rivers_bend

Title: Tommy Joe's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Fucking Awesome Flu
Pairing: Adam/Tommy
Rating: NC17
Words: ~11,000 (yeah, I have no idea how that happened either. D:)
The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose names or personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply this actually happened.
Warnings/Enticements: I have no shame whatsoever, and this fic contains tropes galore: H/C, shaving kink, first time, schmoop, and unabashed manipulation of recent 'canon' and timelines to suit my tastes.
A/N: I have to thank blue_soaring for saving this from being totally self-indulgent by telling me I was indulging her <3 (also she is much better at titles than I am.)
Summary: Tommy can't be bothered to shave when he feels like shit, but Adam misses his face.



Tommy pretty much wants to die. If he were dead he wouldn't be coughing, and his head would stop hurting, and his bones wouldn't ache and he could maybe get some fucking sleep instead of just dozing his life away in a pained and miserable fog.

"You don't want to die," Mike tells him. "You just want the flu to fuck off."

"No," Tommy insists, voice like an eighty-year-old frog. "I want to die."

"You're pathetic," Mike says, but he brings him another mug of Theraflu--which tastes like shit but makes Tommy feel like he's doing something--so he's not the worst roommate ever.

Three days later he's still not dead, but he can stay awake through not just one but sometimes two whole hours of television, and he can sit up long enough to capture at least two outlaws in Red Dead Redemption. He still can't be bothered to eat anything, or shower, but sitting up is definitely a step forward.

On day five he's better enough to hose down, get dressed, and drag himself out to rehearse with Isaac and Ravi. The show must go on, and he's a fucking professional, even if he feels like seven kinds of shit. Isaac spends at least ten minutes rubbing his face, because shower is one thing, but Tommy is seriously not up to shaving. He also takes about a thousand pictures, but promises he's only sending them to Sophie. Ravi, on the other hand has had the Tommy/Twitter/fangirl equation explained enough times that he makes no such promises. He's a good guy, though, and Tommy likes the gig, so he'd have been happy to retweet him even if he didn't like the picture. Which he does.

That night he sleeps the sleep of the dead, or at least the heavily medicated, but he still doesn't feel much better the next morning. He rehearses with Monte and Warren in sweats and a fleece under a hoodie, and coughs every twenty seconds, which probably drives everyone crazy, but he's the only one complaining about it. Monte takes him to the doctor instead of home though, and he's poked and prodded and given antibiotics and a lecture about covering his mouth with his elbow when he coughs. Apparently the beard isn't enough to make him look like a grownup to the harried guy at the drop-in.

"You look like shit," Mike says when Tommy walks through the door.

"I love you too. Really." Tommy locks himself in his room with his pills and a bottle of ginger ale. He tries not to wish he could top it up with whiskey. Fucking antibiotics. Fucking flu.

Two days pass in a haze of video games, Netflix instant, and text messages, and then the drugs start working and Tommy feels mostly human. Thank god, because he's not sure sweats and a hoodie are going to cut it at Monte's gig. Also, he's got a date with Adam to get tattoos, and, okay, it's not an actual date, because there's no appointment yet or anything, but. Tommy wants to feel up to going when there is.

Molly Malone's takes it out of him, though. He manages to play fine, and even be social, mostly, but as soon as he's in the car, he starts shaking, and he can't keep his eyes open, and he's grateful as hell that Mike came along to play designated driver, even though Tommy isn't supposed to be drinking. By the time they get home, though, he's all post-gig wired, and he can't sleep for shit.

Ten thirty in the morning he gives up trying and texts Adam. It feels like forever since he's seen him, between the Grammy's hoopla and Adam's vacation, and Tommy's sucktastic immune system. He doesn't get an answer, and starts reading his twitter feed in the hopes that it might inspire him to drag his sorry ass out of bed. It doesn't. The doorbell on the other hand does. He tries to ignore it, but whoever it is clearly knows he's home, because when he doesn't answer right away, they ring again. And again. And then just lean on the thing.

"Oh my fuck," he mutters, shuffling out to the front room in his boxers and a t-shirt, quilt wrapped around him like a cocoon. When he's close enough that there's a chance whoever it is will hear over the pealing bells, he calls, "Coming, what the fuck?"

When he opens the door it's to a blast of sunshine and Adam Lambert, larger than life, crying, "Tommy Joe!" as he scoops him up, quilt and all, crushing him to his chest, pinning his arms between them, leaving Tommy's toes barely scraping the floor.

"Oof," Tommy says into the collar of Adam's shirt.

Adam half lifts, half pulls Tommy over to the couch, where he collapses with him in a heap, Adam propped against the arm of the sofa, Tommy between his legs, head pillowed on his chest. It's like being on tour again, all up in each other's space, and Tommy settles into Adam's embrace without thought.

"I missed you," he says, trying to wrestle an arm free from his wrapping so he can lace his fingers with the hand Adam's using to rub Tommy's chest.

"Missed you too," Adam says, pressing a kiss to the top of Tommy's head.

Tommy finally gets his arm free, but he's too late for hand holding. Adam's abandoned Tommy's chest in favor of tugging gently at the hair on his face.

"What's this?" he asks, amused, but clearly genuinely curious.

"A beard," Tommy says, because stupid questions deserve stupid answers.

"You said I couldn't grow a beard," Adam complains, skritching along Tommy's jaw. "So no fair you growing one."

Tommy laughs, ignoring how he's pressing against Adam's fingers like the pretty kitty Adam likes to call him. "I meant you actually cannot grow a beard. Not that you may not."

"Hey!" Adam protests after a distracted moment of further exploring Tommy's face with his fingers. "I can too grow a beard."

Tommy tips his head back and just looks at him. He doesn't have the energy to explain the difference between a scraggly pirate-ass goatee and a beard. Besides, he isn't even actually trying to grow one. It's just too much effort to shave.

"Whatever," Adam says, laughing it off. "You don't look like you want to get tattoos today."

Tommy really doesn't, but he is totally going to go anyway and hold Adam's hand, because that's just how awesome he is. Turns out Adam doesn't actually have an appointment though, and is happy to wait until Tommy's feeling better. He goes back to rubbing Tommy's chest, holding him close, resting his cheek on the top of Tommy's head.

"Sorry you feel shitty," he murmurs, after Tommy's been lulled almost to sleep an undetermined amount of time later.

