, another day, another week? He thinks about Adam at breakfast this morning, about the despairing furrow between his eyebrows as he’d looked back and forth between Tommy and Kris. He thinks about yesterday, about the sad, pained look on Tommy’s face when Kris had asked him to leave his workroom. “I was there too, you know.” Neither of them will go unscathed. Because of Kris. Because he’d been careless and selfish.

At the studio, he slips on a pair of large, dark sunglasses and hauls his guitar case out of the backseat of his car. As he walks toward the revolving glass door leading to the lobby of the building, he raises his hand listlessly at the pair of photographers in the front lot calling his name, too tired to attempt a smile while their camera bulbs flash, bright even in the sunshine. They are still calling his name when he disappears into the building, but Kris ignores them. Upstairs, the production team and the band are already there. Cale is fiddling with the keyboard in the recording booth while Andrew tunes one of his guitars. Chris and Ryland are talking with one of the assistant producers in a corner while a half dozen or so technicians flit about the space getting all the equipment ready for recording. As Kris sets his guitar case down in the control room, Max Kelly, the lead producer he has been working with for the last two weeks, walks up to him and immediately draws him into conversation about their recording goals for the day.

The rest of the morning and afternoon pass by in a blur of activity, everyone hard at work. As always, the process is three parts pain, one part cautious optimism and one part random flashes of brilliance. And while it barrels forward at full throttle, all Kris can think about is the music, but the instant it slows down, during the pauses and long breaks, everything floods back in, leaving him tense and distracted. They are nearing the tail end of a late lunch break, when Kris slips away, too wound up for idle conversation in the break room, too distracted to plaster on a ready smile and mask his scent to avoid questions. He rides the elevator up to the roof and walks out into the late afternoon air, breathing in deeply, gratefully, thankful for the space, for the peace and quiet. He walks to the edge of the roof and rests his forearms on the concrete and reinforced steel railing, looking down at the awe-inspiring sprawl of Los Angeles. When it’s all over, can he even stay here? He will do whatever Adam asks him-Kris has decided that already-even if it means leaving the city behind, leaving Adam behind, leaving home all over again.

Kris’s hands tighten against the railing, knuckles going white. He has no right to the pain cutting through him. He has no one to blame but himself for everything he is about to lose.

“Hey, what are you doing up here?”

Kris startles at the sound of Cale’s voice and turns around sharply. “What?”

“We’re almost ready to go downstairs. One of the techs said he saw you head for the elevators.” Cale closes the distance between them and leans forward against the railing. “I figured you’d tell someone if you were leaving, so I tried the roof.” Cale gaze sweeps over the sprawling vista. “This view never gets old,” he says in an awed tone.

“No, it doesn’t,” Kris replies, cringing slightly at the sadness he hears in his own voice.

Cale tilts his head a little, nostrils flaring as he breathes Kris in. “You’re not that stressed about the album, are you?” Kris shrugs. “Come on, it always works out fine in the end, you know that.”

“I know, I know.”

“Good. So, remember that. And stop standing on roofs looking like you’re considering jumping off. It’s bad for my blood pressure.”

Kris lets out a reluctant laugh, mirth displacing his sadness for a brief moment. He leans forward on the railing again, shoulder bumping Cale’s companionably. “I’ll work on that.”

“How’s Adam?”

Kris tries not to tense up. “He’s fine. I think he’s having as much luck with his album as I am.”

“And Tommy? How’s that going?”

This time, Kris’s muscles pull up tight, despite his best efforts. “It’s alright.”

Cale leans away and flicks a curious look at Kris. “Really? I know things were rocky there at the start.”

Kris hadn’t been able to hide it from Cale at the beginning. He has known Kris too long, has grown too familiar with Kris’s tells.

“It’s better now,” Kris says, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Cale smiles, buying the lie. “I’m really glad to hear it. You’ve been really great about it. I don’t know if I would have reacted so well, considering how it was when we were kids. We didn’t grow up like they do out here, with omegas all around. We didn’t get the chance to know them. Home was such a different place.”

“It was.”

Cale is quiet for a while, his expression pensive. “Do you remember that boy whose family moved to town the summer after eighth grade? What was his name again?”

All of a sudden, Kris’s mouth and throat are bone dry, and something twist sharply in his chest. “Jensen,” he says quietly, almost in a whisper. He hasn’t said the name out loud in years.

“He lived on your street.”

