rivers_bend

Master Post
Part 2

---

School is not exactly Adam's favorite thing ever, but he loves drama class. Even when it runs late and he has to jog to get to World Studies and the hall monitor, Eldon, calls, "Fly little fairy, flyyyy," at him. At least Adam knows for sure now that he is a fairy. He's not sure why that would make it sting less, but it does. Maybe because, yeah, assholes are still assholes, but he's been kissed and had a hand job and a blow job, and he might get more of any of those things, or even something else, soon. He texted Tommy two days after the car thing―Danielle told him once, in like seventh grade, that she was never going to look too eager because boys don't like that, and Adam thought it was sexist and stupid at the time, but he decided why take a risk―and this time Tommy texted him back a few hours later, and okay, he only said, "hey, sup," and then it was three more days before he replied to Adam's "nothing much. homework. wanna do smthg sat?" and when he did it was only to say, "bzy. soon tho," but he didn't ignore Adam altogether, which was an improvement on after the first time they fooled around.

Drama class is awesome even when his teacher picks the stupidest fall musical Adam's ever seen. It's called Young Dracula, and he thought it might be pretty cool until he read the script. And the score. Oh my god, the score. He thinks the writers might have been going for a Rocky Horror thing but with vampires instead of Frankenstein, but they missed every single mark. On the plus side, Adam got one of the leads again, even though he's only a sophomore. He gets to play Dracula himself, which, even though he's lame and campy―not really in a fun way―he's at least better than any of the stupid kids who turn up at Dracula's house in the middle of their vacation.  

Also on the plus side―though this would be a plus even if they were doing a better show―the new drama teacher's husband is a studio make-up artist, and she announced today that he's coming in to teach them some tricks of the trade. Adam's learned some stuff at theater camp and in the community theater shows he's done, but more just from picking it up. No one's actually taught him before. He can make his eyes pop and his lips shine, but he can't change the shape of his face. He'd love to be able to change the shape of his face.

Tuesday, Mrs. Mooreland tells them her husband can't come this Thursday because the film he's working on is doing reshoots, but he will almost definitely come next Friday. Adam tries not to look too disappointed. It's difficult when the next thing she does is launch into "I'm Just an Old Bat Now”, Adam's big solo number, and the worst song ever written. Ever.

"Shut up, at least you have a solo," Danielle hisses when she sees his face. Danielle is playing a maid and has to wear a really short skirt and fishnets and carry a feather duster, so Adam doesn't glare at her even though he really wants to.


Adam and Danielle aren’t nerdy enough that they have to eat lunch at the loser's table, but they are relegated to the unpopular side of the quad. Adam doesn't mind because that's the side with trees, and if he sits in the sun too much, his freckles get even worse. On Wednesday he and Danielle are sitting on the bench under the half-dead oak, arguing over whether Adam needs another can of Coke before class, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

"I thought I was the only one who texted you," Danielle says, reaching for his phone like he might hand it to her before he even looks to see who it's from.

Not that looking helps. Unknown number, Los Angeles area code.

"Lemme seeeeee,” she wheedles.

"How bout we let me see first, since it's my phone," Adam says, disappointed that it isn't Tommy.

Except it is. "this is tommy. borrowd fone. grounded and mom took mine. 2 wks w good behavior. don't 4get me."

It's not that Adam doesn't get it, like, what the words mean, but it still somehow makes no sense.

"What?" Danielle says, nearly bouncing with impatience and making little grabby fingers in his direction.

"Nothing." Adam knows she won't buy it, and he shouldn't even say it because it will just make her more curious and then she won't buy whatever explanation he tries to give that isn't It's the guy I used to be friends with who I'm now kind of having sex with, who I haven't told you about yet. He can't help it though; it just pops out of his mouth.

"Nothing, my ass. Gimme."

"You aren't the boss of me, you know." Apparently his masturbatory habits aren't the only way Adam's regressing lately.

"I am too and you know it. Gimme the phone." She doesn't wait for him to argue further, just snatches it out of his hand.

"Who the fuck is Tommy?"

"I don't know?" Adam tries. "Wrong number?"

"You are such a bad liar." Danielle pokes him hard in the ribs. "Are you― Oh my god. Oh my god, Adam, do you have a," Danielle's voice drops to a whisper, "boyfriend?"

"No," Adam says. "No!" He's almost definitely sure he doesn't have a boyfriend.  And why would Danielle even think that? He's never said―

"Adam Mitchel Lambert, how could you not tell me?" Danielle stares, her mouth and eyes open so wide she looks like a freaky animation of herself.  

"He's just this guy. We were, like, best friends in elementary, and we just started hanging out again the last few weeks." Adam waves a hand at her. "It's nothing. Stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not going to make you talk about this here at school, but I don't care how much homework Franklin gives you, you're coming over after, and we're going to talk."

Adam loves Danielle. But she is really damn persistent.

He can't really avoid her after school, since she only lives four blocks away from him and they take the same bus. It's not worth waiting for the late one; she'll only call and bother him at home which might involve his parents. He really doesn't want to involve his parents. Not that they aren't cool and stuff. But he's heard stories about kids who thought their parents were cool. Plus, if they think Tommy's his boyfriend they probably definitely won't let him spend the night ever. Not that Tommy is exactly asking to spend the night, but it might happen and Adam doesn't want to fuck that up.

True to her word, Danielle just talks about Spanish class and the stupid song she has to sing in the musical until they get back to her house. Then, though, she doesn't even wait for him to put his bag down and get a drink before she's on him.

"Tommy," she says. "Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out."

That is so not happening. Adam would rather die than tell Danielle about getting naked in Tommy's bed, or even worse, in Tommy's uncle's car. She's stubborn, but when he wants to, Adam can out stubborn anyone. He puts his backpack on the table in the foyer and pointedly walks into the kitchen, gets a soda, and sits down at the breakfast bar before he starts with the Christmas he turned five.

"He moved in up the street and he had a KITT car, and he let me drive it before I even asked. Then his mom made me hot chocolate."

"A kit car? How old is he?"

"We were five. He might have been five and I might have been four. Like a Knight Rider car. One of those Power Wheels things."

"I always wanted the Barbie one." Anyone else might sound like they could be distracted talking about Power Wheels or Barbies, but not Danielle.

"I always wanted the Corvette," Adam tries anyway.

"So the kid let you ride his car. And now you're gay?"