"Me too," Tommy says, and finally gets his fingers through Adam's, holding his hand still over his heart. He's going to say something else, but he's out.


He wakes up to a rumble under his ear that turns out to be Adam talking softly with Mike. He misses the conversation, because Mike is just here to grab a DVD for something that Tommy is too groggy to follow and then he's out the door again, but he doesn't miss the way Adam's still holding his hand or the way he has his other one inside Tommy's quilt resting on the patch of skin between his boxers and his t-shirt. He drinks in the touch, wondering vaguely if there's some kind of electrical transfer that goes on between people, because he always feels energized after cuddling, even when he's limp with drowsiness.

"How long was I sleepin?" he asks, after managing a hello-goodbye grunt at Mike as the door closes behind him.

"Dunno," Adam says. "Half an hour? Phone's in my pocket and you don't seem to have a clock in here."

It takes a second before that penetrates. Adam's let Tommy sleep on him before, plenty of times, but he's always been sleeping too, or had his phone or a book in his hand or something on the television. To the best of Tommy's knowledge, he's never just sat there. "Thanks," Tommy says, giving Adam's hand a squeeze.

"You needed it." Adam squeezes back, quick added pressure on Tommy's fingers and his waist, and says, "And now you need a shower. And a shave. I miss your face."

"But I've got a whole Clint Eastwood thing going on," Tommy says, worming his free hand out of the quilt to rub at his chin. "I work it. Twitter said so."

"Twitter says a lot of things," Adam mutters darkly, but then he flashes a grin. "You do work it. It's sexy as hell. Still miss your face, though." As if to prove his point, he takes both hands and starts rubbing Tommy's jawline through his beard again. It's all Tommy can do not to purr. He definitely can't help the way his head drops back against Adam's collar bone, his whole body going limp.

Tommy hadn't been clear why he was arguing with Adam anyway--facial hair is itchy, and he kinda misses his face too--but he's not sure he wants to give up anything that leads to Adam doing this. Then Adam tugs gently on his right ear lobe and says, "Come on. Up. You'll feel better."

"Feel good now," Tommy says, nuzzling Adam's neck with the side of his head.

"Up and you get a head rub later. Otherwise, nothing."

No one gives head rubs like Adam. Tommy scrambles to his feet.

And nearly falls flat on his face. Fortunately, Adam's paying attention, and grabs him before he goes over completely. "Need me to carry you?" he says, and he better be fucking kidding.

Tommy glares, and hitches up his quilt so it's not a tripping hazard, and stalks off to the bathroom. Well. Weaves. But he's only slept about an hour in the last twenty-four, and he hasn't eaten yet.

"Oh my god," Adam says, from right on his heels. "You're a danger to yourself."

The next thing Tommy knows he's being extracted from his bedding and deposited on the toilet lid while Adam turns on the shower.

"I think I can manage to bathe myself," Tommy protests. Adam just makes a pfft sound, fiddling with the temperature knob.

"I have the flu, I'm not five."

"You just tripped on a quilt and bumped into two walls walking twenty feet. Pretend you're at the spa."

Tommy raises his eyebrows. "I don't know what spas you're going to, but I've always been left alone to shower."

"Look at it this way. If I wash your hair for you, you're basically getting two head rubs."

Tommy can't help but look at it as Adam's going to see him naked in the shower getting a head rub, which probably crosses a line that a little chub in his sleep pants only nudges up against. Adam is his best friend, and okay, it's not like the lines aren't a little blurry between them anyway, but it's not even noon, and Tommy, at least, hasn't had a drink in four days.

"Sit," Adam says, pointing at the tub under the shower's spray. "You don't have to do anything but relax. I've got you."

Tommy pulls off his shirt. Adam Lambert is apparently still impossible to say no to.

It does feel good to just sit under the hot spray while Adam rubs shampoo into his head and tells him a bawdy story about one of his Wicked cast parties. He's caught in a place between floating off on a cloud of steam and relaxation and trying to keep soap out of his eyes, and by the time they get to rinsing out the conditioner, Tommy wonders if maybe Adam wants to come over and do this every day.

"Okay, gimme the name of your spa," Tommy says after his final rinse.

Adam laughs and stands to pull Tommy's towel off the rail.

Before Tommy gets a chance to figure out if he's still wobbly on his feet, Adam's wrapping terry cloth and arms around him, blotting water off his skin while he helps Tommy step over the edge of the tub. In moments he's mostly dry and being pushed back down on the toilet seat, towel knotted around his waist, so Adam can attack his hair with a second towel.

"Never mind," Tommy says when his hair is no longer dripping and the second towel is draped over his shoulders, the bathroom heater blasting so even wet it's not giving him a chill. "You can be my spa. I'll pay you. Was on tour for six months, so I have some cash saved."

"Where are your clippers?" Adam says, smile breaking through his serious business tone.

"You are not a hair dresser. You've told me this many times," Tommy answers, not bothering to hide the panic in his voice.

"For your face, Tommy Joe. I won't touch your hair. Promise." Adam starts digging through the cabinets.

"I shave with a razor." Tommy points at the toothbrush holder on the sink.

Standing up from the third drawer down with a triumphant grin, Adam brandishes the clippers. "Don't worry. We'll get to that," he says.

Tommy starts to feel a little afraid. Adam can be terrifying in his enthusiasms. Tommy's only ever let Sutan near his face with a razor, and then only because not letting him do it was scarier. He had done a good job, though, and Tommy knows Adam's always getting tips from him. He's just going to hope those tips include wielding sharp objects safely near other people's throats.

With the clippers in one hand, Adam lifts Tommy's chin with two fingers, tilting his face side to side and looking at it carefully. "Is this towel okay for this?" he asks--not the question Tommy was expecting.

Tommy shrugs, what does he care, but then thinks about how long his beard has gotten. "I have a cape, actually," he says. "Under the sink."

Adam grins. "You are such a boyscout."

"I think the word you're looking for is rock star."

"I think that's two words," Adam says, voice muffled as he hunts for the cape.

Tommy's "You've been spending too much time with Neil," gets the snort he was hoping for, and he grins. He really fucking has missed Adam. And Neil. And all of them, as much as he's loved having time to do nothing but veg. "When are we going on tour again?" he asks while Adam shakes out the sleek, black nylon.