“In the old Winthrop place,” Kris supplies in a dull, flat tone.

“Sometimes I think about what happened to him, and I want to crawl right out of my skin. I was part of that. I was part of the system that made it possible for someone to do that to a kid and walk away without so much as a slap on the wrist.” Cale winces. “The things we used to say, all those jokes and insults about omegas. Parroting the adults mindlessly. Some things I didn’t even fully understand until years later.”

“We were children,” Kris says, skirting the irony of trying to comfort Cale with an excuse he will never allow for himself, for what he had done that day in the woods.

“We were.” Cale turns to look at him. “But you never joined in. You never said a word against omegas.”

“I didn’t stand up for them either. That’s equally reprehensible.”

Cale nods and lets out a soft sigh. “I’d like to think we’re all better now than we were back then.”

“I’d like to think so too,” Kris says, even though he knows better. He hasn’t changed. He is the same coward he was at fourteen. Hasn’t he proven it all over again with Tommy?

“We should head back in,” Cale says after a long moment of silence.

“Yeah,” Kris agrees, following Cale through the roof access doors and down the narrow hallway to the elevators even though a crowded recording studio is the last place he wants to be.

He stays distracted through the next few hours of recording, missing cues, singing off-key and playing clumsily until the team finally calls it a day. The drive back up to the Hills passes by in a blur, consumed as he is by memories, old and new, by thoughts of Jensen and Tommy and Adam. At home, he barrels right past Tommy’s awkward attempt at engaging him and races up the stairs to his bedroom, slamming the door closed behind him. Afterward, he tosses his keys onto the dressing table and heads to the bathroom for a quick shower. He doesn’t notice the scent until he is two steps into the bathroom, but when he does, it slams into him with overwhelming force. Tommy’s scent is everywhere, saturating the room and threatening to send Kris into a tailspin. He is reaching under the sink cabinet before he even realizes what he’s doing, spraying the counters and wiping vigorously with a clean rag before he fully processes the action.

He carries on like that, frantic, a little mad, wiping every surface in the bathroom before grabbing a brush and dropping to his knees-still fully clothed-to scrub the floor. Adam finds him like that, clothes wet with scrubbing suds, hands and face red from exertion. It isn’t until he turns and looks up at the sound of Adam’s voice and sees the shocked, worried expression on Adam’s face that he realizes how all this must look, how crazy he must seem.

“Nervous energy to burn,” he says, trying for nonchalance when Adam questions him. “Besides, the bathroom needed cleaning.”

“Tommy can do that. Why are you-leave it alone, please? Tommy can finish it in the morning. Come to bed.”

It takes everything in Kris not to flinch at the mention of Tommy’s name. “I will. Let me finish this-I can’t leave the floor wet like this. I’ll be right there.”

For a moment, Adam looks like he wants to argue, but then he relents, muttering “okay” quietly before walking out of the bathroom.

Alone again, Kris finishes what he started and cleans off, washing his hands and arms with soap and scalding hot water before leaving the bathroom. Adam is lying in bed when Kris walks back into the bedroom and begins to undress. When he is finished, and Kris stares for a few seconds, taking in the familiar shape of him beneath the covers. This is what Kris will lose. The right to see Adam like this, to lie next to him, to hold him.

He climbs into bed, lying still on his side with far too much space between them. Kris should tell Adam now, tell him about Tommy, about Jensen, about the secrets piled up between them. But he can’t, he can’t. Not yet, not today. He needs one more day, one more day to cling selfishly to the anchor Adam has always been for him. Kris slides over to Adam with that thought, pressing close and wrapping his arms tightly around Adam.

“I love you,” he whispers against Adam’s skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.” He says it over and over again, until the words lose their meaning, until Adam turns around and pulls Kris against him, murmuring words of reassurance into his skin. And through it all, Kris doesn’t let go, because, in this moment, he is drowning, and Adam is the only thing keeping him from going under.

* * *

Kris dissembles the next morning, putting on a show for Adam, smoke and mirrors, distractions to keep him from discovering the truth just yet. Somehow, he maintains the charade, keeps it going for days on end, telling himself each morning, “tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow” and pretending not to notice how “tomorrow” never becomes “today”.

