rivers_bend

Master Post
Part 6


Adam can't tell at first what woke him up, and then the barking penetrates. The neighbor's fucking Dalmatian. He really hates that dog. The room is night-dark, and Adam rolls over to peer at the clock. 2:36 AM. And jesus, the damn dog is freaking out. Adam pulls a pillow over his head, and only then realizes that Tommy was in bed with him when he fell asleep, and now he's gone. Gone, gone. There're no sounds coming from the bathroom, no hushed footsteps in the hall. "Tommy?" Adam says softly, just in case he's like, sitting in the corner or something weird, but there's no answer. Adam thought they were done with the disappearing acts.

Pulling on a pair of sweats and poking around with his toes for his flip-flops, Adam scans the room in the meagre glow from his bedside lamp, looking for Tommy's stuff. His shoes and jacket and jeans are gone, but the t-shirt draped over Adam's stereo is definitely Tommy's. He could have gone home in one of Adam's though; it wouldn't be the first time, though the last time they were only eight.

"Fuck," Adam mutters under his breath, and then when the dog starts up again, "Fuck!" loud enough that Tommy will hear him if he's anywhere in the house. Still no answer.

It hits Adam that maybe it's totally normal to fluctuate between wanting to smother your boyfriend with kisses and wanting to smother him with a pillow. Maybe Tommy finds him completely frustrating, too. Maybe that's why he keeps fucking leaving.

Or maybe Tommy's just a freak.

"I love you but you drive me fucking nuts," Adam says to his empty room, because he knows he's not going to say it to Tommy. With luck, it's Tommy that set Brutus (and seriously that is the stupidest name for a Dalmatian ever. Inappropriate, but not inappropriate enough to be ironic. Stupid.) off, and he hasn't made it any farther than the bus stop. But when Adam goes out front, he can't see anyone on the street at all. And Brutus' barks are coming from the back. Adam heads for the french doors off the kitchen.

There's a cherry glowing through the window of the treehouse in the cherry tree that has nothing to do with fruit. About eight layers of Adam's irritation slough off―Tommy didn't run away, he just found someplace to be alone and think. Adam thought he'd given up smoking, though, so he still sounds gruff when he stands at the bottom of the ladder and whisper-calls through the trap door, "I'm coming up."

There's a scrabbling sound in answer, like someone grinding out a cigarette against a wooden floor, and Adam says, "Don't bother, I can smell the smoke."

Tommy snorts, says, low, "You're so fucking sneaky." He's curled up in the beanbag in the corner, jacket crossed tight over his chest, hands tucked in his armpits, making Adam aware of the goosebumps on his own bare shoulders.

"Scoot," Adam says, climbing into the compact room. "Cold."

When Tommy sits up, his jacket lifts and Adam sees he has nothing on under it. Not that he wouldn't still be huddling if he were wearing a henley and a flannel with it. Settling into the warm hollow Tommy left, Adam pulls him down on top. Tommy tries to stay all hunched up, but Adam pets and strokes and pulls at him until he's lying on Adam's chest, cradled between his thighs, jacket open so they're skin to skin, not skin to harsh metal zipper. The scents of weathered wood, musty beanbag, sun-dried cherry pulp tease Adam's nostrils, and then Tommy relaxes, butting his head up under Adam's chin, tucking his hands under Adam's shoulders, and Adam's nose is filled with cigarette smoke, his mom's CostCo Pantene, and the heady stench of the two blow jobs and the actual omg sex they've had since they showered and Tommy borrowed shampoo.

"God, I want you all the time," Adam whispers, the words out of his mouth before they've even fully formed in his brain. And fuck, that was so not supposed to be out loud. A sheet of flame starts under Tommy's chin and floods Adam's face, and he'd give anything for the nightmare lullaby to come true, for the bough to break and the treehouse to fall, and okay, maybe not kill them both, but at least cause a diversion.

He expects Tommy to laugh, or push away, or tell him to fuck off, but his fingers curl tight under Adam's shoulder blades, and he turns his face right into Adam's chest, nearly drilling through his sternum with his forehead and nose. Adam doesn't breathe, or move, just keeps his arms looped around Tommy's back. Tommy's shaking, breath coming in ragged puffs against Adam's skin, and if Adam didn't know better, he'd think Tommy were crying.

Adam wants to apologize, wants to go all out and say, "I love you," wants to just say Tommy's name, but he doesn't want to make anything worse, and he still can't get enough oxygen.

Then Tommy heaves air in through his nose, chilling Adam's chest, and says, "Me too," so quiet Adam almost doesn't hear.  

The relief is like water spilling across Adam's bones and he clings to Tommy, arms and legs nearly crushing him. Tommy's clinging back, fingertips embedded either side of Adam's spine, elbows finding home under Adam's ribs, hard and sharp and painful, and Adam still wishes he could hold on tighter.

For long minutes there's nothing but the sounds of the night―leaves rustling; Brutus barking again, but from inside this time; a car going past in the street―then Tommy turns his head, presses his cheek to Adam's chest, pulling in a shaky breath. Adam lets his arms relax, starts rubbing Tommy's back in slow stroking circles over his kidneys, his other hand resting heavy between Tommy's shoulders.

"I hate doing what I'm told," Tommy says, voice rough.

This isn't exactly news, but Adam has no context for it right now, so he just murmurs, "mmm hmm," and keeps stroking.

"I hate it," Tommy says again. He pulls his right hand out from under Adam's back and wipes his face with it before resting his palm on Adam's chest. Then, so quietly Adam has to strain to hear: "But I'd do anything you wanted me to. You could say anything. Do anything and I'd say yes."

Adam's skin is on fire, his guts dipped in ice, and then they swap places, goosebumps covering his arms and his chest filling with heat. He literally cannot breathe with how much he wants Tommy to feel that, though five seconds ago it never would have occurred to him to imagine it. But he wants Tommy to want it, too. He doesn't want him to sound so scared.

"We don't have to do that again," Adam says, words like glass in his throat. He was right. He shouldn't have assumed. "I'm sorry."

"No!" Tommy says. "No." He pushes up looking at Adam. "It was― That's not what I'm saying. Fuck. I'm not doing this right at all."

Adam's so confused. "I don't―" he says.

"Having you do that, be inside me like that― It was―" He buries his face in Adam's neck again. "But if you'd pulled a knife out, I would have let you slit my throat."

"I wouldn't― Tommy, what the fuck?" Why the hell would he want to slit Tommy's throat?

"I can't explain," Tommy mutters. He starts wiggling like he's trying to get out of Adam's hold.

"No," Adam says. "Tommy."

Tommy stills.