"Have to write the album, first," Adam answers, poking him in the chest. "Don't you start on me, too." It's said with affection, but Tommy can hear Adam's tiredness underneath.

"Doesn't have to be a tour," Tommy says lightly. "Road trip works too. Or a date to the tattoo parlor." Adam seems to be lacking the knack for velcro at the moment, so Tommy takes the cape from him and fastens it around his own neck, leaving the towel where it is.

"Right," Adam says, fingers back under Tommy's chin, "let's find your face."

It turns out hair clippers are really not beard trimmers, and at the first touch, Tommy nearly leaps off the toilet seat.

"Shit," Adam says, jerking back. "You okay?"

"Just, that's a lot of vibration," Tommy says, not really thinking about what that sounds like until Adam cracks up.

"You need a little warning before strong vibrations." Adam says, nodding sagely. "I'll remember that."

"Fuck off." Tommy pokes Adam's hip through the cape, letting a draft into the space at the small of his back between the two towels . "Just do it."

Adam's grin as he reaches for Tommy's face again is pure filth. Tommy bites his tongue to keep from laughing.

He's pretty sure there are going to be permanent dents in it by the time Adam's finished. For some reason what feels good on his head tickles the fuck out of his jaw and is kind of unpleasant on the front of his neck, but it's Adam's serious-concentration face that's killing him. On the plus side, if he's taking clippers this seriously, he's unlikely to go all cavalier with the Gillette.

"I wish you could see your face," Adam says, clearly forgetting that there's a large mirror right behind him. Though it's possible Tommy's spent more of the time it was in his view looking at Adam's ass than his own face. No big deal. It's a nice ass, and Tommy looks a little ridiculous at the moment, hair pushed back but going fluffy where it's drying, beard patchy scruff with longer bits where Adam hasn't gotten to them yet or where it grows against the rest of the grain. And, yeah, the tongue biting he's doing so he doesn't laugh.

"I can see my face," Tommy says. "Though I prefer looking at your ass."

Adam turns to look over his shoulder, thankfully dropping the buzzing blades to his side first. "Oh, hey," he says. "You do have a pretty good view of my ass."

"It's a perk," Tommy says.

"Pert," Adam replies, flexing his glutes, still watching in the mirror.

Tommy breaks, throwing his head back and laughing until his has to double up to breathe. It sends him into a coughing fit, and he ends up with his head between his knees, Adam crouched beside him rubbing his back in soothing circles, telling him everything is going to be okay.

"Fuck my fucking lungs," Tommy wheezes when he can mostly breathe again. "What the fuck."

"Good thing you play with your hands and don't have to get up there and sing or play the trumpet or something," Adam says. Then he takes the body parts in question in his own and makes a show of examining Tommy's fingers. "Yep. These still look in good shape."

Tommy notices his manicure has gone from grunge to nearly gone, and he's pretty sure that "good shape" is not the phrase he would have chosen. "Should paint my nails before Ravi's show," he says.

Adam kisses the center of his left palm. "Oh my god, I love you." He chuckles, shakes his head, and squeezes Tommy's shoulder as he stands up.

"Does your spa do nails?" Tommy asks, examining his fingertips for a moment before tucking his hands back under the cape.

"My spa is a full-service establishment, thank you very much," Adam says archly, turning the clippers on again with a snap.

When he just stands there, Tommy says, "Service me, then."

Adam grins like that's what he was waiting for, and gets back to his shearing duties. Tommy bites back the smile making Adam grin like that wants to put on his face.

With only a few more passes of the clippers, Adam says, "Stage one complete," in mock computer tones.

"You're way more of a geek than people would think," Tommy points out. "Stage one? Really?"

"You're the video game addict. Just trying to use a language you can understand."

"Uh huh," But Tommy can't say any more because Adam is slapping shaving cream on his face, and he really doesn't want to taste it.

The joking around and the coughing fit had distracted Tommy from the whole sharp blades/enthusiastic Adam thing, but now that he's standing there with Tommy's Mach3 in his hand, reality comes charging back in.

"I think I can probably do this part myself," Tommy says, lips stiff with keeping foam out.

"Nope," Adam says. "I'm servicing. You're relaxing. Remember?"

Tommy eyes the razor, which should look much smaller in Adam's giant hand than it does in his own, but really really doesn't. "What part of this do you think I should find relaxing, exactly?" he says.

"This isn't my first time," Adam answers.

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

"It's been quite a while since I met a boy who thought it was my first time," Adam says, "but I never tell them anything that isn't true."

Tommy wonders if it was Brad who Adam did this for, or if it's a thing with him, or if it's just something that you pick up around the theater. But there's no time to ask before Adam tilts his head to the side with a gentle touch at his temple, and draws the blade down over Tommy's cheek.

It takes every last ounce of self-control for Tommy not to shiver. And to remember to breathe.

When Sutan did this, he was quick and efficient, long fingers gripping Tommy's head firmly, turning him this way and that, chatting with Brooke over Tommy's shoulder while he worked. Adam's fingers are three points of heat on the shaved side of Tommy's head, and he's concentrating like he's painting a picture, or maybe carving marble, gaze darting over each patch of skin as he bares it. It's making Tommy dizzy to watch him, so he closes his eyes.

"You still okay?" Adam asks, the three fingers moving to Tommy's shoulder as he takes a step back.

Tommy opens his eyes just long enough to see Adam angled toward the sink, swishing the razor, but watching Tommy's face. "Mm hmm," Tommy says, hoping shaving cream around his lips is enough of an excuse for his short answer, because he doesn't want to have to explain that his mouth has gone dry and his throat feels stuck.

"I'm not going to cut you, I promise." The fingers are back on his head again, tilting it the other way, and Tommy feels the blade sweep down his other cheek.

The bare one feels cold, from the menthol, from being bare, in contrast to the sauna Tommy's sitting in under a black cape in damp towels under a high-powered heater. He holds onto a shiver again, wanting Adam to be able to live up to his promise. Adam hates breaking promises. The fingers move back to his shoulder and he hears the swish of the razor in the water again, three gentle taps on the edge of the sink.

"Bite your lips," Adam says softly, this time tipping Tommy's head back. His fingers tighten slightly when Tommy does as he's told, and then lift, stroking Tommy's hair off his face, tucking it behind his ear. Tommy thinks it's probably weird that he has his eyes shut, but he's not sure he can face what he'll see if he opens them. Or not sure he's ready for Adam to see what he's pretty sure will be obvious there. He doesn't breathe as Adam removes the hair from his top lip, waiting to gasp in oxygen in the space before Adam moves to the patch on his lower one.

