Glam Kink Meme Post #1
The Glam Kink Meme Post #1 is now open.
Have fun prompting, writing, reading, and feedbacking. :)
ETA: All prompts are listed here.
ETA2: All filled prompts are archived here.
ETA3 This post is now CLOSED to new prompts.
Glam Kink Flat View
Glam Kink Regular View
Have fun prompting, writing, reading, and feedbacking. :)
ETA: All prompts are listed here.
ETA2: All filled prompts are archived here.
ETA3 This post is now CLOSED to new prompts.
Glam Kink Flat View
Glam Kink Regular View
He must be asleep, Brad thinks, and pads quietly to the side of the bed.
Adam’s wrapped himself tightly in the duvet, only his face barely peeking out from the puffy black down. The contrast to his pale face is stark, as is the dark hair plastered to his forehead. Frowning, Brad presses his fingers to Adam’s forehead, almost recoiling at the heat radiating from his skin.
“Adam,” he says, keeping his voice soft, but the urgency threads through it anyway. “Adam, wake up.” There’s no response, and Brad’s beginning to notice the uneven quality of his breathing, dragging and catching on the inhale. “Adam!” He reaches out and shakes him a little, then starts working the comforter away from Adam’s overheated skin. “Wake up, bitch, or I’m gonna call Perez and sell him every last one of your secrets -“
He gets Adam’s arm free, sees the t-shirt clinging damply to Adam’s skin. A soft whine comes from Adam, and he curls his arm in tighter to his body, missing the stolen warmth. “Oh thank fuck,” Brad says, returning his attention to Adam’s face. “Open your eyes, Adam, or by God I’m gonna kill you.”
Adam’s face scrunches up in discomfort, but then pale eyes are blinking at Brad, and he shivers. “Cold,” he rasps, wincing at the sound, trying to curl himself deeper into the mattress.
“You’re burning up!” Brad exclaims, trying not to raise his voice. “You need to see a doctor, what are you even thinking?”
“App’ntment tomorrow,” Adam says, muffled.
“Fuck that,” Brad declares. “We’re going to the hospital.”
Adam makes a noise of protest.
“We’re not fighting about this.” Brad pauses, something else striking him. “Have you been eating or drinking since I saw you last?” He has a feeling he knows the answer. Adam’s guilty look confirms it. “Yeah, I thought so. You can’t eat, drink, or breathe; you’re going.” He yanks the rest of the covers off the bed, ignoring Adam’s yelp of surprise, and finds Adam’s house shoes tucked under the bed. “Can you walk still or do I have to find a way to carry you?”
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It’s a few hours before he’s permitted to go in and see Adam, who’s been admitted and settled into a private room. Every employee he encounters is discreet and professional, and he sends out a thank-you to the universe for hospitals familiar with celebrities.
He’s escorted to Adam’s room, and he lets himself in, closing the door quietly behind him. Adam’s sitting up in the bed, gaze directed out the window, barely reacting as Brad approaches. Brad bites his lip; Adam looks terrible, his face pale and marred with stress lines, his breath ragged. He’s got an oxygen tube resting against his face, which Brad is grateful for, and two IVs are hanging up, the fluid being slowly fed into Adam’s veins. But the fever seems to have broken, as Adam isn’t shivering anymore, and his hand is dry when Brad reaches out and takes it.
Adam finally turns his head towards Brad, and Brad gives him a small smile. “Hey,” he says quietly, perching on the edge of the bed. “Feeling any better?”
Adam shrugs and brings up his other hand to hold his forefinger and thumb close together, indicating ‘a little.’
Brad squeezes his hand and says, “I got something for you.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a small notebook, the cover exploding with color and carrying a hummingbird motif. Adam looks at it and then up at Brad, giving him a wry look. “Yeah, I know, they’re my favorites, but they remind me of you, too.” He turned and shifted to sit alongside Adam, careful not to disturb any of the tubes attached to his body. “See, hummingbirds are bright and vibrant and always going at top speed.” He gives Adam a significant look, and is pleased to see Adam’s lips twitch in response. “But when hummingbirds rest, they have to stop completely. Their legs are so short they can’t walk, so they can either be still, or fly at these incredible speeds.” He raises his arm and puts it around Adam’s shoulders, tugging him closer. “You have to be still right now. To rest and rebuild that energy. But you’ll fly again soon.”