And shit. Jesus. Tommy doesn't do that. That's Adam's role. That's― From the moment Adam didn't walk out when Tommy was forty-five minutes late at the pizza place, Adam's felt vulnerable to Tommy's whims. And, sure, lately he's been certain Tommy liked him back, but this is different.

"You think I don't get it?" Adam asks into the hair falling across Tommy's forehead.

"It's different for you."

"Because I've been stupid for you since you kissed me under that tree in the park?" Adam hadn't really thought of it that way, but he let Tommy grope him on a bus for fuck's sake. Adam just doesn't do shit like that.

"Not stupid like this."

Adam is pretty sure the only difference is that he doesn't watch as many horror movies or play video games where the whole point seems to be to chop people's heads off with increasingly ridiculous weapons, so it's never occurred to him that Tommy would want to, like, kill him or anything.

"I will never want to slit your throat." Adam traces a line from the point of Tommy's jaw under his ear to the back of his neck. "I promise." He doesn't add that he also promises not to ever smother him with a pillow even if he does have the urge.

"You'll fuck me again, though, right?" Tommy asks.

"Only if you want me to." He might cry if Tommy doesn't want him to, because it was fucking amazing, but he'd survive.

"I want you to." Tommy nuzzles closer and tucks his hand under Adam's back again. "I need you to." The words are almost lost in Adam's chest.

"If I hurt you, we can―"

"No," Tommy spits harshly, fingers digging in with the word. "No. You don't get it."

"I need you, too." Adam smooths a hand down Tommy's back.

Tommy bucks against him, grinds his hips into Adam's, the bones peeking over the top of his jeans digging painfully into Adam's groin.

Adam tries to soothe him again with his hands, and when Tommy shakes him off, Adam says, "I love you." It's more because he can't keep it in anymore than because the thinks it's the right time, and he wants to kick himself for not waiting.

Tommy growls, jabs Adam again with his hips and then starts to roll off him.

"Hey," Adam protests, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut, wishing Tommy would fucking talk to him.

But Tommy's not leaving, he's taking Adam with him, so they end up on the rough wood of the floor, Tommy on his back, Adam weighing him down.

"I need you," Tommy says again. "I need you." He pushes at Adam's sweats, and when Adam instinctively lifts to help, he scrabbles at his own fly, opening his jeans, twisting and kicking to get them off. Adam thinks to stop him―they're six inches from an eighteen-inch square hole in the floor, the rug’s indoors for winter and the planks aren't sanded, and they're up a fucking cherry tree when Adam has a bed just inside―but his body's on autopilot and he gives Tommy room to get his pants off, doesn't protest when Tommy grabs him by the arms and pulls him down again.

Adam's sweats are bunched around his thighs and Tommy still has his jacket on, open, but they're otherwise naked. They're farther from the window here, out of the shine of the security light next door, and Tommy's just a glint of eyes, teeth, piercings, and the soft glow of pale skin against the dark of his jacket and the weathered boards. Adam's holding himself up on his hands, trying to see something in Tommy's face, make some sense out of what they're doing on the floor.

"You don't fucking get it," Tommy says again, hands on Adam's ass pulling him down as he bucks up into him.

He's right. Adam doesn't. Tommy's so mad. And, wow. Hard. Adam's marveling at that―he didn't notice anything when Tommy was lying on top of him a second ago―so he isn't paying attention to what Tommy's doing, snaps back in focus to Tommy pressing Adam's hand to his throat. And, sure, Adam likes framing Tommy's jaw with his forefinger and thumb when they're kissing, but this isn't that. Tommy's squeezing, like he's trying to get Adam to choke him.

"What?" Adam says. "Tommy what the hell?"

Tommy just stares at him, squeezes harder, worms his other hand between them to grope at Adam's dick. Which if it had started going hard when he'd felt Tommy's is decidedly not now.

"Tommy!" Adam snaps, pulling and then finally wrenching his hand out of Tommy's grip, listening in horror as Tommy gasps brokenly like Adam was cutting off all his air.

"I'd fucking let you. I fucking want you to. Want you to choke me. Cover my nose and mouth with your palm and watch me ’til I pass out and you let me breathe again. Want you to carve your fucking name into my ass, fuck me til my blood is running down both our thighs." He's still jerking Adam's dick, and fucking christ, Adam's getting hard. He's sixteen years old and the hottest guy he knows is touching his dick, but what the actual fuck is Tommy even saying.

"When you fucked me, I loved it. I fucking loved it, but I wanted it to hurt more. Everyone said how much it hurt, and you had your fingers inside me, and it felt so fucking good, and I wanted your dick so bad because I knew then it would hurt. Like it was supposed to. And it did, jesus, I mean― But it didn't hurt like I was still gonna be feeling it three days from now."

While Adam's trying to make what Tommy's saying make sense, Tommy stops jerking him and starts pushing his dick down toward Tommy's ass.

"Tommy," Adam says again, because what the fuck is he supposed to say, but Tommy hooks his legs up around Adam's waist and gets Adam's dick lined up.

"You make me crazy. Like actually fucking crazy. I go insane with everything I want, everything I fucking need when I'm with you. I just― You can't, Adam. Please. Just, please."

Tommy's still a little open and slick from before―not nearly as much, probably not enough for this to be a good idea, but maybe enough for it to be possible―and everything in Adam's head is telling him he's got to stop, talk Tommy down from whatever ledge he's out on, but clearly his brain is not in charge, because he's letting Tommy drag him in with heels and fingers, letting him make Adam do this.

And god, he's so fucking tight Adam feels like his dick's being strangled the way he was strangling Tommy a minute ago, and Tommy's gasping, his legs are shaking at Adam's hips, but he's saying, "Yes― oh, fuck― shit― Adam," and Adam doesn't want to make him crazy but he wants so fucking much to make him happy.

"Legs―" Adam gasps. "Up." Ignoring Tommy's protest, Adam sits back on his knees and hooks his arms under Tommy's thighs. As soon as Tommy gets what he's doing, he helps, and then Adam's lining up again, pushing back inside.

It's still tight, but better; he just wishes he leaked as much as Tommy so there wasn't so much friction. He licks his fingers, smears spit on the underside of his dick where the drag is worst, and gets another inch or two inside. Tommy's hissing through his teeth, has a death grip on Adam's forearms propped next to his waist, and Adam wants to ask if this is good, if this is enough, but he's scared of the answer.

Adam can move a little, but it's not really fucking; the drag is still too much. Shifting his weight to his left arm, he feels for Tommy's dick with his right hand, hoping to make this better for him, maybe checking if he's still hard. His fingers find the slick on Tommy's belly, more on the head of his cock, and maybe―

Tommy always gets wetter when Adam plays with his balls, so Adam tries it, rubs the base of his cock, and is rewarded with a helpless-sounding moan from Tommy, and enough precome to rub around Tommy's hole and Adam's dick. It's not great, but it's much better than spit.