Persistent and really really not subtle. Adam opens his mouth and closes it again. Not like a fish or anything, just, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? "Fine." He might as well tell her. "I'm gay."

"I―"

"But it has nothing to do with Tommy letting me drive his car."

"Oh my god, duh, Adam. Obviously." Danielle leans over their knees to squeeze him in one of the choke holds she calls a hug. "What's he letting you ride now, though?"

Blushing would be much less horrible if Adam couldn't feel it happening.

"I knew it! Every detail. You promised."

It can be hard to tell with Danielle if she believes herself when she comes out with shit like that, but either way, Adam definitely did not promise. Not even in some distant past conversation when any possibility of sex was completely hypothetical. He's almost positive.

"We went for pizza. We made out a couple times. No big deal." Biggest deal in the universe. Whatever. It's certainly a worse sin to kiss and tell than to do a little white lying to your best friend.

"What's he look like? Is he hot?" She's doing that bouncing thing again, only it's more worrying on her mom's spindly-legged little bar stools than on a huge wooden bench bolted to the ground.

"He's cute. I don't know. He has a lip ring."

Danielle's mouth drops open again. "Fuuck. That is so hot."

"But he's not my boyfriend." Adam wants to make this point now before she runs away on imagination and gossip.

"He's obviously into you, though.  Don't you like him?" She grabs his soda and takes a sip while Adam's distracted wondering what makes her think Tommy's into him. He's had his dick in Tommy's mouth and he can't tell if Tommy's into him.

"Why do you say that?"

"Well he totally has your number memorized if he could text you with his phone taken away, and he was like, 'Don't forget me,' and stuff."

That Tommy must have memorized his number never even occurred to Adam. He doesn't have Tommy's number memorized―it's just in his phone. And he's really into Tommy, something he has started admitting to himself, if not to Danielle. The jerking off could have just been excitement about finally getting some action, but Adam's pretty sure the thinking about him all the time means it's more―since it's not even usually about kissing him or his dick, but like, wondering if he wants to get pizza again, or if he might show up next time Adam asks him to go see a movie. Then there are the little hearts he keeps drawing on his notebooks like he's the little sister in a Disney movie or whatever.

Adam scoffs, and then almost makes the mistake of saying, "He forgets about me all the time,"―which would make him sound bitter and desperate, which is not how Danielle needs to see him―but at the last second subs in, "He was just fucking around."

"Uh huh. Exactly. So which one of you does the fucking?"

Even when Adam was waking up every morning with sticky sheets, he never popped wood in his best friend's kitchen.

There's a first time for everything.

By dint of a political rant about gender stereotyping cribbed mostly from the guy his dad was listening to on NPR in the car last time they went to San Diego, Adam manages to derail Danielle and get his boner to go down, and he escapes home to do his homework―Franklin gave them two chapters and threatened them with a pop quiz, so it's not an empty excuse―without having to talk about Tommy again. Danielle does whisper, "He totally likes you," in his ear as she's hugging him goodbye, but he ignores her, since she didn't even know Tommy existed until lunch time.

---

Even though they have to wait like a whole extra week in the end, it's worth it, because Mr. Moorland's make-up tutorial is even better than Adam had hoped for. He asks for a volunteer to model for him, and Adam's hand goes up so fast he nearly dislocates his shoulder. He gives Adam hollow cheeks and hooded brows, then wipes it all off and talks Adam through doing it again while everyone else takes notes. He uses Elise to model aging makeup, and does a zombie face on Brian, who's wearing a White Zombies t-shirt. Adam already can't wait to get home and experiment and then Mr. Moorland says, "Shall we do a stage look for Dracula here?"

Chelsea Hawkins mutters something about that not being fair, but she complains about everything and Adam doesn't even care what she thinks. He does try to keep the smirk off his face when he settles back in the makeup chair, though.

To Adam's surprise, the first thing Moorland pulls out of his bag is a can of hairspray. But then, "Black hair first," he says. Adam closes his eyes against the spray.

Mr. Moorland pauses after spraying Adam's head to talk about how even a change in hair color can change a person's whole look. Adam can't stop staring at himself in the mirror. Moorland's not fucking kidding. Adam already looks a hundred times more like Dracula, but he also looks older, less like a little kid and more like the young man his mom keeps saying he's turning into. Though―Adam narrows his eyes at himself in the mirror―she might have to take off the 'nice' she usually tacks on to the beginning of the phrase.

Adam notices the hush a moment before Mr. Moorland says his name, clearly for the second time. Everyone laughs when Adam just looks at him quizzically.

"That's exactly my point," Mr. Moorland says. "With good makeup, the actor doesn't even recognize himself."

It takes Adam three days to decide he's going to actually dye his hair. Or to admit that he decided he was going to dye his hair the second he opened his eyes and saw himself in the mirror. It takes another two to buy the dye and then he has to wait 'til Saturday to get Danielle to dye it for him. If he does it himself he's going to end up with blue splotches on his face and ginger streaks at the back. She argues that it will look ridiculous with his freckles and that his mother will kill him and that he'll have to shave his head when he decides he doesn't like it after the play is done, but he threatens to tell Billy Squire that she's had a crush on him since freshman year if she doesn't do it, and she seems to think the world will end if Billy finds out she likes him―Adam personally thinks Billy will ask her out, but he's not telling her that now―so she does it.

It's more shocking than he expected. With the spray, it was lighter along his hair line, and had blonder bits showing through, but now it's black black. "Shiiiit," he says, peering at himself in Danielle's bathroom mirror.

"Yeah." Danielle combs her fingers through it, lifting it off his face. "Wow. Okay. It doesn't suck."

Ducking away from her primping, Adam grabs her hairdryer and plugs it in. She lets him start, but after about a minute is pushing him back down in the chair and taking over. Adam's pretty sure she's trying to rip his hair out by the roots, but she tells him he's being oversensitive and it's the hair dye not her, and doesn't listen. He's glad in the end when she manages to make him look like Elvis.

"The young, hot one," she adds when he mentions it. "But don't let it go to your head."

"Do I look like Dracula, though?" he asks.

Danielle gives him her cheekiest smile. "Hell yeah," she says.