Adam is quiet, his gaze trained on the notebook, expression distant. Brad doesn’t say any more, but remains next to him, an arm around his broad shoulders.
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Leila had returned home abruptly after hearing about her oldest’s decline in health; Brad wasn’t sure how Adam had told her, but he knew he was glad to have not been around for that conversation.
Brad waits until Adam has been home for a day before going over, bearing a gift of some new CDs. Adam greets him with a small smile, which falters a little when he sees the albums Brad offers. Brad frowns a little; Adam’s never been a snob about new music. “If you hate them, you can always use them as coasters, you know,” he says, knowing he wasn’t quite able to keep the confusion out of his voice. “I won’t be offended.”
Adam smiles again and takes the CDs, brushing a kiss against Brad’s cheek.
In Brad’s experience, Adam is one of the easiest people in the world to hang out with, but even he has to admit it’s difficult when Adam can’t speak, and as the afternoon unfolds Adam’s subdued demeanor doesn’t improve. Adam’s mood is contagious, and Brad’s confusion grows, when finally Adam reaches for something on the side table. Brad sees that it’s the hummingbird notebook, and Adam pulls a pen from the spine and turns past the first several pages to find a blank one. Then he pauses, fingers turning white where they grip the pen, before writing swiftly: ‘They don’t know if I’ll get my voice back.’
There’s a beat while Brad takes that in, feeling the blood drain out of his face, his body going utterly still. “What do you mean?”
‘The infection…’ Adam’s hand pauses, and Brad looks up: Adam’s focused hard on the paper, lip caught tightly between his teeth. He crosses out the words with a quick gesture, then writes: ‘Scar tissue is building up in my throat.’ His pen slows. ‘They don’t think my voice will be the same’. His hand shakes, the last words almost illegible, and Brad’s breath catches. He takes Adam’s hands in his, the notebook and pen falling to the floor, then gets up on his knees and wraps his arms around Adam’s neck, hugging him fiercely. “Oh, honey,” he breathes, a tremor in his own voice, and Adam’s arms close around him, pulling him close, holding him so tightly he can barely breathe.
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And now it might all fade away.
Adam’s shoulders rise and fall under Brad’s arms, his breathing rapid and harsh, but there is no tremor of a sob, no tears soaking into Brad’s shirt. Brad wants desperately to say something, but there are no words that can make this better, nothing he can do except let Adam cling to him. He presses kisses to Adam’s hairline, temple, cheek; holds him close. Terms of endearment from a time long past rise to his lips, but Brad holds them back, knowing they won’t help.
Finally, Adam’s grip loosens a little, and Brad relaxes against him, staying close but no longer feeling as if he’s trying to hold Adam together. He feels Adam’s lips rest against the top of his head, and releases a long breath. Now that the initial shock is over, his curiosity is coming out again: how likely is it that this is permanent? What can Adam be doing to limit the damage? Is there some kind of therapy he can do to retrain his voice? But Adam still feels fragile, and if the answers aren’t good, he doesn’t want to send Adam on another spiral.
They both startle when the front door opens, Leila’s voice and the rustling of shopping bags meeting their ears. Brad slides out of Adam’s lap, and Adam stands, shaking himself free from the tension and running a hand across his face. He looks remarkably composed as he heads out of the room, Brad lagging behind, still feeling the strain of the last half an hour.
“Hey, sweetie,” he hears Leila say, and turns the corner to see Adam smile at his mother, bending to kiss her cheek and take the grocery bags from her hands. “Oh, I have that, Adam, sit down!” But Adam dodges her smack and takes the bags into the kitchen. Her exasperated smile tells Brad as clearly as words that she has no idea what Adam’s facing. “Brad, honey, good to see you, are you staying for dinner?”
He’s not sure he’s up for maintaining a facade, but Adam’s looking at him hopefully, and he caves. “Sure, but only if you let me help.”
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Though Adam’s voice is still rough, he’s regained enough of it to converse, and Brad watches him smile and hug as he greets loved ones too long unseen. Much is made of Adam’s tour, his return home, his subsequent illness and recovery, and Brad is reminded that for many of them, this is their first time seeing Adam since he returned from the road.