"Fucking hell, Adam. What―" Tommy's question is cut off by Adam fucking forward with a sharp jab of his hips.

He still can't get all the way in, but it's enough to make the air hitch in Tommy's throat, another bubble of precome spill onto his stomach. Adam drags his fingers through it, smears it around the base of his dick, and grinds forward until Tommy's folded right in half, Adam's hips resting on his ass.

"Fuck," Tommy says, a tight crushed sound, and Adam snaps his hips again, driving Tommy upward, skidding on his shoulders toward the wall. Adam has to inch his hobbled knees forward to get the leverage to pull out and slam in again without just falling on Tommy and crushing him, and he's struck again with how fucking ridiculous this is to be doing this here, but Tommy whimpers, digs blunt nails into Adam's arms, and it's just so fucking desperate.

Adam keeps feeling like he's falling, can't keep his knees under him, and then Tommy cries out as his head hits the wall, the nylon of his jacket too slippery on the floor. Adam stops, tries to apologize, but Tommy lets go Adam's arm with his right hand, puts it up to cushion his head, and says, "Don't you― Don't― dare stop."

His dick, his hips, his fucking heartbeat are all in complete agreement, and it honestly doesn't matter at all that Adam's brain thinks this is a fucking stupid idea, that they should be talking about this or something.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy," Adam's saying, letting Tommy's legs go as he drops to his elbows, grinding deeper now instead of fucking in and out, and he can hear his voice breaking, realizes he's crying, and nothing in his sex ed classes told him sex could feel like this.

Sliding his hands between Tommy's back and his jacket, Adam grips his shoulders, pulls him away from the wall, needing him to be closer, a vague idea in his head that there must be a way to get Tommy up off the floor, but before he can do more than hold on, Tommy comes slick between their bellies in a hot rush that takes Adam completely by surprise. It leaves Tommy limp and Adam shaking, and he cannot do this anymore.

With a low, raw sound he almost swallows, Adam pulls out of Tommy's ass and bodily drags him back to the beanbag where he holds onto him so tight he's honestly not sure Tommy can breathe. He tries to relax his arms but can't, tries again, and only succeeds when Tommy bites his chest.

"Sorry," Adam says. "Sorry. Sorry."

"Stop apologiz― what―" Tommy shoves at him, tries to get a hand down between them, but Adam catches his wrists.

"I'm okay," he says. He's so not okay. But he doesn't need to get off, and that's what he means.

"But you―"

"I'm okay," Adam says again, and presses Tommy's face to his chest, hoping he'll stop talking, hoping he won't notice that Adam's cheeks are wet.

Several minutes pass before Adam lets go of Tommy enough to pull his sweats back up. Tommy's jeans are still tangled on the floor by their feet, but he makes no move to get them, so Adam puts his arms around him again.

"Did I hurt you?" Tommy asks once Adam's tucked him back into the curl of his body.

Adam shakes his head, realizes Tommy can't see it the way his face is pressed into Adam's neck, and says, "No," trying not to let his voice hitch on the word.

"Do you―" Tommy's voice is so small. "You still like me, right?"

Adam's chest does a weird lurching sob that turns into a laugh―this is so out of control―and he touches Tommy's chin, tries to look him in the face. "You fucking scared me. I don't― God, Tommy you scared me."

The shivering starts in Tommy's elbows and moves up his arms and down his chest. "It's okay, it's okay," Adam says. "I scared me. You wanted me to hurt you and I did it. I liked it. What if I―"

"Just please don't leave me. Please, Adam. You don't ever have to do that again, but don't tell me we can't be friends anymore." He hauls in a breath so deep Adam worries his lungs will pop, but he doesn't stop shaking. "And don't― if you get a boyfriend or something, can you not tell me?"

Gripping tight to Tommy's arms, Adam shoves him far enough away to look him in the eye. "What the fuck, Tommy," he demands. “I’m not going to― I don't know what I'm supposed to do here.”

Tommy struggles in his hold, trying to duck his head, hide from Adam's stare.

"I can't―" Tommy twists viciously out of Adam's grasp, so Adam grabs him with both arms, letting him hide his face, but not get away. "I can't believe you think I would just leave you. Fucking stupidest thing I've ever heard. Jesus."

"'m not stupid," Tommy says.

Christ. "Stupidest thing. Not you're stupid."

"But I scared you." Tommy's struggling to get away again.

The shocked-hollow fear Adam felt when he realized he'd made Tommy come by fucking him into a wall turns to crushed-lungs racing-heart panic. He can't imagine how he's going to fix this. Worse than Tommy hating him is Tommy thinking Adam hates him. And nothing Adam imagines saying sounds like it will make things any better. He's still trying to form words when Tommy pushes hard against his chest.

"Can you let me go?" Tommy sounds worried Adam's gonna say no. Which isn't totally surprising, because Adam hasn't exactly been responding to his struggles, still wants to say no, even though he knows that will make things worse. "I'm cold," Tommy adds.

"Okay." Reluctantly―even though he's cold too and figures a change of scene would do them both good―Adam opens his arms and lets Tommy sit up.

While Adam's watching Tommy pull on his jeans, he blurts, "Take a bath with me." He didn't mean to say it, is pretty sure it's a line from a book he got off his grandmother's shelf when he was stuck inside on a rainy day one summer. Some romance with a brooding hero who swept in to rescue a hard-done-by woman from a fate worse than death or something and then seduced her in a bubble bath. It was stupid even in the context of the stupid book. It's even stupider now.

Unsurprisingly, Tommy looks at him like he's crazy.

"Sorry. Never mind," Adam says, but Tommy interrupts: "Maybe that would― I'm really cold."

Adam wants to carry Tommy down the ladder, but a) Tommy would probably punch him if he tried, and b) Adam would likely fall and kill them both. He does go first though, so he can catch Tommy if he shivers himself right off the rungs.

They don't talk as they go inside and up to his parents' bathroom. They don't talk while Adam turns on the taps, adjusts the temperature, looks through his mom's things to find some bubbles that don't smell like flowers. Adam leaves Tommy sitting silently on the toilet lid while he goes to get their towels out of the bathroom he shares with Neil. When he comes back, Tommy's sitting in water up to his waist, hunched near the taps, leaving two thirds of the tub for Adam to get in behind him. Adam decides to take that as a good sign, ignoring the fact that it looks like Tommy's trying to crawl inside his own skin.