In Adam's second scene on stage there's a moment when the lights flash and swoop crazily over the set and the audience, and as one goes past the left side of the third row he's pretty sure he sees Tommy sitting there, an older couple on one side of him, and three girls from the Mathletes team on the other. Before he can be sure, though, the spot is back in his face and he can't see the audience at all. For the first time since he was eleven, Adam's certain he's going to flub his note, but it comes out pitch perfect when he opens his mouth to sing. It can't be Tommy anyway, because Tommy never called him again after the text about being grounded, and Adam never mentioned he was in this show. And a guy isn't going to travel to the other side of Los Angeles to see a random high school musical.

He tries to look when the lights go down after his solo, but Jorge has his fat head between Adam and the relevant seat. It isn't until the final scene that the angle and lighting align so Adam can get another look at the guy slumped where he thought he saw Tommy. It's a good thing he's not singing at the time, because the guy lifts his head enough for Adam to see his eyes and his lip ring and the little finger-wiggle wave he gives Adam, and it's all Adam can do to keep the string of curses inside his head and focus on not letting his fangs drop out of his mouth. Tommy is in the theater. Alone. Unless he randomly knows three math nerds from Adam's school. The only explanation Adam can think of is that Tommy's here to see him.

Adam wants to punch him. He wants to kiss him. He really fucking wants to not get a boner on stage in front of half the school and their parents and grandparents. None of his wishes come true before the curtain drops.

Dracula's cape proves useful during the curtain call, and though Adam had practiced throwing it open with a flourish, he does the more traditional holding it across his lower face―and thus across his crotch―as he takes a bow.

Backstage is chaos with the cast and crew jumping around and screaming about how everything went so perfectly even though their final dress rehearsal had been kind of a disaster. People keep leaping on Adam and hugging him, which is not really helping with the boner situation. He finally escapes through the maze of the group dressing room and the prop room into the costume storage closet where the air is stuffy but he can at least be alone for a minute. He sinks down on the low tailor's bench the seamstress uses when she needs to pin hems, and presses his palms to his eyes, breathing slow and deep.

Feeling more like himself after a little break, but not yet in the mood for the screaming masses again, he hangs up his cape and ridiculous black shirt with the red ruffles―even though usually the costumes for shows in progress go in the dressing room―and is running his fingers through his lacquered-back hair when he hears the door open behind him. He's expecting Mrs. Moorland, or Phil, who's in charge of props, or maybe Danielle. He's not expecting Tommy.

"Stupid play, but you can really fucking sing," Tommy says, shutting the door and leaning on it.

After briefly weighing the pros and cons of "Hey," versus, "What the hell are you doing here?" Adam comes out with "What the hell, hey?" adding a spazzy hand-flap just to make it even more suave.

"You never write, you never call," Tommy says, shrugging and taking a few steps closer. "Besides. I love Dracula."

"I'm sorry," Adam says, heartfelt. No one who loves Dracula should be forced to sit through what Tommy just sat through.

Tommy snorts. "Yeah. Well. Seriously though, you were really good."

It seems like they're ignoring the half-a-dozen unanswered texts Adam sent Tommy the week after he was supposed to have gotten his phone back, or the fact that it's been over a month since Adam's heard from him at all. "Okay," Adam says. "Thanks."

"Made me want to blow you when you were singing that one song."

Adam cannot begin to imagine what song he sang that might inspire such a response, but Tommy's advancing on him again, and he's not sure he wants to know anyway. Before he can stop it, his stupid, cockblocking mouth opens and says, "You can't blow me in here."

"Sure I can," Tommy says, palming Adam's dick. "You're hard, the door's closed, nothing's stopping me."

He's right about that. Adam's right hand is pressing Tommy's to his crotch, and his left is grabbing at the clothes on the rack behind him. He's doing nothing to put Tommy off.

"Do I get a kiss hello?" Tommy says, going up on his tiptoes as he speaks like he knows the only answer is yes.

Adam kinda hates that he's not wrong, but his irritation doesn't keep his hand from curling around the back of Tommy's neck and pulling him the last half inch up to Adam's mouth. As soon as Adam starts to pull, Tommy pushes, one hand on Adam's shoulder and the other still on his dick. Surprised, Adam stumbles back, making hangers squeal in protest as he ends up ass to the wall, shoulders and head hunched forward, stopped by the rail.

"Ow!" he says as an errant pin stabs him in the neck.

For a second, Adam's sure Tommy's going to ignore how this really isn't working, the way he seems to ignore everything else he doesn't like, but before Adam can protest further, Tommy grabs him by his waistband and the sleeve of his undershirt and drags him around 90 degrees so he can push him against the bare eighteen inches of wall between two racks.

Adam wonders if for once he should listen to his gym teacher's advice and start working out. Yeah, Tommy has surprise on his side, but Adam must have five inches and forty pounds on him and Tommy's still throwing him around like it's nothing.

"Hey," Adam tries to say, but Tommy's tongue's back in his mouth and his hand is back on Adam's dick, and all that comes out is a muffled groan.

Adam can't breathe, with the air too hot and close, Tommy's mouth sealed over his, and Tommy's cheek crowding his nose, but there's nowhere to go with all Tommy's weight holding him against the wall. He finally gets a grip on Tommy's shoulders and starts to push him back, but Tommy goes down instead, and damn, Adam has never really contemplated the literal meaning of that before.

As he stares down at Tommy's upturned face, Adam realizes that what he thought was a not-very-skillful handjob was actually Tommy opening his pants one-handed; they're already gaping, Adam's dick tenting the front of his briefs obscenely.

Speaking of obscene, Tommy kneeling on the dusty floor of the costume room, tugging at his lip ring with his teeth while he reaches for Adam's dick with both hands― If he doesn't get it in his mouth soon, Adam's going to shoot in his shorts. He tries to explain this, but it just comes out, "Fucking, fucking, Tommy," a garbled, desperate whisper. And thank god, because there are thumps and excited voices coming from the other side of the door now: Adam's classmates putting props away ready for tomorrow's show. They really, really should not be doing this. The door only locks with a key, and Adam doesn't have it, and they could get caught, or locked in, and oh, fuck, Tommy's got Adam's dick in his hands now, his mouth's open crazy wide, his tongue pointing out, and Adam cannot think of a single word in any language except, "Oh, fuck, yes."