"If you need to cough or anything, just tell me," Adam says, and suddenly Tommy does.

He nods, feels Adam step back, and takes a deep breath in through his mouth. The smell of the shaving cream catches in his throat and he coughs roughly, feeling his chest tighten past the band Adam's fingers on his face had put on it, and then loosen again when the coughing stops.

"Better?" Adam asks, and Tommy finds he can look at him when he nods.

"Still trust me to do your neck?"

That's a harder question to answer. Tommy does trust Adam, is the thing. But he's not certain he trusts himself. There are lines, and he's pretty sure he wants to cross every single one. His body is apparently less uncertain, because before Tommy figures out how to answer, he's tipping his head back, exposing his throat. That gives him a perfect view of Adam's broad smile.

This time Adam's point of contact is the pad of one thumb on Tommy's chin. It feels rough--not calloused, but more like Tommy can feel Adam's fingerprint. He can't, he knows, but the sensation doesn't fade until Adam presses harder, tipping Tommy's head just a bit more to get at the patch of hair beside his Adam's Apple. Adam's.

Tommy tries not to think about Adam sucking it, but it's a lost cause, a fucking pink elephant. Tommy swallows, looks at the ceiling, thinks about pink elephants, but that leads right back to the elephant in the room, to the fact that he knows what it feels like to have Adam's mouth fastened there. And what it feels like for Adam to pull away, an apology on his lips and his eyes on whoever was bringing the next round of drinks. Blurry as they are, there are definitely lines.

But Tommy can't remember who drew them anymore.

It's starting to get uncomfortably hot under the hairdressing cape, but there is no way Tommy's taking it off, because a bath towel is really not efficient for boner-hiding. At least not the angle Tommy's current boner is taking, and he can't exactly move it without it being obvious that's what he's doing.

"Almost done," Adam says, breaking into Tommy's thoughts. Tommy manages a half smile and closes his eyes again. If he lets it, this can be relaxing. He's sure.

It's not that Adam speeds up, or that he's less careful, but somehow now Tommy's closed his eyes again, Adam seems more certain. Two strokes with the razor, rinse, two more strokes... He's left the most difficult parts for last, the places where Tommy's hair seems to grow every direction at once, where it took him ages to learn to shave without getting a rash. But Adam's somehow going with the grain like he's the one who's been shaving Tommy's neck since puberty.

Tommy wonders how much observation that would take. If Adam learned the pattern while he clipped it short, or if that's what he was doing with his fingers on the couch before, or if it was six months on the road, days off when Tommy didn't bother shaving, if Adam was watching Tommy then while Tommy wasn't paying attention. What that would mean if that were true.

"Okay," Adam says, and Tommy thinks that's it, Adam will stop touching him now, and he'll let Tommy rinse his face off, leave him to get dressed, get himself under control one way or another. But apparently that was just the warning that Adam was going to start running light fingers all over Tommy's face, curving around the points of Tommy's jaw, stroking up his throat, brushing the edges of his lips, and fuck shivering, Tommy shudders, nearly jerking himself out of Adam's grasp, except Adam follows him, slides his fingers back under Tommy's ears, tangling them in the hair at the back of Tommy's neck.

They've been here before, so many times, but they're not on stage and they're not drunk or stoned or both, and the warm glow and low-down buzz Tommy's used to is a crackling brushfire under his skin, and he fucking gasps, like he's never been touched before at all.

"Sorry," Adam whispers, but he's not letting go, and he's staring at Tommy's mouth like he has no more hope of looking away than Tommy has of spontaneously losing this erection.

"Don't fucking--" Tommy grabs Adam's shirt, the fistful of nylon cape complicating things but not stopping him, and drags Adam down to kiss him.

Their mouths fit together like they always do, Tommy opening for the insistent press of Adam's tongue, but they're all knees and elbows at this angle, and Tommy grabs Adam's arm with the hand not already fisted in his shirt, hauling himself to his feet. Adam nearly overbalances them back onto the toilet and then overcorrects, crashing them both back into the sink. He never lets go the back of Tommy's head, though, never releases his mouth.

The trouble is, once he's standing, Tommy starts choking on the hairdressing cape, and Adam's holding him too close for him to be able to free his arms. It's a fucking theme with him today.

He pushes back far enough to gasp, "Cape. Off," and Adam, thank god, is paying enough attention to rip at the velcro behind Tommy's neck, freeing him. The towel on his shoulders falls to the floor after it, leaving Tommy standing in Adam's arms wearing nothing but a loosely knotted towel around his waist.

"I lied about being sorry," Adam says, eyes darting from Tommy's face down then back up to his eyes.

"Thank fuck." Tommy nearly tackles Adam onto the counter kissing him again.

This time Adam slows it down enough that they aren't so in danger of biting each other's lips off, and Tommy can wrap both arms around Adam's back. It feels amazing to kiss him without a bass guitar between him and Adam's hips, though he might have started with clothing a little more substantial than a towel, had he actually been planning this. The towel is really not up to the whole groping and grinding thing they have going on.

Tommy tries to grab it when he feels it slipping, but Adam is faster, and apparently thinks that when it comes to Tommy's towel, off is much better than on.

"Oh," Tommy says, trying not to be too embarrassed that he's unexpectedly stark naked, rubbing his hard on up against Adam's denim-clad thigh. "That was--" Adam kisses him again, a quick nibble-peck to his lips. "I'm naked."

"About fucking time," Adam says. "I could hardly see anything with you in the bath, between the way you were sitting and the way I'm not supposed to be looking at your dick."

Tommy thinks about the way he said that in the present tense. "I think I might be okay with you looking at my dick," he says, figuring if they're redrawing the lines, he'd like to leave as little as possible on the far side of them.

"Yay!" Adam says and the next thing Tommy knows he's being lifted and spun around and set down on the counter top.

He's about to protest that it's cold on his bare ass, when Adam sinks to his knees, elbowing Tommy's thighs apart, reaching for his dick with both hands. Tommy manages a hiss that ends on a groan as Adam licks his lips and slides them down over the head of Tommy's cock.