He barely makes it through their anniversary, splintering at the edges, crumbling at his core as the truth eats away at him. It weighs him down, an unbearable pressure, and still he says “tomorrow”. Even as guilt threatens to drown him with each worried look from Adam, with each reassurance murmured against his skin. Even as shame nearly chokes the breath out of him as he watches Tommy’s face fall when Kris gives him his birthday present. He watches at Tommy looks down at the guitar and swallows once, twice, throat working hard, like he is trying to swallow back his hurt, bury it deep down where no one can see-but Kris sees. He sees, and he hates himself for it. So, he hurries out the front door without a backward glance, running away all over again.

Recording is another minor disaster that day, and evening finds the entire crew there, still slaving away on three new tracks. Kris’s phone rings while they play back the backing vocal tracks they’ve just recorded, he and Cale and the producer listening with identical frowns on their faces. He gets up and hurries over to a corner of the booth with a mumbled apology and takes the call. It’s Adam, asking him along to Avalon for the night.

“No, go on without me,” he says, feigning exhaustion. We’re gonna be here at least another hour.”

“Come afterward.”

“The only place I’m going is straight home. Go without me.”

“You sure?” Adam asks. “There’s no one at home. Tommy’s here with me.”

Kris stiffens, fingers tightening around his phone. “I don’t understand.”

“I brought him along to the studio.”

Kris stays silent for a long moment. He can’t go. Not to Avalon with the rest of their friends, pretending everything is alright, not while Tommy is there. He can’t do this anymore.

“Kris?”

“Take him with you. Have a good time.”

“Are you sure you won’t come?” Adam tries again.

“I’m barely standing upright as it is.”

Adam relents, dropping off the line, and Kris goes back to work for another hour before the team packs it in for the day. The drive back up to the Hills is quiet, the freeway uncharacteristically clear, and Kris returns to an empty house in under thirty minutes, and walks into the darkened foyer alone. This is what it will be like, he thinks as he puts away his guitar cases. When it’s all over, this is what it will be like, coming home to an empty house, with only the sounds of silence for company.

He climbs up the staircase slowly, drags his feet across the landing and walks into his and Adam’s bedroom with a heavy sigh. A flick of the switch by the doorframe floods the room with light, and Kris looks around, taking in all the random elements of their days strewn across the room, his and Adam’s lives interwoven.

Enough.

Kris sits down on the bed heavily and runs a hand over his face, staring blindly at the wall. It’s enough. “Tomorrow,” he mutters quietly, and this time, he means it.

He’ll give Adam his half of everything they share. As alpha, Adam is well within his rights to demand it from a beta who has broken faith. Even if he doesn’t, Kris will give it all to him anyway. Kris owes him that much. And, perhaps if he does, Adam will see past his hurt and let Tommy stay. Kris will take the blame for everything, for the kiss and for the lies of omission since then. He’ll swear to anything, so long as he protects Tommy. Kris owes him that much.

The finality of it takes everything out of him, and Kris undresses slowly and crawls into bed. For hours, he waits, blinking in the near-darkness, tracing over the shadows in the room, the intersecting patterns of gray on gray. At some point, he must have fallen asleep, because when he opens his eyes, the first light of dawn is filtering through the curtains and Adam’s right arm is curled around Kris’s waist, possessive, even in sleep. Pain stabs through Kris. In another hour, he won’t be Adam’s anymore.

“Adam?” he whispers, shifting around to face his alpha. Adam lets out a groan in response and burrows deeper into the bedding.

“Adam?” Kris tries again.

“…more minute…” Adam groans out, pulling the comforter over his head.

Kris sits up and looks down at him, running his fingertips lightly over the silky fall of Adam’s hair peeking out from the edge of the comforter. A few minutes delay won’t change the outcome of what is about to happen. So he gets out of bed and lets Adam sleep. Getting dressed is quick and perfunctory. A shave and shower, pulling on old blue jeans and a t-shirt Adam had bought him in Berlin on his second tour. They had spent every free moment on the phone during that leg of Adam’s tour, tired voices travelling across the Atlantic, soft endearments murmured in each other’s ears. Kris had ached for him. And now-Kris runs a hand through his hair-what does it matter now? He was always going to lose this. This has been the inevitable conclusion right from the start.

He slips out of the bedroom while Adam is still moving around restlessly on the bed, dead to the world for the moment. He makes it down to the kitchen before he is ready, bracing himself. Tommy is there already, scooping ground coffee beans into the coffee maker. He has a small frown of concentration on his face, bottom lip caught between sharp, white teeth. His blonde hair is brushed back on his head, creased t-shirt molded to his thin body. He looks fragile. He looks beautiful.