The blowjob itself is anti-climactic, since Adam comes less than five seconds after Tommy closes his mouth around the head of Adam's dick, but the orgasm is totally amazing, so Adam can't even bring himself to feel embarrassed. He worries a little about the fact that he completely failed, again, to give Tommy any warning before jizzing in his mouth, but Tommy must have taken the thunk of Adam's head against the wall, or maybe the stranglehold on his hair, as a clue, because he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, but there doesn't seem to be any jizz on Dracula's shiny black pants. Thank god.

"You just blew me in my costume," Adam says.

Tommy looks up at him like that is the stupidest thing he has ever heard. "Was the point," he says, pulling himself back to his feet with a grip on Adam's waist. "Though I was hoping you'd still be wearing the cape."

Adam laughs weakly, wondering if his fingers are going to stop tingling soon.

"And next time you should totally wear the fangs."

The words, 'next time,' make Adam grin like an idiot, so he wraps Tommy in a hug and snugs his leg against Tommy's erection in an effort to distract him. "I totally get to keep them," he confides when Tommy presses his face to Adam's neck, and Tommy bites him in answer, slow sink of teeth, a perfect counterpoint to the dirty grind of his cock against the muscle of Adam's thigh, and it feels so fucking good Adam can't tell if the little fireworks going off in his gut are leftovers from the orgasm he just had or previews of the next one.

Tommy's clinging to him, humping faster now, hot exhalations stinging the teethmarks he left on Adam's throat, and Adam gets his hands under Tommy's ass to hold him closer, help him get more pressure, thrusting his own hips forward to match Tommy's rhythm. He wants to suck him but there's no way he can stop him now, no way he can stop himself. Tommy's fingers curl around  Adam's shoulder blades, digging into the tender flesh there, and Tommy starts to shake, his breaths coming in high-pitched gasps, and he hooks one leg around Adam's as he shudders, coming in Adam's arms.

While Tommy goes completely limp, Adam feels charged, filled with electricity. He needs more―to taste, touch, feel, do something besides stand here letting the wall hold him up. They're just a few feet from the tailor's bench, and Adam pushes, spins, pulls until they're turned around and he's sitting down, pawing at Tommy's fly, desperate to get to his dick.

'What?" Tommy asks, and Adam would explain that he can't get dust all over the knees of his pants―he has to wear them again tomorrow night and he doesn't want to have to get them cleaned―but he's too busy trying to get at the fucking enticing smell of sex and Tommy that's right in his face.

While his fingers fumble, Adam presses his nose to the crease of Tommy's groin where the denim is damp, breathing deep, exhaling so he can do it again, deeper this time, sticking out his tongue to taste.

There's a tiny voice in the back of his head telling him he's a freak, that he should not want to fucking suck the jizz out of someone's jeans, but he does want to. Wants it all, and Tommy's not pulling away, isn't asking again what he's doing, has his fingers twisted in Adam's hair holding him close while he makes little helpless noises above him. Finally, fucking finally Adam's fingers figure out what to do to get Tommy's dick out, and the smell is sharper, stronger, and Adam can taste Tommy's skin, and it's so much better.

The helpless noises turn pained as Adam nuzzles Tommy's dick up against his belly, lapping at the base just above his balls before fastening his lips around the head and sucking like Tommy's a straw in a Slurpee.

"Sorry," he mumbles when Tommy whimpers, except he's not, and he doesn't stop licking―the shaft, the smear of jizz just above the elastic he's holding out of the way against Tommy's stomach, the head again, the curls of hair trapping beads of come.

He feels crazy, not because he wants this, but because of how much, and he's in the fucking costume room at his school and the door's not locked, and his classmates are right outside, and nothing short of a gun in his face would drag him away right now. He hasn't got the first clue how to give head, and Tommy just came and isn't even hard, but he's staring down at Adam like Adam's maybe kind of amazing, and it's better than the way he smells or tastes or even feels. Adam never ever wants Tommy to stop looking at him like that.

"You can't―" Tommy gasps, trying to tug Adam off when Adam gets an arm around his waist and tries to swallow his whole dick. And he's right: tears squirt from Adam's eyes, he starts to choke and then drool as he tries not to bite Tommy while he's choking, and it's all very bad. But Adam doesn't let go, just gets Tommy's dick out of his mouth so it's safe from teeth, and rests his cheek on Tommy's hip bone, hugging him close.

Once Adam's calmed down, Tommy's grip on his hair relaxes and he starts playing with the strands at the back of his neck. "You really like it when I come," he says wonderingly.

"Yeah," Adam says, uncertain, and then, "Yeah. It's― 'course I do." Because that's what they're doing here, right? Making each other come. The dating/not-dating, friends again/not-friends part Adam's still confused about, but he really really likes making Tommy come and likes it when Tommy makes him come, and Tommy keeps doing it so he must like it―

Unless.

"Don't you like it?" Adam asks, keeping his face hidden against Tommy's stomach, though if what they're doing makes Tommy uncomfortable, having his naked dick like two inches from Adam's mouth is maybe not ideal.

Tommy huffs a half-laugh, jostling Adam's head. "I like it. Just, you know. It's kind of messy?"

"I guess I kind of like it messy." Adam's never, like, fantasized about smearing come all over himself or walking around all day in his own jizz or anything, and unlike his little brother or some of the guys in his gym class, he's fond of showering every day, but he likes that Tommy's messy because of Adam and what they did together. And he does like how it tastes, even though he gets why people think it's gross.

"Okay," Tommy says, pulling Adam's head back so he's forced to look at him. "I like that you like it."

All graceful, the way he is and the way Adam wishes he could be, Tommy straddles Adam's thighs and kisses him, sitting down on Adam's knees and sliding forward until their dicks are nudging each other like they were in the car the last time.  The kissing feels good, warm and soft, sweet in a way Tommy hasn't kissed him before. Adam wants to know if it means Tommy's gonna call him back this time, but wanting to know and wanting to ask are two vastly different animals, so he remains in the dark.

Instead, when Tommy stops kissing him and rests his forehead on Adam's shoulder, Adam says, "So, my friend Danielle really wants to meet you, if, like, that would be cool. She doesn't know you're here or anything though, so if―"

"No," Tommy says. "I can meet her. She's not― If she's not your girlfriend or anything."

Adam laughs, and Tommy's face goes closed.

"What?" Adam says.

Tommy just parrots the question back at him, sarcastic.

"I'm not laughing at you." Adam's confused. "Just―" he gestures to indicate Tommy's whole look and dick and stuff. "You are clearly pretty much exactly my type. Which makes Danielle just so. not."