Adam seems truly happy, and Brad’s relieved to see his eyes clear of anxiety, focused instead on catching up on the news, and exclaiming over pictures of rapidly-growing godkids. The alcohol flows freely, and soon they’re all seated around the dining table with Adam at the head, the image of a huge, diverse, happy family. Yet it doesn’t sit quite right with Brad; everyone’s too happy, too normal, and he concludes all too quickly that these people that Adam calls ‘family’ don’t have a clue what he’s going through.
Sometime during dessert Brad notices that Adam’s stopped talking so much, and when he speaks his voice is weaker and prone to breaking. Brad watches as Adam’s smiles become strained, his eyes preoccupied, and Brad wonders how much longer Adam can keep up his facade.
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*
Brad outlasts everyone else, and when the door finally shuts behind Danielle, he turns to Adam. “Nobody else knows, do they.”
Adam arches a brow at him. “They don’t need to know. There’s no point in them worrying.” He turns away and heads toward the dining room, so Brad’s scoff is directed to his back.
“YOU need them to know!” he exclaims, walking quickly to catch up. “You need people to lean on, Adam, more people than me!”
Adam turns and snaps, “No I don’t, because I’m going to get better,” before turning away and starting to clear the table, ceramic and glass clanking hard against each other.
Brad throws his hands up. “How? By ignoring it? This isn’t gonna get better on its own, Adam, you need to be doing therapy or whatever to MAKE it better.”
“You think I don’t know that!” Adam’s voice cracks around his shout, features stormy and eyes snapping.
“So why aren’t you?”
Adam looks away, jaw clenched hard, and strides forcefully into the kitchen. Brad follows, fury growing. He gets needing time to adjust, not wanting to face this reality right away, but he’s not about to indulge Adam’s denial at the expense of his future. “Adam! WHY -“
A plate smashes against the wall, shattering loudly, and Brad jumps, his words cut off in a startled gasp. In a second his heart starts beating again, and he opens his mouth, prepared to yell about intimidation tactics and temper tantrums when Adam brushes past him, returning to the dining room.
There’s the high-pitched crash of a glass meeting the wall, and Brad rounds the corner to see Adam picking up another plate and flinging it, a hoarse yell leaving his mouth as it hits the wall, leaving behind a smear of grease and uneaten mashed potatoes. More things follow, Adam heaving whatever he can get his hands on, his movements growing less and less controlled as he sweeps an arm across the table, tumbling things to the floor. Finally he grabs the edge of the tablecloth and yanks, and what remains of the party is toppled and broken.
Brad stands frozen in the doorway; Adam’s few displays of temper had always been impressive, but never before violent, and Brad is shaken by this new, unknown man. Adam’s standing over the mess, face red and chest heaving, and Brad can’t tell if he’s satisfied his anger or if he’s just waiting for a new target.
Adam’s mouth moves, the words so low they’re lost under the thudding of Brad’s heart, and a “What?” escapes his mouth before he can stop it.
Head snapping up, Adam’s eyes flash as he growls out, “It won’t help.”
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“Did you hear me that time? IT WON’T HELP!” Adam’s voice cracks and gives out on his shout, the words felt in his breath more than heard. “You know what they said about your stupid fucking therapy? That it’s worthless. That I’ll be lucky if I can ever sing again at all.”
The words hit Brad with a dull thud, and he can do nothing for a moment but stare at Adam, whose face is terrible and twisted with rage. When he can’t muster a response, Adam snarls and stalks away, kicking viciously at the mess on the floor.
Brad stands for a long minute, absorbing this new reality, sorting through the shock of what Adam has just said. It won’t help It won’t help It won’t help. It pricks at him, Adam’s words feeling all wrong, Adam’s actions all wrong; this just can’t be the end of it all, some stupid cold off some stupid airplane ruining a career that was just beginning to reach its full potential, a voice so unparalleled in beauty… all hope cut down by the words of one person. It’s wrong, Brad feels it on a gut level.
He raises his eyes to find Adam, who is still glaring down at the remains of his perfect evening. “So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?”