Tommy's seen what Adam can do to a microphone, and to a Popsicle, and to a banana, but he's never really watched because it felt too intimate somehow. He's pretty sure intimate is the whole point here, though, so he drinks his fill of the sight of Adam's mouth going down, down, and--holy fuck--down.

Pulling half-way off, Adam looks up at him, eyes brimming with a smile his mouth can't quite manage, and then he goes again, down to where his fingers are holding Tommy steady, then further, until all Tommy can see is the top of his head, and all he can feel is fluttering hottightwet around his dick.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he breathes, because this is-- there were months and months when he was getting pretty much no head at all, and he was curled up watching True Blood with a guy who could do this?

Then Adam's hands are back, twisting around the base of Tommy's dick, cupping his balls, and he's doing things with his tongue that Tommy's pretty sure should either be illegal or somehow bottled and sold on the black market. Tommy sinks back onto his elbows, propping his head against the mirror, and thinks it's a terrible shame that this is only going to last another minute, two at the most.

Or, you know, a whole thirty-eight seconds.

Adam--of course, because he's a fucking cock-sucking savant--swallows smoothly, though Tommy gave him no warning whatsoever that he was about to shoot. He totally would have, but he thought he could hold on and then he couldn't.

"Mother fucker," Tommy says, still slumped back against the mirror, his spine nothing more than a puddle melting onto the granite.

Adam bites the inside of his left thigh. "Nope," he says. "Never have, never will." He props his chin on the back of the hand he has resting just above Tommy's knee. "Did fuck a dad once, though."

"I think I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Tommy says, because young, hot guys can be dads and all, but his brain is going places he really would rather it didn't.

"I like your dick," Adam says. "For the record."

Tommy struggles to sit up, traces his thumb along Adam's bottom lip, figuring that's something he's allowed to do now. "I like your mouth," he says. "A lot."

Adam grins, nips Tommy's thumb, and stands. Which puts his fly pretty much just at Tommy's hand height. "Do I get to see your dick, too?" Tommy asks, reaching for Adam's belt.

To his surprise, Adam stops him, hands on Tommy's wrists. But, "You do," he says. "You totally do. Just, not right now."

"What the fuck, not right now?" Tommy squawks. Then coughs, takes a deep breath, "I mean, why?" This better not be another fucking line. Not that he doesn't appreciate the blow jobs, because he so does, but he's a giving kind of guy, and he doesn't see why Adam's hard-on--and it's pretty clear he has one, it's right fucking there--should go to waste.

"Because Mike is due home about ten minutes ago, and I'm pretty sure it would be awkward if you were giving me a hand job when he got here."

"Mike's seen a fucking hand job," Tommy protests. "And who says it wouldn't be a blow job?"

Adam looks at him. One of his stern, mothery looks that always remind Tommy of Leila. "Tommy," he says, when Tommy just looks at him like what the fuck. "You have some kind of evil chest infection that leaves you coughing up a lung when you try to breathe too deeply. Now is not the time for sucking dick. Believe me."

"Fine." Tommy says, even though it isn't. "But when I'm better, I'm totally giving you head."

Adam laughs. "I'm holding you to that."

"You better," Tommy says, frowning sternly. He's pretty sure it's not as good as Adam's stern look, but it's not too shabby. He's trying to decide if it would ruin the effect if he kissed Adam again, when the front door slams.

"Wash your face, Adam says. "You taste like shaving cream. Then get dressed and I'll paint your nails."

"I thought you liked me naked," Tommy says. His bedroom totally has a door. Mike knows not to open it without knocking.

"I love you naked. But I don't really want Mike loving you naked, and it's rude to lock ourselves in your bedroom when he doesn't even know that's a possibility."

"You have so never had a roommate," Tommy says, but it's clear Adam is not going to let him do anything while Mike is here, so he gives up arguing. "Go. Make nice. I'll be out in a minute."

They end up on the couch again, Adam leaning against the same armrest he claimed earlier, Tommy sitting between his knees, except this time he's facing Adam, ankles either side of his hips, his elbows propped on his thighs so Adam can get to his hands. It's hard not to stare at Adam's crotch, but Tommy's doing his best, because if he looks he's going to want really really badly to grab, and while he has no problem at all doing Adam in his room with the door closed while Mike's home, he's pretty sure getting Adam's dick out on the sofa while Mike's wandering in and out getting groceries from his car and doing things with laundry baskets full of clothes might be stretching roommate tolerance too far.

Lots of people have painted Tommy's nails over the years--friends, girlfriends, professionals, even Adam--but no one's ever done it like it was foreplay. Hell, like it was sex. Tommy can only manage one-word answers to Mike's, "Hey you shaved," and "Kristie asked if you're feeling better," and other, random, nothing-to-do-with-Adam comments, but Adam is much better at multi-tasking, seemingly able to have whole conversations while he does amazing things to Tommy's fingers.

Not that Tommy can figure out what the amazing things even are.

If you just look--and Tommy's totally looking--Adam is simply holding Tommy's fingers, one at a time, smoothing the polish brush from the base of his nail to the tip, three strokes: down the center, and then each side. The technique of a man who's had his share of salon manicures, but nothing otherwise remarkable. Except for how apparently Adam has this ability to like, exude sex from his fingertips or something, which, actually, he probably does. He certainly exudes it from everywhere else when he wants to.

Tommy does not want a manicure; he wants to stick his fingers in Adam's mouth, watch him suck them, swallow them down, get them slick so Tommy can stroke up smooth and wet behind Adam's balls while he licks his cock. In the mean time, though, he might as well make the most of what he's getting.

"I like your hands almost as much as your lips," he says to Adam, voice low, even though Mike's out in the garage putting on a load of laundry.

"You're the one with gorgeous hands," Adam says. "Look at them."

Glancing toward the garage door, Adam drops the brush into the bottle of polish and cradles Tommy's left hand in his. "Look at your fingers." With a feather touch, he traces Tommy's middle finger, bumping over the knuckle, skirting the shiny black nail.

Tommy would like to say something back, maybe, "They're just fingers," or perhaps, "You like them now, wait til you see them wrapped around your dick," but if he tries to talk he's gonna have a coughing fit, and he really doesn't want to.

"I watch them on the frets sometimes," Adam goes on. "Think--"

Tommy doesn't get to hear what he thinks because Mike comes back in then, asks if Adam wants a beer.