Tommy's glare melts into something softer, something maybe a smile. "I'm your type?"

It's like they're having two different conversations. Or at least two different experiences, because Adam's pretty sure he's poking Tommy's naked junk with his own mostly hard dick about ten minutes after shooting into Tommy's mouth. Not that he's had a lot of opportunities to try, but he's pretty sure he doesn't do that kind of stuff with people who aren't his type. Adam takes Tommy's hand off his shoulder and puts it on his dick. "You're my type." Tommy squeezes him, and Adam moans a little, thrown off his train of thought. Oh yeah. "And you were my best friend for a really long time and I missed you." He should maybe be looking Tommy in the face, but Adam's totally stuck looking at Tommy's hand on his cock. "I still―fuck―still miss you." He's so going to be cleaning these pants tomorrow.

Tommy doesn't say anything else, just speeds up his hand on Adam's dick, drawing both their eyes to the motion until Adam has to shut his, tightening his grip on Tommy's hips and gasping his name, finally giving him the warning he'd failed to the last two times. When he opens them again, Tommy's wiping his hands on Adam's undershirt, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"You said you like messy," he says when Adam looks at him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Adam has to laugh at that, because he did. "Like your mess better," he says, which is true, though he didn't know it before now.

"You're crazy." Tommy's standing, tucking himself back into his jeans, tugging his shirt down to cover the still-damp spot, but Adam thinks he feels different, more like he's waiting, less like he's walking away already. Could be wishful thinking, but he's gonna pretend it isn't.

"Hope you like crazy," Adam says, nudging Tommy's shoulder as he stands and tries to make himself look more presentable, too. Thank god his t-shirt's white.

Tommy just looks at him and shakes his head, but the way his mouth's twisted up, he's totally failing to hide a grin, so Adam takes that as a yes.

They can't find Danielle in the mob backstage, and before Adam can ask if Tommy wants to come with the cast for pizza, Tommy's looking at his phone, frowning, saying, "Shit, my mom's here. Gotta go."

Adam bites down on the "call me," that almost flies out his mouth, and says, "Thanks for coming," instead. He doesn't catch the double entendre until he sees the look on Tommy's face. Which, from the way Tommy laughs at him, is obvious on his own.

"Any time," Tommy says. "For sure." He sort of kicks the side of Adam's foot, and then turns to worm his way to the door.

"Only students and teachers are allowed backstage," Chelsea says from behind Adam's shoulder. "That boy doesn't go here."

There are seven hundred kids at their school. Only Chelsea would think she knows all of them. Adam doesn't bother to tell her to fuck off, just goes to see if his parents are waiting for him.


When Adam wakes up the next morning, there are four texts in his inbox. At 12:07 AM Tommy said, "do you really get to keep the fangs?" At 12:23, "r u fucking sleeping already?" At 12:47, "like ur black hair btw," and at 12:51, "call me asshole but not b4 11."

Adam's phone helpfully informs him it's 10:12. He wonders if the prohibition against pre-eleven contact includes text messages, and decides if Tommy could text him after he was asleep, he can text Tommy before he's awake.

"why should i wait til 11 to call you an asshole?" he sends, knowing it's obnoxious, but unable to resist. He waits two minutes for a reply, but none comes, so he types, "I really get to keep my fangs," and then, "thanx btw," and then, "why are you still sleeping?"

He lies there for another five minutes with his phone on his chest, but he doesn't get a text alert, and he really needs to pee, so he gets up. Neil's lurking in the hall, waiting for him, and nearly gives him a heart attack.

"We're going to the Arboretum today, lazy," he says as soon as Adam opens his door.

Fuck, family outing. Adam forgot. "Go away," he says, pushing Neil against the wall―not hard, just firmly―so he can get past to the bathroom.

"I'm telling," Neil says, following him.

Not sure what he's going to tell, and caring even less, Adam shuts the door in Neil's face. "I'm telling," Neil shouts again, smacking the door with the flat of his hand when Adam engages the lock with a snap.

Adam's phone buzzes while he's brushing his teeth. "it's saturday. why are you up?"

Adam spits, rinses, and uses mouthwash before replying, "had text msgs to read."

"doin anything later?" comes back while Adam's message is still sending.

Feeling a little giddy with the fact that Tommy's not only texting him but seems to want to see him, Adam sits on the edge of the bath before tapping out his reply. "sposed to go to arboretum later―" Adam debates asking if Tommy wants to come, but goes with, "can probs get out of it if you wanna hang out."

He does not expect Tommy to come back with, "wanna go bowling?" Adam hates bowling. The shoes are disgusting, last time he went he dropped a ball on his toe, and he's really really bad at it.

"ok," he says. "what time?"


Eber is irritated and Neil is whiny when Adam asks if he can go bowling with Tommy instead of going out with the family to look at plants, but Leila says he should go and have fun, and even offers him a ride to Burbank on the way.

"Burbank is not on the way," Eber says, and Neil says, "Yeah. It's totally not on the way," but Leila shoots them both quelling glares and tells Adam to eat something healthy for breakfast, doing that thing where she looks like she wants to pet Adam on the head, but remembers at the last minute he's fifteen, not five.  Adam escapes to the kitchen before her maternal urges get the better of her.

It takes an hour or so for them all to get ready, and Adam texts Tommy from the car when they're on the move. Tommy texts back with the address of the bowling alley, and Eber grudgingly puts it into the GPS. Adam puts his headphones in, in the hopes of tuning out Neil's, "Why are you going bowling? You hate bowling. Why are you friends with Tommy again? I thought you weren't friends anymore..." blah blah blah.

"Neil," Adam eventually hears his mom say over Placebo's cover of Running up that Hill, "can it."

Neil pouts the rest of the way to Burbank.

Tommy's leaning against the building when they pull up, thankfully not smoking, because Adam's pretty sure his mom would change her mind about this being a good idea if she saw that. He's got a giant paper Coke cup in one hand and his phone in the other, which he lifts in a wave, squinting into the sunlight.

"Hey," he says when Adam gets out of the car. Adam feels himself grin like an idiot.

Leila rolls down her window, and Adam forestalls any embarrassing mom moments by leaning in and thanking his parents again for the ride. She gets the message and doesn't try to kiss him, or say anything to Tommy, just tells him to have fun, and pats Eber's hand on the gear shift. Adam sighs in relief when they drive off.