Watching Tommy rub a thumb back and forth on his knee, Adam strips and climbs into the bath. "Is this okay?" he says, touching Tommy's shoulders. Tommy doesn't lean back, but he does unwind his arms from around his legs, so Adam fits his calves either side of Tommy's hips and tugs gently. Bubbles bob around his knees as the curl of Tommy's spine gives a little.

"C'mere," Adam says softly, tugging a little harder until Tommy's nestled between his thighs, leaning back against his chest. When the bath fills (so much more quickly with two people in it, and this is way more fun than the displacement experiments they did in physics class, even though Adam's freaking and Tommy's being all creepy and silent), Adam turns it off with his toes, and the quiet presses on his ears.

"Is this weird?" he asks.

Tommy tilts his head back, shooting him a cryptic look.

"It's weird." Adam says.

Looking away again, Tommy wiggles so his shoulder blades dig pointedly into Adam's ribs. "Shut up?" Adam asks.

And he finally gets an answer, though it's only a nod and Tommy threading his fingers through Adam's, pulling Adam's arms around his chest. The quiet turns peaceful, and Adam's lungs start to thaw.

For a minute or so Adam thinks he's going to have to wait forever for Tommy to say something first, but then Tommy squeezes his fingers and speaks. "I know you won't really hurt me."

Adam wants to ask how he knows. Adam doesn't even know that.

"Even when you―" he waves his hand, leaving Adam's pressed wetly to his stomach. "When that, it wasn't, you know."

"I don't know," Adam admits.

"It hurt like getting your ears pierced. Not like... Not like getting punched or whatever."

Neil’s the only person who’s ever seriously punched Adam, and even though Adam’s cheekbone was bruised for days, it actually didn't hurt nearly as much as getting his ear pierced. But it also didn't make him even a little bit hard, and he totally gets what Tommy's saying. "You're okay then?"

Tommy nods, his hair scratchy on Adam's damp chest.

They stay in the bath until the water gets cold, and then Adam stands Tommy under the shower’s spray, rinsing the bubbles off and warming him up again. “Do you―“ Adam starts when they get back to his room, wondering if Tommy wants to put pajamas on or anything, but Tommy murmurs, “Talk in the morning. Sleep now,” crawling under the covers, so Adam joins him.


Adam swims to consciousness in semi-darkness, with no alarm going off and no square of hall light indicating a parent has been in to wake him, then remembers that it's the weekend and his parents are out of town. Tommy's here. But before he can reach for his boyfriend in the bed next to him, there's a voice near his shoulder.

"My uncle got in an accident and my mom wants me home." Tommy's dressed already, standing by the bed, words spilling out in a deluge. "He's okay and everything but he needs to rest and―"

"Sure," Adam interrupts, mouth sleep-sticky, before Tommy can talk himself into a frenzy. "Of course. Do you need―" Accident. Uncle. Home. The words line up in Adam's still-dozy brain. Tommy's leaving. Before sunup. Before they can have the conversation Tommy promised they'd have once he'd slept. "I can give you a ride?” Adam blinks Tommy into clearer focus, but he’s still dressed and ready to go. “I mean, I'm not supposed to, but I think if it's an emergency―"

"No," Tommy says. "No― No." He's backing away, hand stretched toward his jacket still hanging off the corner of an open dresser drawer where Adam dumped it after their bath last night. "Lisa's gonna― no."

Trying to dig his way out of the blankets, Adam thrashes around, thinking he should walk Tommy downstairs, make him coffee, at least offer him a coke. Make sure he's okay. But Tommy flaps his hands, says, "no," again, mutters, "I'll call you," and then the bedroom door is shut behind him and Adam's left in silence, any noise Tommy's retreat makes smothered by the carpet in the hall.

"Fuck," Adam says at the empty room. "Fucking fuck."

He tosses and turns and tosses and turns, but despite being exhausted, Adam can’t get comfortable again. Tommy’d promised that he was okay, that he still wanted Adam, and once they were out of the bath and dry, he’d folded himself into Adam’s arms to fall asleep. But the last time he’d said, “I’ll call you,” Adam hadn’t heard from him for three weeks. And that time he’d actually sounded like he meant it. This time was totally a brushoff.

His phone isn’t on the bedside table, so Adam untangles his legs from the sheets and gets up. When he discovers it plugged in to the spare charger in the kitchen, there are three missed calls, and Adam’s never been so delighted to be wrong in his life, except they aren’t from Tommy. Two are from his mom and one’s from Danielle. None of them are from this morning. Deciding calling now just makes him look like a loser, Adam texts Tommy instead: “Hope your uncles ok. Tell lisa I said hi.” He considers adding “love you,” but hits send before he can. Tommy pretty much flipped out when Adam said it last night; he’s not making that mistake again when he’s not there to see how Tommy takes it. There’s no immediate return reply, and since his boxers are lacking in pockets and there are a lot of dishes that need to be washed before his parents get back that night, Adam turns his alert onto loud and sets to work.

By half past seven the kitchen is sparkling, Adam’s bedroom and the living room are devoid of plates and glasses, and the dishwasher is humming quietly. Adam’s phone is also quiet, and he’s slid it open about four-hundred and seventy-three times just to check it hasn’t accidentally turned itself off. He’ll give it until ten. Just text something casual: hope you’re okay or see you soon or something. In the mean time, Danielle’s a freakishly early riser. Maybe she wants to go get breakfast.

Dani is over the moon about the idea of breakfast; her parents want her to help them babysit her visiting cousin, but also they like Adam and know she hasn’t been hanging out with him as much lately, so they’re willing to give her a break. She wants to go to Rae’s, but Adam doesn’t feel like waiting in line, so he makes her go to IHoP instead.

“How come you’re not making your boy breakfast in bed?” Danielle asks once they’re digging into their pancakes.

Adam wants to tell Danielle that he’s scared Tommy’s freaking out and is going to disappear on him, but there’s no way he’s telling her about what happened in the treehouse, and even the fucking in his bed feels too raw and personal, so he just tells her that Tommy’s mom needed him home for family stuff.

“Fucking family stuff,” Danielle agrees fervently. Then, “Oh, speaking of, did you see Modern Family this week?”

Adam is mostly relieved by the change in subject.

By ordering extra toast and a side of bacon when their waitress tries to give them the check, they manage to eke out the free coffee refills for almost two hours, even on a Sunday morning, and Adam’s feeling much better by the time they finally tumble back out into the winter sunshine.

“Fuck,” Danielle says, checking her phone. “If I don’t get home now and entertain the tiny terror, apparently I’m not leaving the house until my eighteenth birthday.”

Adam should get home anyway, vacuum, wash sheets and towels, generally make the house look less like he spent half the weekend having sex with his boyfriend in it. And his parents’ plane is due to land at half past four, so it would probably be nice if he got one of his moms’ casseroles out to defrost, too. But first, he’ll just send Tommy one more text.