Adam’s head snaps up to redirect his glare. Brad feels a calm come over him. “They say you can’t do it, so you aren’t even gonna try.”
Adam’s mouth forms “Fuck you!” but his voice is gone, only a harsh wheeze emerging.
Brad’s jaw hardens. “Every time someone’s told you ‘no’, you’ve found a way to turn it into a ‘yes’. You’ve turned it into a record deal, a platinum album, you turned it into a goddamn Grammy nomination. But this time, when it’s about everything you ever worked for, this time you’re going to believe them?”
He can see the redness rising in Adam’s face, the fury in his eyes, read his lips as they snap, “Get out.”
Brad ignores him. “I’ve known you for a long time, Adam. In some ways I know you better than anyone. But,” he gestures towards the ruined dining room, “I’ve never known you to be a self-pitying coward.”
Adam’s face is practically purple, and his mouth opens on a scream but no sound comes out. He storms over to the sideboard and finds a piece of paper and a pen, and Brad can hear the paper rip from the pressure as Adam scrawls on it in big, sweeping strokes. Slapping the pen back down, Adam holds up his sign: ‘GET OUT’.
Trying to not show the tremor he can feel in his own body, Brad picks his way through the debris, and leaves.
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And yet, he knows he can’t apologize for what he said; if his words spur Adam into action, they’re worth whatever harm was inflicted. He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t want to get caught in Adam’s anger again.
*
Brad’s checking his Twitter feed a couple of days later when one @reply catches his eye: ‘Did u see ur ex getting wasted last night?’ with a link attached. Mentally flipping off the sender, Brad almost doesn’t click it; wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been surprised that Adam was out at all.
He must be feeling better, Brad thinks as the pictures load on JustJared. When they come up, however, his heart sinks. He’s used to paparazzi pictures of Adam drunk, bright-eyed and happy and loose from the alcohol; these are different altogether. Grainy and too-dark, the product of someone’s cell phone camera, the subject is still unmistakably Adam: pawing sloppily on a young twink, sprawled over a table, stumbling to his knees. Brad gapes. This is not Adam’s usual level of partying.
Staring at the photos for a long moment, Brad worries a fingernail and scans the article for clues. But there are no familiar faces in the photos of Adam - was he out alone, or did his companions just not get photographed? There’s nothing specific or particularly damning in the article either, just mildly embarrassing. Yet it’s still uncharacteristic, and Brad finds himself remembering the stories he’d heard in the wake of his and Adam’s breakup, of drinking binges and too many drugs and endless boys.
At the time, the knowledge had stung, an additional hurt on top of an already painful breakup - but now, Adam has a much wider-reaching reputation to protect, and Brad doesn’t want to think on the consequences if Adam’s out-of-control anger is ever put on public display.
Then he’s brought up short, realizing what Adam no doubt already has: his career is over, and without that leverage to hold him back, what’s to prevent him from indulging his distress and anger in the worst possible ways?
Brad spends the day distracted, preoccupied with worry and anger at Adam’s recklessness. Whatever damage he’s caused to their relationship the other night is of minor concern compared to the other things Adam is facing, and he makes plans to go over as soon as he finishes his pressing business for the day. Just as he’s starting on his final project, however, there’s a knock on his apartment door.
When he opens it, Adam’s standing there, eyes cast down and his figure somehow less imposing than usual. “Hi,” he says quietly, eyes flicking up to meet Brad’s. “Can I come in?”
Brad steps back wordlessly, caught between his residual anger and the desire to wrap Adam up in a hug. Following Adam to the couch, he takes in the slump in Adam’s posture, the heavy concealer under his eyes. “You know, I was planning on coming over in an hour,” he says as he sits down next to Adam.
Adam gives him a mirthless smile. “It’s probably a good thing you didn’t. It’s a disaster.” He wipes a hand over his face and then turns to meet Brad’s gaze squarely. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Brad replies, feeling a bit of chagrin. “That… probably wasn’t what you needed to hear right then.”
“No,” Adam says, sighing. “I think it kind of was.”