"Nice of your parents to drive you," Tommy says, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Can't believe my mom wouldn't let me take the driving test. I can't wait to fucking be able to drive."

"Why'd she do that?" Tommy's birthday was while he wasn't returning Adam's calls, and Adam figured Tommy just didn't have a car.

"When I got grounded?" Tommy says, and sucks at his Coke. "It was 'cause she found a fifth of bourbon under my bed. So she took away my phone for two weeks and said I couldn't take my driving test until I'm seventeen."

"Wow." Adam's not sure what else to say. He can't really imagine hiding booze in his bedroom, so he's not sure what his mom would say if he did.

"She doesn't trust me not to drink and drive or whatever."

"Wow," Adam says again.

"So we bowling or what?" Tommy tosses his cup in the trash can at the corner of the building and heads for the door.

It's a lot darker and a lot louder inside than Adam expected and he loses Tommy for a second while he tries to get his bearings, so arrives at the counter just in time to see Tommy slapping down money for two games.

"I really suck at bowling," Adam feels compelled to point out. "Like really suck."

"First game can be for practice, then," Tommy says. "We'll save strip bowling for round two."

The guy putting Tommy's money in the register says, "Stripper night's Thursdays," and then laughs like a donkey. Adam wishes he'd gone ahead and invited Tommy to the arboretum. Even Neil's constant whining would be better than this.

Tommy ignores the braying, takes his change, and heads for the shoe counter.

"Shoes here run small," he says. "Go up half a size."

The guy spraying shoes with disinfectant has his back to them and is bobbing his mohawked head to the metal music coming from the bowling alley's speakers.

"Yo, Frankie," Tommy calls.

When Frankie turns around, he smiles like a shark. "Tommy Joe Ratliff! Where the hell have you been, man?"

Adam tries not to stare at the trio of spikes in his lip that seem to bristle as he talks, or at the Virgin Mary tattoo climbing out the neck of his tank top onto his throat.

"Ya know," Tommy says. "Y'know." He flaps a hand. "We need shoes."

Frankie looks at Adam. Adam's pretty sure he's being found lacking. "Size's yer friend here?" Frankie says.

"Ten," Adam answers, then amends, "Ten and a half." His feet have been growing a lot lately and most of his nine and a halves are way too small.

"You still baby size?" Frankie holds his forefinger and thumb about an inch apart and uses them to point at Tommy.

"Quit bragging on the pathetic size of your dick," Tommy says. "Fuck you, baby size."

Frankie laughs. "Six and a half it is."

"Six and a half around, maybe. I'm an eight, asshole."

Adam shifts back half a step, hoping to get out of the spill of light over the shoe counter before Frankie or Tommy notices that he's flushed bright red. They're joking about dick size like it's no big thing. Since Tommy didn’t talk like this in elementary school and Danielle doesn’t have a dick to joke about, Adam’s never really had a friend like that. It would also be much better if Tommy stopped talking about his dick―his dick that Adam has had in his mouth―if he wants to go bowling and not like, get dragged into the bathrooms. And that thought is really not  helping. Willing his dick to stay soft, Adam takes five deep breaths, focusing on the kinda nasty smell of overcooked hot dogs and stale popcorn. He comes back to Tommy and Frankie staring at him.

"Um?" Adam says.

"We got your shoes." Frankie taps their heels on the counter and Adam reaches out to take them. Tommy's got his in his hand already. "Have fun," Frankie says.

Adam is pretty sure Frankie's definition of fun―all his definitions of fun―are different from Adam's.

Tommy stands at the counter taking his shoes off and slipping on the clown shoes Frankie gave him, but Adam sits on the little bench between the counter and the lanes, because he doesn't want his socks to touch the carpet in here.

"Have you been bowling since Manny's birthday party?" Tommy asks, holding his hand out for Adam's shoes so he can take them back to Frankie at the counter.

Adam has to think. "Didn't we go with the guy who moved here from Tennessee for like three months in fifth?”

Tommy's nose wrinkles. It's not hot, because why would nose wrinkling be hot, but Adam is maybe staring a little bit. "Bruce Brewster? That was Manny's party I'm pretty sure. Either way―" he checks Adam has his shoes tied, and heads toward the lanes― “fifth grade. What do you guys do for fun in Santa Monica?"

Most kids go to the pier, or the mall, Adam thinks, but he and Danielle usually hang at hers or go to the movies or do theater stuff. "I don't know," Adam says.

They get set up, get their names in the computer and choose balls, and then Tommy asks if Adam wants a drink.

"I can get them. You paid for the game," Adam says. But Tommy gestures him back to the seats.

"I've got it." He's looking more at Adam's shoulder than his face. "You're cool." And with that he's shuffling off to the snack bar.

As Adam watches him go he wonders if this is maybe, like, a date. When he does stuff with his other friends, everyone pays for themselves. Also, his other friends don't follow him into the costume room and suck his dick. Or, like, send him texts at midnight telling him they like his hair.

There’s that whole third date rule Adam’s heard about, and they've had sex three times and haven't really been on a date yet, so they're kind of doing it backwards. Though they did go out to dinner, and some people go dutch on dates, Adam's pretty sure, and Tommy made Adam buy him lunch at the mall. Maybe this is actually their fourth date and Adam just didn't know.

"I got you Coke," Tommy says from over Adam's shoulder. "Hope that's― Hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah." Adam startles, puts a smile on his face. "Coke's great. Don't I look okay?"

"You look like you're trying to figure out if the train from Philly going sixty miles an hour or the train from Chicago doing fifty is going to hit the train from New York first."

"No, yeah." Adam says, his smile genuine now. He's pretty sure he's on an actual date. With Tommy. "I'm, yeah." It's possible his smile is approaching shit-eating grin territory.

Tommy grins back, still a little bemused, and plunks their drinks down on the table bolted between the molded plastic seats. "Let's bowl," he says.

Bowling is actually way better when he's just with Tommy. For a start, Tommy's not as great as Adam feared. Like, he knocks down pins and stuff, but he's not all gliding up to the line with perfect form or anything. And Adam's got a lot more upper body strength than last time he did this, and it's a lot easier to hold onto the ball. Plus, Tommy is fucking hilarious.