Stephen’s mom calls at noon to ask if she can bring Neil back early. Adam would prefer it if she didn’t bring Neil back at all, but that obviously isn’t an option. “Mister Hanson will drop him off,” she says, voice tight. “I’ll be taking Stephen to the hospital.”

“Okaaaaay.” Adam’s thrown by the hospital thing. He’d figured Mrs. Hanson was just tired of having Neil around after a week. “What ha―“ he starts, but Mrs. Hanson has hung up.

Siblings are seriously overrated. When Neil comes through the front door pulling his suitcase and dragging his backpack by one strap, Adam’s folding towels hot from the dryer. “Was there a flood?” Neil asks sullenly.

So there are maybe kind of a lot of towels for one boy for a week, but it’s not like he used all of them or anything. It seems rude to make a guest use a towel that’s all damp still because maybe you were too busy kissing after the last shower to remember to hang it up. Adam’s just polite, is all.

Neil, not so much. “Did you jerk off the whole time Mom and Dad were gone or something?”

“Go put your stuff away or something.” To Adam’s surprise, Neil doesn’t argue, just trudges toward the stairs.

“Hey,” Adam calls after him. “Is Stephen okay? His mom said she was taking him to the hospital.”

“It’s not my fault!” Neil shouts, and his bedroom door slams.

That hadn’t even occurred to Adam. He just figured asthma attack or something. What the hell has Neil been doing? And why aren’t their parents home to deal with it?

When he’s made his bed and put all the towels and his clothes away and Neil still hasn’t emerged from his room, Adam goes and knocks on the door. “I didn’t think it was your fault,” he says. “What did he do?”

“Go away.” Neil sounds like he’s crying. Adam’s not really in the mood for crying, but his mom would not be happy if she found out he just let his brother sob his heart out and didn’t do anything. Plus, Neil’s not really a crier. Something bad must have happened.

“I’m coming in,” Adam says, waiting another few seconds before opening the door. It’s so annoying when his parents don’t give him any warning, and he doesn’t want to do that. When he doesn’t get told not to, Adam cracks the door. Neil’s lying on his bed, face buried in his pillow, back shaking with jagged breaths, and Adam really really wants to know where Tommy is right now and if he’s okay, but instead he goes and sits on his brother’s bed and lays a hand between his shoulders.

Adam rubs until Neil stops crying and turns his head to the side so he can breathe more easily. “Want to tell me what happened?” Adam asks softly.

“Stephen’s mom’s a crazy bitch,” Neil mutters.

“Okaaay.”

When Adam doesn’t call him on his language or bother telling him not to let either of their parents hear him talking like that, Neil continues. “We were playing basketball. On the driveway. Not anything big, just shooting hoops.” When his shoulders tighten up, Adam starts rubbing again. “He thought it would be awesome if we could do dunk shots. But we’re too short, obviously, so he went and got his dad’s stepladder.”

Adam is pretty sure he can see where this is going, and he really does hope Stephen’s okay. Although probably Mrs. Hanson would have sounded more terrified than pissed off if Stephen was like unconscious or anything.

“I didn’t even want to do it, but he made fun of me, and she was looking out the window right then, and then he climbed up and jumped too hard and everything came crashing down and his arm made this horrible snapping noise.”

“It’s just a broken arm though?”

“His pitching arm.” Neil flops over on his side so he can look at Adam. “She came flying out of the house screaming, and he was crying, and suddenly she turned on me and started saying all this stuff about how I’ve always been jealous that he has a chance to play for the major leagues someday and now I’m trying to kill him.”

It does sound pretty much like she’s crazy, because the idea that Neil wants to play major league baseball is ridiculous. “But it’s not like you got the ladder out.”

“Tell that to her!”

“She was probably just scared seeing her baby with his mangled arm and everything. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

“It wasn’t mangled. Ew.” Neil pushes at Adam’s leg, and Adam stands.

“Washer’s free if you need to do any laundry,” he says, nudging Neil’s suitcase with his toe.

“Mom can do it tomorrow when she’s washing their stuff from their trip,” Neil says, pulling his DS out of his backpack and rolling onto his back.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “I’ll let you suggest that to her.”

Neil flips him off without even looking at him, so Adam figures he’s feeling better enough to be left alone.

In an effort to not send Tommy texts every three minutes until Tommy replies, Adam tries playing video games, reading his book for English, reading the first Hunger Games book again, calling Danielle (she can’t talk, because she’s still on cousin duty), watching TV, practicing the music for the Spring Thing concert, and reviewing the latest chapters for both history and biology. He doesn’t get very far with any of them, but he does manage to keep his text count to five in just over five hours, which he’s hoping leaves him on the attentive side of the attentive/obsessed-stalker line.

His mom calls when their plane lands to ask him if he’d mind starting dinner, and he’s pleased to be able to say he’s defrosted something already, and even has some vegetables to cook. If she notices that he keeps her on the phone a lot longer than usual, she doesn’t say anything.

Neil, of course, makes dinner all about him, and how the world is ending because Stephen’s mom hates him now, or whatever. Eber grumbles about parents living vicariously through their children, and Leila tries to calm Neil down and promises to talk to Mrs. Hanson. No one asks how Adam’s week was. Not that he wants to tell them anyway.


By Wednesday, when Adam still hasn’t heard from Tommy, he considers telling Dani everything. But how do you tell your best friend your boyfriend kind of wants you to kill him, except he obviously doesn’t because now he won’t even talk to you? It doesn’t make any sense. Instead, he just lets Dani make fun of him for getting a D on their pop quiz in Bio, doesn’t correct her when she speculates that he was chatting all night with his boyfriend instead of doing his homework. He was actually playing Tetris ’til his eyes bled.

After dinner, during which Adam failed to contribute the the conversation at all, Eber and Neil head for the living room to watch the news, and Leila corners Adam in the kitchen. “I know it’s hard for you to believe,” she says softly. “But I have some pretty good advice sometimes. If that’s something you feel like you might need.”

If Adam would rather have his teeth pulled than tell Danielle what happened, he’d rather be boiled in oil and flung off a cliff than tell his mother. But she does have some pretty good advice.

“If someone won’t talk to you and you said you’re sorry, what are you supposed to do?” he tries, looking at his mom’s shoes instead of her face.

“Is Danielle mad again?”

“No,” Adam says. This was a bad idea. He starts putting dishes in the dishwasher.

Apparently talking is more important than chores, though, because his mom tugs his wrist until he puts the plate down and goes with her to the kitchen table. “Are you and Tommy fighting?” She makes him sit, but she doesn’t try to make him look at her.