"What if I want a beer?" Tommy asks, giving Mike a look that says, Fuck off, I want to stick my hands in Adam Lambert's pants now, but Mike just smirks at him and says, "Antibiotics."

"I hate you." Tommy glares, but Mike is either oblivious or willfully ignoring him.

"I'd be eternally grateful for a cup of coffee," Adam says, and Tommy could kiss him.

So, Tommy kisses him, short, but really, really sweet.

"Get a room," Mike says, bored sounding, then, "You want coffee, too, Tommy, or some of that Theraflu shit?"

"I tried to get a room," Tommy says, "But Adam thought that would be rude."

Mike laughs like Tommy's kidding. "Seriously. Coffee?"

"Coffee," Tommy says, giving up on getting Mike to take a hint. He's not sure if Mike couldn't care less that Tommy finally got Adam to blow him, or if he thought Adam had been blowing Tommy all along.

As soon as Mike's back is turned, Adam kisses Tommy back, if you can call nipping at Tommy's bottom lip a kiss. "You're incorrigible," Adam whispers, eyes brimming with delight, but mouth set in a stern line, wobbly only if you know what to look for.

"I know," Tommy says happily. He considers resting his foot on Adam's bulge, just to see if Mike will notice--well, and because he really wants to be touching Adam's dick--but Adam grabs his hand again and starts doing things with nail polish and the sex vibes in the space between their laps, and Tommy's window is closed. That's okay though. He's patient.

And a really bad liar.

"How many coats are you doing there?" he wants to know.

"Enough," Adam answers. He looks like he knows just how patient Tommy isn't, and finds it extremely amusing.

"I thought you were supposed to be taking care of me," Tommy says, not really sulking, but not exactly not sulking.

"I am taking care of you." Adam runs his hand up the underside of Tommy's arm, cups his elbow. "I washed your hair, I shaved your face, I sucked your dick,"--that last one mouthed more than said, since the kitchen isn't exactly outer Mongolia compared to the living room in this house--"and now I'm giving you a mani-pedi."

"You are not giving me a pedicure." Tommy digs his heel into Adam's ass to emphasize his point. "We are drinking our coffee while the seventeen layers of polish on my hands dries, and then we're going to get a room, like Mike told us to."

Adam looks like he's considering the pros and cons of Tommy's words, but he's also moved his hand from Tommy's elbow to his hip, so Tommy doesn't see there's much to consider. "Still not letting you blow me until you're all better," Adam finally says, voice low and sexy, but entirely serious.

It occurs to Tommy that it's reassuring Adam's convinced he's still going to be wanting to get naked with Tommy in a week. His smile probably looks ridiculous. "Fine," he says. "You can hold me down and rub off on my hip, then. Okay?"

Adam's gaze flares bright. "If I have to."

"What's Tommy trying to make you do, now?" Mike asks, appearing out of nowhere with a mug in each hand and a beer bottle hooked in one pinky.

Tommy and Adam crack the fuck up.

Mike looks at them, really looks at them, and puts the drinks down on the coffee table. "I was totally kidding about the getting a room. But you two actually need to get a room."

"Sorry," Adam says.

"Hey, no! About fucking time. Been waiting for this since he got back from the AMAs." Mike picks up his beer and tips it into his mouth. "I can jet if you want. Dave said something about a movie."

"That's okay," Adam says at the same time Tommy says, "Cool. Have fun."

"The coffee's probably shit," Mike says, dropping his three-quarters full beer back on the coffee table and hauling his keys out of his pocket. "I wouldn't bother drinking it if I were you."

Before Adam or Tommy can figure out what to say to that, Mike's out the door.

"Bedroom, now," Tommy says, trying not to kick Adam as he practically leaps off the sofa.

Adam doesn't argue.

Tommy's quilt is still on the floor outside the bathroom, and his sheets are all twisted up, and his trash can is overflowing with tissues, and he hasn't opened his windows in a couple of days, and this is not at all how he imagined getting Adam into his bed--his actual bed, not his hotel bed--for the first time. Adam doesn't seem to care, too busy peeling off Tommy's shirt to count Kleenex.

There's no way Tommy's nails are dry, but he's a rock star not a hand model, and he really doesn't care if he fucks them up. His hands, Adam's dick. They have a date, and the date is now. But he's no sooner got Adam's jeans open, cupped his junk through his boxers for one tantalizing moment, when Adam's grabbing his wrists, pushing him backwards to tip him onto the bed.

"Hey, I was busy there," Tommy complains. "If I can't blow you, I at least get to give you a hand job."

"Nope," Adam says, letting go Tommy's wrists long enough to hoist him farther up the bed by his ribs. "You said I could rub off on your hip. While I held you down."

"But I'm good with my hands," Tommy protests, reaching for Adam again.

"I know. Fuck, I know," Adam says, even though he doesn't know, because he's never let Tommy get more than a grope or two in before he's stopped him. "But you promised."

Tommy's pretty sure he joked, but he's not exactly averse to being held down by a horny, writhing Adam Lambert, so he stops arguing.

Adam doesn't even take his jeans off. Just crawls up the bed, straddling Tommy's left leg, hands either side of his thighs, his waist, his ribs, and then sliding up his arms, pushing them over Tommy's head until Adam and Tommy are both stretched out full length, fingers locked together, Tommy held immobile by Adam's palms, wrists, forearms, by the foot hooked over Tommy's ankle, the thigh rocking against his cock, the hard, insistent length riding the groove of his hip through the cotton of Adam's briefs and Tommy's sweats, by the weight of Adam's chest on his, by the press of Adam's lips. When Adam says he's gonna hold you down, he doesn't mess around.

Good to know, not that Tommy's surprised. When Adam presses harder on his palms, nibbles at the corner of his mouth, Tommy makes a sound that feels like it's coming all the way from his toes. Okay, maybe he's glad they aren't doing this with Mike walking past the door.

Adam starts off slow, barely shifting his hips, thumbs stroking the knuckle at the base of Tommy's thumbs, teasing Tommy with soft, shallow kisses, that stop so Adam can smile down at him when Tommy starts to struggle, wanting more. Tommy refuses to give him the satisfaction of begging, but it's really not easy.

"Can I make you come in your pants, d'you think?" Adam asks, twisting his hips a little, giving Tommy a little more of the good kind of pressure.

"I just--fuck--just came down your throat. 'm not fourteen. Not even hard yet."