He does this little ass-wiggling dance when he gets a strike or a spare, and cracks himself up every time he does it. After one particularly enthusiastic time, Frankie calls down, "We need to get the pole out for you, Tommy Joe?" and Tommy flips him off with both hands, still grinning. He has stories about some of the kids they used to go to school with, girls who were shy that suddenly blossomed in high school, geeks who filled out and now are jocks, the girl who lived up the street from them who got pregnant and dropped out. Adam is surprised when they get to the end of the first game and it's time to start the next one. He can hear his dad saying, Time flies when you're having fun.

Adam somehow opens the second game with a strike―his first ever―and Tommy jumps on his back, whooping. Stumbling forward, Adam grabs onto the console, trying to keep his feet, and he almost knocks over the dregs of his Coke in the process. Somehow he prevents the drink and Tommy and himself from hitting the floor, though he does get a knee to the kidney in the process.

"If this is your cunning plan to want me never to get a strike again, I think it's working," Adam groans, unhooking Tommy's arms from around his neck and dropping him down his back.

"We're playing this game for clothes, and I want to see you naked," Tommy says, winking, dancing backwards toward the ball return.

The man with two kids who is putting their info into the computer in the next lane looks at them, horrified. Adam starts laughing and can't stop until he sits down, head practically on his knees. When he looks up again, Tommy's at the line, ball up by his chest, looking over his shoulder like he can't go until Adam's watching.

"Good luck," Adam calls.

Tommy only knocks down one pin. He gets three more on his second bowl, but that's not going to beat a strike by any means. Without any prompting Adam's brain does the math and figures if Tommy has to take off an item of clothing for every pin left standing, they can go home right now, because he's gonna be stark naked. Not that he really thinks they're playing strip bowling. In public. But as Tommy comes back to where Adam's sitting, he flicks a glance at the next lane and when he sees only the dad is watching, he straddles Adam's thigh and lifts his shirt just enough for Adam to see that he's wearing navy blue briefs, and he has a few scratches just above his belly button like he got in a fight with a cat.

"Fuck," Adam says, a little breathless, a little reverent, but Tommy gives up the tease before Adam can get more than a glimpse, dropping his shirt hem and stepping out of Adam's way so he can get up and have his turn.

"This isn't that kind of date," Tommy says, smirking, like he's not the one practically putting his junk in Adam's mouth.

Adam stands and leans close, hands on Tommy's shoulders, lips right against his ear. "If I forfeit can I suck your dick?"

"If you forfeit you can't suck anything at all," Tommy whispers back, and then slaps his hip, pushing him in the direction of the ball return.

Somehow, instead of distracting him from the task at hand, the thought of sucking Tommy turns Adam into a kick-ass bowler. Or at least one who's a lot less crappy. When he wins―by three points, but a win's a win―Tommy whoops and does a victory lap around him, leaping again, but this time on his chest. Adam sees him coming and manages to grab around his waist and spin them both in a fairly impressive dance move, or so he assumes from the girl in the next lane saying, "Look, Daddy, it's the hot tamale train!"

Frankie gives them a slow clap from where he's wiping down his shoe counter and winks broadly.

"Is he gay?" Adam asks, low, as he puts Tommy down. The contrast between Frankie and the dad in the next lane is pretty marked.

"He's probably sucked someone off for blow at some point, but he's not gay I don't think. Why?"

"He just seems―" Adam can't really articulate that his relaxed attitude about Tommy and Adam comes as a surprise without it sounding like Adam's insulting him or stereotyping punks, or Burbank or whatever. But it's not Frankie that surprises him, but the way Tommy isn't trying to hide anything and doesn't seem to think it's a big deal. And how with Frankie, and the guy who took their money, Tommy's right. It just fucks with Adam's world view. "He doesn't care that you're gay?"

"I don't think he knows?" Tommy says.

Adam looks at the shoe counter again, but Frankie's got his back to them. "You don't?"

"Well, like, I never told him, or any of the guys I was, and it's not like we've been making out or anything."

Adam can't remember the last time one of his male friends jumped on him, or even touched him—it was probably Tommy, actually. And given everything that’s happened in the last few months, he’s not sure that counts. "Huh," he says.

"Don't think he'd care or anything. Saw him pin a guy with a boot to the neck for like twenty minutes once waiting for the cops when he caught the dude beating shit out of a fag in the parking lot."

Adam flinches as the word comes out of Tommy's mouth.

"Want another soda or something?" Tommy tugs Adam's belt loop in the direction of the snack bar. "When are your parents coming to get you?"

Adam looks at his watch. "Couple hours probably. Mom said she'd text me when they were on the way."

"Cool. Wanna play air hockey?"

The air hockey doesn't go nearly as well as the second game of bowling, partly because Adam hasn't played air hockey ever, but mostly because Tommy spends the entire time biting his lip ring in concentration, and all Adam can think about is sucking on it. And the way it feels against his dick when Tommy’s sucking him. By the time his mom texts to say they're almost there, Adam is so hard he's pretty sure he could hang a towel off it. And not just one of the little towels Frankie uses to wipe the shoes. He wishes his pants were tighter to hold it in more or looser to hide it better, but he's stuck with trying to tug his shirt down when he no longer has the game table to hide behind.

"Glad to see you like me kicking your ass," Tommy says, getting right up in his space and looking down pointedly.

"Shut up.” Adam totally wants to say kiss me, but they're standing in the middle of a pretty crowded game room at a bowling alley, so he says, "Gotta piss," instead.

"Huh, me too," Tommy says. “Imagine that.”

While his eyes scan for the restroom sign, Adam tries not to think about the fact that he's so possibly about to get a hand job from the boy he's on a date with. The boy who he's maybe on a first date with, who is maybe kind of also his boyfriend, only maybe not, but who at the very least seems to want to be actual friends again. He finds the sign for the men's room and hustles in that direction, hem of his t-shirt gripped in both fists. He probably looks like he just pissed himself, but whatever.

It's a single-stall, urinal, sink situation. Adam was hoping for― He isn't actually sure, because if it were just a one-room, they'd have more privacy but feel more rushed and it would look weird for Tommy to follow him in, but this way feels all wrong, and―

"Dude, breathe," Tommy says, patting him on the back.

"I'm breathing." He's totally not breathing. He should do something about that.

"You gonna take care of that?" Tommy eyes his dick again, amused, and maybe a little like he likes it.

Adam goes out on a limb. "Or you could..."