“He’s probably just busy,” Adam says. “His uncle got in an accident, and he’s okay? At least Tommy said he was okay, but, like, he won’t answer my texts.” And what the fuck why does he suddenly feel like he might start to cry?

“Did you try calling him at home?”

Adam did, three or four times, but he hung up before the phone rang, so that doesn’t really count. “No,” he says. “I think it’s― we kind of had a disagreement before the accident thing, so it might be that, too.”

Covering his hands with hers, Leila says, “It’s hard to find a balance between giving someone space when you’re arguing, and letting them know that even if you don’t agree on everything you still care about them.”

“I don’t want to bug him.” Adam’s phone’s in his pocket, and it’s hard not to pull his hands out from under his mom’s and check it, even though he knows it would have chimed if Tommy’d texted him back.

“Maybe texts aren’t the best way to get him right now,” Leila says.

“I tried emailing. He’s not replying to those either.”

“I don’t need the car tomorrow. You can take it to school, then drive out to Burbank in the afternoon if you want. Maybe it would be best to talk to him in person.”

It’s really hard for Adam not to throw himself on his mom, but he’s pretty sure knocking her onto the tile floor and giving her a concussion isn’t the best way to say thank you, so he settles for pulling her into a hug instead.

“Drive carefully, sweetie,” she says into his neck. “And if he still needs a little more time and you’re upset, call me, and I’ll figure out a way to come and get you. I don’t want you driving if you’re unhappy.”

Adam’s pretty sure he has the most awesome mom in the whole world. “You’re the best mom ever,” he says, still half strangling her in a hug.

“And don’t you forget it.” Extricating herself from his hold, she pats him on the back. “I’ll help you finish the dishes, and then I think your dad would probably appreciate it if we went and got him some ice cream. Any flavor you like.”

“Seriously. The best.”


To Adam’s credit, he makes it all the way to fourth period before he can’t stand it anymore and has to go see Tommy. Though he’s not sure it totally counts as credit if he was really only waiting until the parking lot gates got unlocked for people with first lunch. Either way, though, he’s only cutting a third of his classes. At the last minute he gets Gina, who sits next to him in fourth and is good at forging, to write him a note. Otherwise his mom will never trust him to take the car again, and while seeing Tommy sooner would be worth it if it just meant he had to wait until he turned eighteen to drive ever again, he doesn’t want to disappoint her when she’s being so nice.

It takes forever to get across town, but Adam still gets to Tommy’s school before final bell. And realizes that he doesn’t actually have any kind of plan. He’s not sure where Tommy gets the bus, or if he usually comes out the front or if there are other exits. There’s a rent-a-cop near the parking lot, but even with his dyed-black hair, Adam’s still pretty sure he looks enough like a high school student that the guy would be asking a lot more questions than he’d answer. Maybe he should just go to Tommy’s house and meet him there. Except he might not be going right home after school. Adam wonders if Tommy might actually answer a text if Adam told him he was outside waiting. But if he really doesn’t want to talk, that will only make him sneak out for sure. Plan. Plan, plan. Plan. He needs one.

Movement in the corner of his vision catches him, and Adam looks around to see a gaggle of kids in gym uniforms jogging desultorily up the street. Near the edge of the group, chatting to a girl with long red hair, is a girl Adam remembers from elementary school. She was mostly pretty nice, except when he blanked and couldn’t spell maybe in a class spelling bee in fifth grade and she called him useless. He’s pretty sure her name is Jamie. Another thirty feet or so, she’ll be running right past his window. He turns the key half way so he has the power to roll it down.

“Jaime,” he calls when she’s a few feet away. She stops and looks around, before realizing where the sound came from. Warily, she backs up a few steps and peers in at him. “Adam,” he adds. “You were in my class in fifth grade?”

“No talking to perverts during gym class,” the redhead says, elbowing Jamie out of the way so she can see into the car. Then, “Oh. Aren’t you a little young to be a pervert?”

“I don’t think he’s a pervert,” Jamie tells her. “I think he’s a nerd.”

“No talking to nerds ever,” Jamie’s friend says. Adam hates her. A lot. But Jamie’s still his best hope of finding Tommy.

“I just need to ask you a question,” Adam says quickly, before Jamie can turn away. “Do you still know Tommy Ratliff?”

“The faggot?” the redhead says. “Yeah, we know that fucking loser. Why? You a pervert after all?”

Adam feels the blood rush out of his face then back in again, superheated. He can’t see; he can’t breathe. He barely hears Jaime say, “I’ll catch up with you, Crystal,” the words muffled by the pounding in his ears. “You okay?” she asks, but Adam doesn’t answer until she reaches through the window and pokes his arm.

“Never mind,” he says, fumbling for the ignition to turn the engine over and get out of here. Tommy has to come home eventually.

“No, I know him. You guys were, like, best friends, right?”

Adam manages a nod.

“Don’t worry about what Crystal said. She's kind of— Anyway. He’s probably not even gay or anything. Kids just rag on him because of the makeup and stuff. You know.”

Adam didn’t know. He had no idea. He nods again because what the fuck else is he supposed to do.

“So was that it? Because I gotta get back before coach misses me.”

Meaning to dismiss her, Adam says, “No,” instead. “Do you know where he catches his bus?”

“Oh, yeah. The bus stop’s around the corner. There’s a gate right by it.” She points at the far end of the block.

“Thanks,” Adam says weakly. She waggles her fingers at him and jogs off.

What the fuck is Tommy thinking wearing makeup to school if people are calling him fag because of it. If people are maybe― Is that fucking dick he gave a handjob to not the only one who's punched him over this?

Still shaking, even several minutes after the last gym-class straggler has disappeared inside the school, Adam takes the keys out of the ignition and opens the door. He’s going to walk to the bus stop and wait for Tommy, and they’re going to go somewhere and talk, and Tommy’s going to forgive him for everything that happened in the treehouse, and no one’s been punching him, and everything’s going to be okay.

Everything is going to be okay.

The bus stop’s easy to spot, with the sign-topped pole, and the painted NO PARKING box in the street, and when Adam fully rounds the corner he can see the wide gate in the fence, closed now, but with a second rent-a-cop walking towards it as the bell rings inside the school. Perfect timing. Now Adam just has to wait.

It doesn’t take as long as he expected. A clot of kids who look like freshman shove out the doors and down the stairs, followed by a girl digging in her bag, then there’s no one for a second or two, and when the door opens again, Tommy squeezes through. He’s got his combat boots on today, and his headphone wires are stark against his black hoodie, disappearing into the shadows the hood throws around his face. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are buried deep in the front pocket. The only speck of skin Adam can see is a strip above both knees where there are holes―new since Adam last saw those jeans. He looks like any other high school kid, but Adam would recognize him anywhere.