Adam's smile shifts. Oh, shit, Tommy knows that look. That's Adam accepting a challenge. "You will be," he says, before devouring Tommy's mouth.

After months of living in Adam's pocket, making out on stage--and sometimes off--watching Adam watch him wrestling with Isaac and Sasha, watching Adam flirt and dance, Tommy thought he knew all Adam's responses to stimuli. But he's never heard the sounds Adam's making as Tommy sucks his tongue, or wraps his free leg around Adam's thigh to get some leverage. It feels good to struggle, so Tommy does, pushing against Adam's hands, shifting his shoulders and his hips, biting at Adam's lips when he goes to pull away so he can suck hickeys into Tommy's neck. Adam's panting, grinding faster now, heating up so Tommy feels like he's lying under a hundred electric blankets.

Tommy wants to see Adam come, but he buries his face in Tommy's neck, whimpers breaking on stuttered breaths, arms and legs going stiff and then shaky, and that's almost as good as seeing his face. And there's always next time. The thought makes Tommy grin like a fool and squeeze Adam's fingers.

"Mmrrph," Adam says into Tommy's shoulder, and he moves a fraction of an inch to the side like he's worried Tommy's protesting his weight.

Which, actually--boneless Adam is not as easy to support as boning Adam. Tommy releases Adam's trapped leg and uses that foot to nudge him to the side.

"Fuuuck," Adam moans, peeling their fingers apart and putting more effort into rolling.

When he can breathe again, Tommy starts coughing, of course, and it takes way more effort than it should to get his arm over his mouth. By the time he's done, Adam looks a little less like he's about to slip into a catatonic state.

"Jesus," Adam says. "It's been a really long time since I did that."

Tommy's surprised, figuring it's the kind of thing he did on dance floors and in back rooms at least once a week. The surprise is apparently written on his face, because Adam continues. "I usually save grinding for the tease, these days; forgot how fun it can be to get off that way." He looks down, the picture of demure ingenue, says, "With the right person."

Tommy doesn't think he's just hoping that there's more truth in the words than Adam intended him to hear. He's trying to decide if he should call him on being a sap or change the subject, when Adam cups his dick.

"You're hard now," Adam says, sounding very pleased with himself.

"Smug." It's not the urgent kind of hard-on Tommy feels like he has to do something with, though it does appreciate the weight of Adam's palm. It's also appreciative when Adam gives it a gentle squeeze through the soft cotton of his sweats. It's less pleased when Adam moves away, and Tommy has to agree.

"Hey," he says, like maybe Adam didn't notice he's stopped fondling Tommy's junk.

"Take it out," Adam says, propping up on one elbow and tugging loose Tommy's drawstring. "Get yourself off for me."

The request should sound ridiculous, but Adam is using his magic sex powers again, because instead, it's pretty much the hottest idea ever. Except for the idea where Tommy actually gets to fucking see Adam's dick.

"Only if you get naked first," he says, hoping his firm tone makes up for the fact that he's already pushing his sweats down his hips, pulling his junk out over the waistband.

"I don't need to get naked," Adam says. "Got off already."

"Your being naked would help me get off again. Men appreciate visual stimuli." Tommy nods decisively, though honestly, the visuals of Adam all fucked out but eager, with his jeans open and come stains on his briefs isn't exactly not working for Tommy. Still. He's been waiting a long time to see Adam's dick all up close and personal, and he's not waiting any more.

"I'm not sure I have the kind of visual stimuli you're used to," Adam says. Tommy's pretty sure it was supposed to sound like a joke.

"Well," Tommy says, stroking himself slowly. "From what I've seen, you're definitely bigger than the star of Fratboy Bukkake."

Adam looks shocked for a second and then laughs. "Last time I checked, being well-hung was not a requirement for letting a bunch of fratboys jizz on your face. And seriously? You've watched that?"

"Nothing says bachelor party like gay bukkake flicks," Tommy says. "Usually, though, bukkake isn't really my thing."

"You more a Debbie Does Dallas guy?"

"Or Corbin Fisher." Tommy's not actually that picky about his porn--he has a pretty good imagination--but he's trying to make a point. One that Adam seems uninterested in getting.

"I'm bigger than a lot of those guys, too," Adam says, and on anyone else it would be bragging, but somehow on Adam it isn't.

And like that, Tommy gets it. He's pretty sure, anyway. "I'm not fucking scared of your dick, okay?" He's maybe gonna be a little scared when it's pressed against his ass, trying to get inside, but that's a kind of scared he's really really sure he can live with.

"I never said--" Adam shuts the fuck up when Tommy reaches over and shoves his hand down Adam's pants.

Well. He stops talking. His squeak isn't exactly silent.

And yeah. He's big. Even soft, it's way more than a handful. Tommy's overcome with the image of himself, both hands wrapped around Adam's dick, jacking it while he licks the head, the noises Adam would make, the way he'd hold Tommy's hair--

Tommy flat-out whimpers--a fucking needy sound that he doesn't even try to muffle--as he rolls toward Adam, grip tightening, maybe heading down to take a lick.

"Nggah!" Adam says, hands flying to Tommy's wrists, disentangling himself from Tommy's grip. "Five minutes ago. Seriously. You're gonna have to wait."

On the plus side, he does sound disappointed. And, he says, "I'll get naked. You can look. And later you can touch. Right now I wanna watch you touch you, though."

Tommy supposes he can live with that.

While Adam's shucking out of his jeans and sticky underwear, Tommy pushes his sweats down far enough that he can kick them off. He's totally going to make this good if he's doing it. He's licking his fingers, watching Adam watch him when he realizes Adam's lying down again with his shirt still on.

"Hey," he says. "Naked means naked."

Adam blinks like that doesn't make sense.

"Shirt off," Tommy clarifies, though seriously. Naked cannot be a new concept to Adam.

"You were--with your tongue. And your fingers. Can't see through my shirt."

Since he's clearly rendered Adam stupid--and he's gonna be smug about that later, but he has shit to do first--Tommy expedites things by pulling Adam's shirt off himself. And wow. Adam naked, when Tommy's allowed to actually look and not play it locker-room cool? Totally worth waiting for. Tanned skin and freckles and long, long lines of muscle, and that skin right there, just where his hip bone and belly meet looks really soft, and, fuck, Tommy really wants to touch. "You're a fucking tease," he mutters.