At the counter, Tommy tilts his head, scenting the air. Then he spins around, eyes going wide with surprise.

“Sorry,” Kris says, throat achingly dry. “I’m down early. Didn’t mean to throw you off.”

“It’s fine,” Tommy mutters before turning back around to drop the scooper into the sink. He pushes the red button on the coffee machine and glances at Kris. “I’ll have something ready in a little bit, if you want to wait,” he says, gesturing at the stove. His hand is shaking. Kris frowns at that, looking at Tommy sharply. Now that Kris is paying attention, he sees how sickly Tommy looks, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Instantly, he moves closer.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “How much did you drink last night?”

“Only one, and I barely finished it. I wasn’t drunk.”

“You don’t look well.”

Tommy shrugs. “I’m fine. Just a little shaky this morning, is all.”

Kris moves even closer, close enough to touch, though he doesn’t, no matter how much he may want to offer comfort. “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks softly.

“Do you actually care?” Tommy replies, an edge of pain to his tone. He winces after he speaks and flashes Kris an apologetic look before looking away.

“I deserve that,” Kris admits. “Yesterday, with the guitar,” Kris continues when Tommy looks at him again, “I shouldn’t have-listen, Tommy…I don’t want to hurt you.”

A muscle ticks along Tommy’s jaw. “I don’t want to hurt you either.” A strange look passes over his face, too many emotions jumbled together to identify. “But you will.”

“What?”

“’I don’t want to hurt you,’” Tommy says, repeating Kris’s words. “That’s what people always say right before they do exactly that.” His voice is quiet.

“I’m sorry.”

Tommy shrugs and turns away. Kris watches silently as Tommy sets about making breakfast, first cutting up some fruit and then stirring up oatmeal in a pot on the stove. Through it all, Tommy doesn’t look at him once.

“You said you don’t want to hurt me either,” Kris finally says, willing Tommy to look at him. He does. “Does that mean you’re going to hurt me?”

Guilt darkens Tommy’s eyes. “I don’t want to.” Tommy lets go of the stirrer and inches closer. “Kris,” he breathes, reaching out, fingers grazing the hem of Kris’s t-shirt.

Kris stares at him, confusion freezing him in place. But before he can ask the question pressing at him, a soft thud and a muffled curse alerts him to Adam’s imminent arrival. Tommy snatches his hand back and looks toward the doorway a second before Adam appears. He is fully dressed already, with a small leather binder tucked under his left arm.

“Can’t stay this morning,” Adam announces. He doesn’t look directly at either one of them. Not at Kris. Not at Tommy. “Early call time at the studio.”

“Wait!” Kris calls when Adam turns away without waiting for a response. “I need to talk to you,” he says breathlessly upon catching Adam in the hallway.

“Sorry, I have to go,” Adam says, still not meeting Kris’s eyes. “We can talk tonight,” he promises lightly.

“But I wanted to…” Kris starts to protest, only to find himself talking to the air, because Adam pivots and rushes off before he even gets the first syllables out. He stands there, dazed, mind caught between relief and disappointment. When he hears the front door open and slam closed, Kris finally moves, walking back to the kitchen, nerves grated raw.

Tommy is still standing at the stove, staring at the doorway. He looks even worse than before, frightfully pale. Behind him, the oatmeal in the pot is burning.

“Tommy, the stove,” Kris says.

“Oh God,” Tommy says, snapping out of it. He turns the stove off and dumps the smoking pot into the sink. The cold water from the faucet hisses along the surface of the pot when Tommy twists it on, and for a brief while, it is the only sound in the room. “I’m sorry,” Tommy says. “I can start it over again.”

“No, don’t bother.” He shakes his head, wondering how the morning got away from him. “I’ll pick up something on my way downtown.” And with that, he leaves too.

That evening, he gets back early and sits up in bed for hours, waiting for Adam to get home. He falls asleep like that, still dressed, and wakes up to find Adam beneath the covers on the other side of the bed, eyeliner smudged along the curve of his cheekbone.

“Hey,” he murmurs when Adam finally stirs awake, squinting at Kris through bleary eyes. “You disappeared yesterday.”

“Sorry,” Adam yawns, stretching his limbs. “Busy day.”

“I want to talk to you,” Kris tries again.