Not wanting to tangle with the security guard, Adam doesn’t approach Tommy until he’s passing through the gates. “Hey,” he says, and Tommy jumps.

“What are you doing here?” Tommy asks, not pushing his hood back, glaring up at Adam from underneath it.

Not exactly the greeting Adam was hoping for, but he’ll work with it. “We need to talk.”

“I’m gonna miss the bus.” He sounds like a sulky two-and-a-half year old. Though that’s probably redundant.

“No shit,” Adam says. “There’ll be another one. Come on. You’re the one who―“ They’re not getting into this on the street with half Tommy’s school spilling down the steps. “Just come on.”

Like it doesn’t really matter one way or the other, Tommy shrugs and falls in step when Adam turns back toward the car.

“I’m the one who what?” Tommy mutters as he settles in the passenger seat.

“You― I just thought you were all worried about me avoiding you after― after what happened, and now you won’t even talk to me.”

“Here I am. Talking.”

Kids are coming out the front gate, eyeing them through the windows. Adam jams the key in the ignition and puts his seatbelt on. “Fuck no passengers under twenty. Belt up.”

“Where are we going?” He’s fumbling the belt around his hips, so Adam ignores his belligerent tone.

“Somewhere not here.”

“My mom’s home.”

“Not your house, then.” Now Adam’s got Tommy next to him, he’s more pissed off than scared. This shit was one thing back in August, when they hardly knew each other anymore, but Tommy’s his best friend. Adam’s fucking in love with him, and everything Tommy was saying about needing Adam, wanting Adam to slit his fucking throat or whatever― he’s gotta feel the same way. But apparently being a virgin wasn’t the only thing Tommy’s been keeping from him.

“We can―“ When Tommy pauses, Adam looks over to find him chewing on his lip ring. “Go straight here, then right at the light.”

Adam turns right where instructed, glad to see Tommy’s leading them toward the hills where there are more likely to be places to park out of the way of cops looking to ticket teenage drivers. His mom is going to kill him if he gets a ticket. Tommy keeps giving directions, leading Adam finally to a vista point half blocked from the road by scrubby trees. It doesn’t seem to be near a trailhead or anything, so it’s unlikely to get much traffic at three o’clock on a weekday.

“Okay,” Adam says, turning off the car, unbuckling his seatbelt and turning so he’s facing Tommy in the seat. He doesn’t want anyone under the illusion that they’re going anywhere until they’ve actually talked. “Here you are. Talk.”

Tommy doesn’t turn, or take off his belt. He pokes his backpack with his toe and glowers at his knees.

“Tommy, seriously.”

Tommy just glowers harder.

“Fine. I’ll start. Why didn’t you tell me people at school were giving you shit?”

Tommy’s head shoots up at that. “Who?” he demands. “What?”

“People are calling you faggot. And I’m guessing from the way she said it that it’s not just behind your back.”

“So?” Now Tommy’s glower is turned on Adam. “I am a fag. So what?”

Now that he’s actually looking, Adam can see that Tommy’s offhandedness isn’t bravery, and it isn’t not giving a shit. He’s got that hunted look like he got in the treehouse when Adam told him he loved him.

“Is it just the name-calling?” Adam asks, even though he’s scared of the answer.

“What does it matter?" He says it in a way that says no clear as anything. "It’s not a big deal.” He chews his lip again, won’t look Adam in the eye.

And jesus fucking christ. Adam wants to shake him until he stops being such an idiot. “I’m pretty sure my boyfriend getting gay bashed and I don’t even know about it is a big fucking deal!”

Tommy glances in Adam’s direction, so quick Adam almost misses it. “Your what?”

“My boyfriend. At least―“ Adam grabs Tommy’s chin, maybe a little harder than he means to, and makes Tommy look at him. “I’m assuming you will at least tell me if you’re dumping me.”

While he doesn’t try to pull his face out of Adam’s grip, Tommy manages nonetheless to look very hard at Adam’s neck. “We’re, like, actual boyfriends?”

Adam cannot have heard that right. The last five months, his birthday, Valentine’s day, all the sex―Adam told Tommy he loves him―and Tommy doesn’t think they’re boyfriends? “What the hell do you think we’ve been doing?”

“I thought― You never, like, said or anything.” Tommy lets his head sag in Adam’s grip, and Adam slides his hand back, gets ahold of the hair at Tommy’s nape.

“When I told you I loved you, did you think I was just trying to make you feel better?”

“You told me― You said you loved me?” Tommy sounds genuinely confused, not like he’s fishing to hear it again, and Adam can’t stand it. There’s too much space between them in the front seat.

“Come in the back with me,” Adam says, pushing the release on Tommy’s seat belt, opening his own door. “Please.”

Adam goes around, but Tommy crawls over the center console, and they’re a tangle of knees and elbows for a minute until they resolve themselves, Tommy tugged down with his legs over Adam’s lap, Adam’s arms around him. “In the treehouse,” he says quietly once Tommy’s stopped wiggling, is resting his head on Adam’s shoulder. “I said, ‘I love you,’ and you kind of growled and pulled me onto the floor.”

“I didn’t― I’m still not sure what was even happening there, but I couldn’t really concentrate on what you were saying. I’m sorry.” Tommy’s gone stiff again, like he was that night, scared Adam’s going to push him away.

Instead, Adam hauls him even closer, presses his cheek to the top of Tommy’s head. “I love you,” he says, soft but firm. “I love you, I love you, I love you. No apologizing.”

“Love you too,” Tommy says around a mouth full of marbles, and Adam realizes that he’s not only crushing Tommy’s ribs, but squishing his whole face into Adam's chest.

“I better let you breathe then.”

Keeping his hands on Adam’s arms, but getting far enough away so he can look Adam in the eye, Tommy says, “I am sorry about scaring you, though. And saying all that stuff about you killing me. I don’t even know― It was like I was somewhere else in my head, and no matter what I did I couldn’t get back.”

“Did I do that? Like―“ Adam is pretty sure Tommy didn’t take any drugs or anything, and he doesn’t know what else can make that happen.

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, honest, not like he’s saying what he thinks Adam wants to hear. “I think we both did? Like, do you ever get―when you do that thing where you won’t stop sniffing and licking all around my, after I come, my dick and stuff, and even when I say it tickles you can’t stop until I pull your hair?”

Adam nods. Even with the hairpulling sometimes it’s hard to stop. He doesn’t want to do things Tommy doesn’t like, but he just tastes so good that Adam has trouble getting his tongue to catch up with his brain. It makes him want to hold Tommy down and lick him forever though, not bare his throat for slitting.