Tommy shakes his head. "Told you, it's not that kind'a date. I'm wooing you."

"You're wooing me." That is the most ridiculous thing Adam's ever heard, and it should not be so fucking sweet.

"Totally wooing you. Whatever. I'll watch if you want, though."

For a second Adam thinks there's not going to be anything to watch except the spread of a wet spot on the front of his jeans, but he manages to stumble into the cubicle, holding the door open for Tommy behind him.

True to his word, Tommy doesn't reach for Adam's pants once they have the door locked; he settles his tiny ass on the handicap grab bar, arms crossed, that damn tempting lip ring caught in his teeth, the picture of expectant.

"You're really gonna―" Adam whispers.

"You really gonna?" Tommy's voice is pitched low and hits Adam right in the pool of heat in his belly.

How does Tommy always make Adam want to do the craziest things? He's never even thought about jerking off in a public bathroom, and now he's about to do it with someone watching. "Will you at least― Can I kiss you first?"

Adam only catches a second of Tommy's grin as it's launched at his face, but he takes it as an enthusiastic yes.

Letting Tommy's momentum push him back against the wall, Adam pulls Tommy tight against him, cupping his ass in both hands. "Mmmpf," Tommy says into Adam's mouth when he finds himself lifted nearly off the floor, but then he gets his hands around Adam's shoulders and settles in. With Tommy's lip ring between his teeth, Adam wonders how the hell he managed to stay on his side of the hockey table for as long as he did. Gentle tugging makes Tommy squirm against him, licking makes him try to suck on Adam's tongue, and everything about kissing Tommy is just so much better than not kissing Tommy. Except for how it's actually been a really fun day of just hanging out like they used to, only with more of Adam staring at Tommy's ass. And face. And his other parts.

When Tommy lets go Adam's shoulder and moves a hand down to his hip, Adam thinks maybe it's gonna be one of those kind of dates after all, but Tommy pushes back instead, pleased grin on his face, returning to his perch. "Still wanna watch," he says.

Before he can think too much about it, Adam undoes his zipper, pulls his dick out through the fly of his boxers. Tommy's fingers twitch on the bar, but he doesn't move to help Adam out.

"Fuck," Adam breathes when he's got his fingers wrapped around himself.

"I could tell you a gross story instead," Tommy says.

That would so not help. At this point Tommy could probably not only talk about vomit, he could actually vomit, and Adam would still be desperate to get off. Making out pretty much pushed him past the cold shower point. Angling so Tommy can mostly see him, but he can still pretend a little bit that he's not jerking off in a toilet with a boy if it gets too weird, Adam starts jacking his dick with the quick, efficient strokes he uses if Neil's banging on the bathroom door. It's not much of a show, but a glance at Tommy's face and Adam can see there's not going to be any complaining.

As he comes, Adam's thinking about getting Tommy somewhere alone and doing this again with more time and fewer clothes.

Darting in for another kiss, Tommy grabs Adam's hand as he's trying to wipe it off, and manages to smear jizz up Adam's wrist. From the look on his face, it wasn't an accident. They're both laughing as Adam unlocks the stall door.   

They share the sink, Tommy sliming Adam's hands up with the opalescent pink soap, carefully cleaning between his fingers and over his knuckles like Adam shoots motor oil. It feels really fucking good, but an old dude barges his way in the door, glares at them and starts yelling about how they shouldn't come in here and shoot up. Adam reaches for the paper towels, Tommy bristling beside him.

"Shoot you up, fucker," Tommy mutters as Adam pushes him back out into the game room.

"D'you know him?" he asks when he catches Tommy turned around flipping off the door.

"Know enough like him," Tommy says. "Let's wait for your mom outside."

The last thing Adam wants is their date to end on a sour note, but as Adam's eyes are adjusting to the daylight, Tommy grabs him around the waist and spins him in a dizzying circle before darting off toward where he'd been waiting for Adam to arrive.

Adam follows, and ends up leaning against the bricks, mostly hidden from the parking lot by a large sandwich board someone's put up advertising Happy Hour specials, tugging Tommy against him, back to chest. He doesn't want to get caught making out with Tommy, but his parents probably won’t think it’s too weird if they’re just hugging, and he wants to hold onto him while he has the chance. He figures wooing is a good thing, but Tommy still lives on the other side of LA, and who knows when Adam's going to see him again.

"So was it better than you expected?" Tommy asks, tipping his head back against Adam's shoulder, grinning up at him.

For a second Adam thinks he means jerking off for him in a bathroom, but then he figures bowling is more likely. "It was okay." When Tommy tries to pout while he's still grinning, Adam starts tickling him.

"Fucker!" Tommy cries, but he's squirming back against Adam's body, not trying to get away, so Adam isn't buying his complaint. He's also very aware that all this wiggling, and gasping, and the way Tommy's grabbing his biceps and holding onto his wrists to make him stop is making Adam hard again, which will totally defeat the purpose of jerking off in the bathroom, except for how that was really fucking hot, and okay, that is so not helping. Crossing his arms over Tommy's belly, Adam squeezes him tight, breathes in the smell of his neck, tries to settle down.

"Hate being tickled," Tommy mutters, and Adam peers over his shoulder at where his baggy jeans look noticeably less baggy than before.

"I noticed."

"Whatever. Shut up." Tommy lifts Adam's left hand and bites the flesh at the base of his thumb just as the Lambert's car pulls into the lot.

"I had a really great time," Adam says, wanting to kiss Tommy everywhere now that he really can't.

Tommy steps away from him, gives him a little salute. "Yeah you did."

The car is closer now, maybe ten feet away, Neil in the back seat flipping them both off where their parents can't see, Eber hidden in shadows, and Leila grinning at them out the open window.

"Hi, Missus Lambert, Mister Lambert," Tommy calls, giving them a little wave. "Thanks for giving Adam a ride."

Adam makes a run for the car before his mom can invite Tommy over for dinner, or start giving him the third degree or something. "Call me," he says to Tommy. Then, "I'll call you, too," in case Tommy thinks he has to wait three days or something. Because Adam's not waiting three days.

"Cool," Tommy says, and waves again before slipping around the side of the building in the direction of his house.

"We could have given him a ride," Leila says, twisting to look at Adam. "He didn't have to run off."

"Nah. That's cool. He was meeting someone." Adam loves his mom, but sometimes she's just really embarrassing.

Part 4