“When I’m human again,” Adam says. “Shower, food, then talk, yes?” he pleads, flashing Kris a tired grin before rolling out of bed and stumbling toward the bathroom.

They walk into the kitchen together forty minutes later, and right away, Kris knows that something is wrong. Tommy looks even worse than yesterday, shoulders hunched and trembling a little. His skin is clammy, alarming pale save for the splotches of bright red across his forehead and cheeks. Once again, he is wearing a fitted shirt, but this time, patches of it cling to his body, damp with sweat.

Kris feels Adam stop short beside him, head tilting sharply, nose scenting the air.

“Tommy, what’s wrong?” Adam asks.

“Nothing,” Tommy says weakly, lifting a pitcher of grapefruit juice off the counter and walking toward the kitchen table. As he gets closer, Kris scents him too and discovers what Adam must have noticed himself. Tommy smells wrong.

“Tommy?” Kris says, worry pulsing through him at the strange scent and the way Tommy sets the pitcher down with a loud clang, hands shaking badly. “Tommy!” Kris repeats, exclaiming when Tommy sways suddenly, utterly unsteady on his feet.

“You need to sit down,” Adam says firmly, grabbing Tommy’s shoulders and moving him to do exactly that. “Jesus, you’re burning hot,” he says, pressing the back of his wrist to Tommy’s flushed forehead.

Kris kneels in front of Tommy. “How long have you had a fever?” he asks, trying to meet Tommy’s downcast eyes.

“Since last night,” Tommy admits reluctantly.

“Have you taken anything?”

“No.” Tommy twists his fingers together in his lap. “I don’t want to be any trouble. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not fine,” Adam mutters before walking out of the room. He returns a minute later with a pill bottle clutched in his left hand. He takes out two pills and holds them out in front of Tommy to take before pouring him a glass of juice. “Take this. Ibuprofen to break the fever, and then you rest.”

Tommy swallows the pills. “I don’t need to rest. I’m alright.”

“And you take two more of the pills every four hours today,” Adam continues as if Tommy hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to bring the pill bottle and a pitcher of water to your room. You have to drink all the water, stay hydrated. If you start to feel worse at any point today, you call us or call Lane.”

“Really, I’m fine,” Tommy tries to protest again.

“That wasn’t a suggestion,” Adam says sharply. He speaks in an alpha’s unyielding tone, and the reaction is immediate, instinctive. Tommy drops his head even further and nods weakly, while Kris twitches restlessly with the urge to obey even though the words weren’t directed at him. The sudden silence in the room seems to pull Adam from whatever headspace he’s in, and he flicks a quick glance at both Kris and Tommy and backs off with an apologetic expression. “I didn’t mean to-Tommy, I’m just worried. Stay hydrated and rest…please.”

Tommy nods again and stands up slowly. “Okay.”

“And I’ll be there in a minute with the ibuprofen and water.”

“Do you think it’s serious?” Kris asks after Tommy walks out of the room.

“If he isn’t better by tomorrow, I can take him to the omega clinic in Century City.”

“I’ll go with you” Kris starts to say, and then he remembers that there won’t be a tomorrow.

Adam grabs a glass pitcher and fills it with water from the refrigerator filter before picking up the pill bottle from the counter. “I’m going to take these to Tommy’s room,” he says, voice hitching oddly on the last two words. “Be right back,” he throws over his shoulder, and he is, almost as if he couldn’t get away from Tommy fast enough.

“I’ve got to get going,” Adam says when he walks back into the kitchen.

Kris stands up quickly and shakes his head. “No, wait, I need to talk to you.”

Adam flushes a little and looks away, and for a second, Kris can almost swear he looks…guilt-stricken. What?

“Can it wait until tonight?”

“Adam….”

“We’ll talk tonight.” He frowns slightly, staring down at the floor. “I need to talk to you too.”

“What about?” Kris asks, surprised.

“We’ll talk tonight,” Adam says again, closing the gap between them and pressing a kiss to Kris’s left temple. He leans back afterward, large hands cupping Kris’s face. “I love you,” he adds, staring into Kris’s eyes with an odd intensity. It isn’t until right then that Kris realizes Adam hasn’t looked directly at him in two days, not since Tommy’s birthday.

“Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it like something bad is going to happen.”

“Go,” Kris says, surprised at how firm his voice is, how little it betrays the fear racing through him and the wild pounding of his heart. “I’ll see you tonight.”