“Does it feel like all you are is your mouth and the rest of you doesn’t matter?”

That’s not exactly how Adam would describe it, but he thinks he gets what Tommy’s driving at, so he says, “Yeah? Kinda.”

“When we were, you know, that first time, it was like that. Like, when I’m sucking you and I’m good at it―“ Adam keeps his scoff that Tommy thinks there’re times he’s not good at it inside― “but, like, instead of zoning out on it or whatever, I don’t know.”

More confused than he was before Tommy started, Adam runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair. “I won’t think you’re weird or anything. As long as you don’t actually, like, actually want me to kill you.”

Nudging into Adam’s hand as though he wants him to keep petting, Tommy closes his eyes, but he says, “Not like I didn’t matter, but like I didn’t exist. Or more like I was everything and everything was you inside me? I really can’t explain it now.” Opening his eyes, he nudges again because Adam’s stopped, caught up trying to imagine what Tommy’s talking about.

“It was so amazing, it sounds weird now, I know, but it was the most― It was― and then you were gone, and I wanted you to come back― and you were, with the washcloth and everything, and I had no idea how to go back to being me.”

“I don’t want to make you not be you.”

“No,” Tommy says. “That part was good. I can’t explain it, but it was good.”

“But you said I make you a crazy person. And like, the choking and the blood and stuff.” Adam keeps his hand carding through Tommy’s hair, needing the comfort of it just as much as Tommy seems to, if not more.

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot.” Tommy slides his hand up Adam’s arm and starts kneading at the back of his neck. “I can’t stop thinking about it. How I― What it felt like, why I couldn’t― Just, going from that much intensity to, like, sleeping, like there was nothing― nothing to say it ever happened. I needed proof, or, not even that, but I was trying to get back there and figure out a way to make it not go away. But I did it wrong.”

That’s a total understatement, but Adam knows it’s a bad idea to say it. “Maybe we can figure out how to do it right,” he says instead. Not that he isn’t terrified to do that to Tommy again, but the good parts really were good, and he can’t pretend he doesn’t want to keep fucking Tommy. “If you can’t, I get it, but if you want to I really― It’s amazing, doing that with you.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” Tommy admits. “That’s why― I figured― I couldn’t face you telling me we couldn’t do that anymore, so I had to go.”

“You didn’t have to run off. I told you I wasn’t leaving you.”

“And I told you I was fine. I didn’t know you weren’t lying too.”

Adam isn’t even really mad anymore about Tommy’s lies, is mostly sad Tommy feels like he has to do it. “You don’t have to lie to me. About what you’ve done or what’s happening or whatever. I’m not gonna― You don’t have to lie to me, Tommy.” Leaning in, he rests his forehead against Tommy’s for a moment. “Was your uncle even in an accident?”

Looking sheepish, Tommy nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says, “but like two weeks ago. He’s fine now; he just jammed his shoulder, had a little whiplash.”

“Did Lisa come and pick you up?”

“I walked. And took the bus.”

“Are those cuts and bruises you sometimes have from kids at school?”

Like this is somehow harder to talk about than the treehouse stuff, Tommy goes back to leaning his head on Adam’s shoulder. “Yeah," he says, voice almost too quiet to hear. Then, "Well. Not all of them.”

Alarmed, Adam asks, “Are― Your parents aren’t?”

“No!” Tommy lifts his head to look at Adam, genuinely confused, then snuggles in again. “No. They aren’t exactly shining examples of support when I do get in trouble at school, but they’d never. Jesus. That'd be all I need. Just sometimes I fall asleep in Mrs. Ferrigut’s hedge and wake up with scratches or whatever.”

“So mostly they’re from people picking on you.”

Tommy shrugs.

Adam still doesn’t get why Tommy didn’t tell him, but then again, he never asked. “Does the principal know you’re getting bullied?”

“The principal said I was causing a disturbance wearing eyeliner to class and if I didn’t stop making people feel uncomfortable he would have to suspend me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Adam stiffens, nearly pushing Tommy off his lap with the need to go ask the principal where he gets off.

“He didn’t.” Tommy pats Adam’s chest. “I wore it again and he didn’t. But Mom’s not like your mom. She got mad at me, not him.”

Adam wants to punch Tommy’s principal. And his mother. He wants to scrub Tommy’s face and tell him never to wear makeup again, and he wants to paint his face like a geisha and walk into Tommy’s school and dare people to start shit, even though the thought of doing that for himself scares the hell out of him. “I love you,” he says again, kissing Tommy’s forehead, his temple, his cheek, his lips.

Tommy kisses back, and they make out for a while, more tentatively than they ever have before―not lazily like when they’ve both just come, or slowly and deliberately like Adam guides Tommy into when he wants things to last―like maybe they’re both trying to be careful, make sure the other one’s on the same page. Adam’s dick seems to be unclear about the whole serious conversation thing and is on page hello, you’ve been ignoring me for four days, but Adam continues to do just that in favor of trying to show Tommy that he’s here and not planning on going anywhere. Also, Adam’s had sex in the back of a car, and while there’s more room in his mom’s SUV than the back of Tommy’s uncle’s caddy, he’s not that eager to repeat the experience.

“I love you, too,” Tommy murmurs when their kisses have mostly devolved into nuzzles and hands stroking each other’s necks and faces.

“You better,” Adam says, cuddling him. “Because you’re stuck with me.” He feels like his smile is going to break his face.


The sun is setting when Tommy starts to shift in Adam’s lap like maybe Adam’s not the only one getting a little stiff sitting in one place for so long. “If I’m not going to be home before dark, I have to call,” he says, arching back in a stretch. “Your mom does know you have her car, right?”

Adam huffs a laugh. “Yeah. I was desperate to see you, but I’m not insane. She was― I talked to her. Didn’t really tell her anything, but she― She was worried that you weren’t answering my texts. She knows I― how I feel, I think.”

Tommy half stands, leaning between the front seats, presumably to get to his phone, and his ass is right there and Adam really wants to bite it, but he just touches it instead, the side up near Tommy’s hip, and says, “How are you so hot?”

“Pfft,” Tommy says, and then grunts a little as he pulls himself back up, phone in hand. “You just like that I’m easy.”

Which makes Adam crack up. Not that Adam doesn’t know what he means―it hasn’t ever been hard to get Tommy’s dick out, sure―but very little else about Tommy is even remotely easy. Not since they were little kids.

“Oh, fuck you,” Tommy says, but he’s grinning, and poking Adam’s leg with his knee as he sits down and opens up his phone to call his mother, tell her he's safe and he'll be home later.

~fin~

Mixes and Thanks