Adam looks wholly unrepentant. "You're the one making me wait to see your gorgeous hands on your pretty cock. Do that licking thing again. I liked that." He gets himself all comfy, shifting pillows, lying on his side right on the edge of the bed so he has a good view.

Stealing the pillows back--Adam's got his head on his hand, what does he need pillows for--Tommy props himself up, far enough away that he can see Adam too, and with his eyes on Adam's cock where it rests in the shadow of his body, Tommy licks his hand again, liking the little satisfied sigh Adam makes.

The first stroke feels good, sending a thrill through his belly, but it would feel better with something slicker than spit smoothing the way, so, eyes on Adam's face, Tommy reaches back over his shoulder for the pump bottle of lotion on his bedside table. It's so not the first time he's reached for it blind, and there's no fumbling.

"Fuck," Adam breathes as Tommy rubs the cream between his palms. He's silent, though, as Tommy strokes his right hand up over his balls and his cock and then goes back down the other way with his left. Hyper-aware of being watched, Tommy spreads his legs further apart so he can tease around his hole with his fingertips, massage his balls, while he uses his right hand to jack his dick.

"You gonna talk me through this?" he asks, a little breathless. Having Adam stare at him is hot, but a little weird.

But, "Nope," Adam says. "Wanna see how you do it. Pretend I'm not here."

Tommy huffs a laugh at that, because, yeah, right. "You're so easy to ignore," he says, but he thinks about Adam filing away everything he does so when he gets his own hands on Tommy he can use what he's learned. Thinking about Adam's big hands wrapping around him, pushing between the cheeks of his ass, Tommy relaxes back into the pile of pillows and lets himself play.

He likes it slow at first, hard pulls up on his dick while he tugs his balls with a finger and thumb, rest of his fingers riding his crack. When he's already hard, he can make it last longer by avoiding his cockhead, concentrating most of the action at the base of his dick, playing with his ass. He's honestly not sure if he wants it to last right now or not, though, so he's alternating twisting around the head and pressing up behind his balls, with hard, short strokes and pulling on his nuts.

"I am never going to be able to watch you play the bass again," Adam says, voice sounding a little strained. "Not without getting so fucking hard."

Tommy absolutely believes him, but he's not convinced that's actually going to be any different to how things were already, so he just gives Adam a little smile and lets his fist loosen so he's jacking himself with fingers and thumb. He's so making this last.

"You like it hard and tight," Adam murmurs, "But you also like a tease." He rubs a hand up his chest, thumbs his own nipple, and Tommy's hit hard with wishing it still had jewelry in it. No fair he never got a chance to play. Then Adam says, "I love that you like having your balls played with," and Tommy forgets all about nipple piercings.

"Please," he says. Because his own hands are awesome, and they know just how hard he likes it, but Adam's hands are right there, and Tommy fucking needs them. "Please, fuck, Adam, play with my balls," he begs, when Adam doesn't move. And also good to know? Adam apparently likes begging.

He rolls toward Tommy, pulling him down the bed with an arm around his waist, and then reaches over him to pump his own hand full of lotion. "You're so fucking pretty," he says, stroking a fingertip across Tommy's cheek and down his chin before burying his clean hand in Tommy's hair and kissing him.

Tommy expects cold lotion on his balls, braces for it, but Adam touches his thigh with it first, making him shiver in surprise anyway. Adam's mouth absorbs the squeak he makes, and the groan that follows when Adam catches his sac in the webbing between his finger and his thumb and pushes slick and cool up over his balls, lifting them to press against his dick, sweet tug before he's pulling them down again, just a little rougher than Tommy was being, but still this side of too much.

"I got this," Adam whispers against Tommy's lips, "But you gotta take care of your dick."

Tommy's pretty sure that's a lie, that he could come just from Adam kissing him, his hand on Tommy's nuts, the pad of his pinkie a gentle pressure on his hole, but it feels too good to fuck into his fist once Adam reminds him that's a possibility. He's never done it this way before--it's always been his hand on his balls and someone else's on his dick when he got a two-person handjob--but he thinks he could get used to it.

He is sure he could get used to kissing Adam without having to worry that Adam's going to pull away at any moment, to sing, or talk to someone else, to keep the stupid blurry lines at least on the same beach where they started. Distracted by the kissing, Tommy forgets to keep jacking off. He's too busy trying to pull Adam closer with both hands, squirm around so he can get more of Adam's skin on his, and Adam's kissing him so deeply, holding his head so tightly, like maybe he thinks Tommy's the one who ever did the leaving, and his fingers are riding Tommy's ass, and Tommy discovers that he was totally right. He can come just from Adam kissing him and playing with his balls.

It's pretty messy before Adam pulls Tommy close and rolls on top of him, and really messy after, but Tommy couldn't care less. He has a shower. And a best friend who gives really good head, and hand jobs, and would not, Tommy's sure, say no to washing Tommy from head to toe.

"You going to give me a sponge bath?" Tommy asks into the patch of skin on Adam's neck that is currently pressed against his face.

"That would be the good boyfriend thing to do," Adam says, licking the bit of Tommy's shoulder he's just steamed up with his breath.

Tommy tries not to glow too much at the word boyfriend.

"But I don't actually want to let go of you. Possibly for hours. So I might just have to throw you in the shower again later."

"No throwing," Tommy says. "But if you're good, this time I'll let you look at my dick all you want."

"I'm always good, baby." Adam props himself on his elbows so he can look Tommy in the face. He traces Tommy's jaw, runs his fingers down Tommy's neck, and Tommy realizes he's checking for stubble.

"You did a good job." Tommy checked when he washed off the shaving cream, figuring he'd clean up anything Adam left behind, but there was nothing to clean up.

"You're going to have to let me do it again now that I know I can kiss you," Adam says.

"Or I can do it and we'll have twice as much time for kissing, with no risk of eating shaving cream."

Adam rolls them on their sides, tucking Tommy into the curve of his chest and pulling the sheet over them. "You loved it."

Tommy did. "Fine," he says. "I loved it."

He can feel Adam smiling with his whole body as he kisses Tommy's forehead. He's going to kiss back, the point of Adam's collar bone that's right there in front of his lips, but he's been sick, and he hasn't slept, and Adam's warm and cozy curled around him. Breathing deeply, Tommy falls asleep.

~fin