Brad’s quiet, not wanting to push him. Adam looks around, pensive, taking in Brad’s living room as if he’s never seen it before. “It wasn’t so long ago I was living in a place like this,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“It’s not,” Brad affirms softly. It wasn’t about where he lived, Brad knew; but Adam had long dreamed of owning a house, in his mind had built it into a symbol of success, of family, of love. “Everything important can still fit in here.”
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Brad’s eyes widen. “That’s great,” he says, feeling hope surge in him again, but something in Adam’s manner makes him refrain from asking all the questions that spring up in his mind.
Adam picks more violently at his jeans. “What if…” His hand curls into a tight fist. “What if it doesn’t work?”
The words are whispered, barely audible, but Brad hears them. Reaching out, he puts his hand on top of Adam’s fist and squeezes. “What if it does?”
Adam’s breath hitches, and he raises his other hand to his mouth, pressing his fingers to his lips. “I just-“ He hesitates, and Brad can hear his throat closing around the words. “If I try… and want it… and what if it doesn’t work?” His lips tremble and he presses them together, eyes wide and unblinking to try and keep the moisture in them from falling. “I don’t even know who I am anymore, Brad. What can I do if I can’t sing? It’s always been singing, always.”
Brad shifts closer, until he’s pressing against Adam’s side. “Well,” he says, “there’s a million things you could do. You could be a designer, or a model. You could go into advocacy. You’re amazing with people. But you know what?” He squeezes Adam’s hand, and Adam turns his head, finally meeting Brad’s eyes. Brad looks at him dead on. “You aren’t going to do any of those things yet, because you’re going to get your voice back.”
Adam’s face crumples, and his body begins a slow tilt towards Brad, who opens his arms and catches him, shuffling them around until they’re reclining, Adam’s head on Brad’s chest. Adam inhales shakily. “I’m so scared,” he says into Brad’s shirt. “I’m scared it won’t work, and… and I’m scared that it will. Does that make sense? If I let myself… let myself hope again, and then it doesn’t work, or doesn’t work all the way, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Brad holds Adam tighter and thinks privately that if it doesn’t work, he’ll attach himself to Adam’s hip and not leave no matter how many china sets he destroys. But he doesn’t think he’ll have to. He strokes Adam’s hair for a moment, composing his thoughts, before saying: “Do you know what one of the things I’ve always loved about you is?” He presses his lips to the top of Adam’s head. “It’s your determination. I’ve always been so proud of how hard you work for what’s important to you. And I’ve always known that you would get the things you really wanted, because of that.” He lets his fingers continue their soothing motion, feeling Adam’s chest rise and fall unsteadily against his own. “I shouldn’t have to tell you that doctors are wrong about this shit all the time, that people defy their stupid doctors’ expectations every day. It’s more than possible, and I believe it’s possible for you too. It’s going to take a lot of work. Maybe more effort than you’ve ever put into anything else. But Adam,” he drops his voice and whispers fiercely, “isn’t this worth it?”
Adam’s hand tightens where it’s resting on Brad’s waist, and he just breathes for awhile, shallow, shuddering breaths that tell Brad he’s fighting for control. Finally, after long minutes, he says tightly, “I just don’t know if I can face that right now.”
“Okay,” Brad says softly, feeling that he’s pushed as far as he can today. “You don’t have to.”
Adam’s shoulders loosen, and Brad can feel his surprise and relief that Brad’s letting it drop. “Just one thing,” Brad says, unable to hold it back. “If you want to go out drinking, take me with you. Please.”
Adam’s breath hitches a little. “Lane kicked my ass so hard for that,” he says, a sound that might have been a laugh dying horribly in his throat.
“Good,” Brad growls. “I get that you’re angry. I would be too. But please don’t throw everything away; there’s so much more left than you think there is.”
Adam’s quiet, and Brad strokes a hand through his hair, feeling his own body relaxing into the more familiar role of supporter.
Then, so softly Brad feels it more than hears, Adam whispers “Thank you.”
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On the fourth day, Brad hangs up from a phone call that he’s taken to the bedroom, and as he walks back to the living room he stops short to listen. Adam is… singing, the chorus of Whataya Want From Me thin and off-key, the high notes breaking, before Adam’s voice dies out altogether.
Brad holds his breath as he steps into the room, not sure what he will find. Adam is sitting on the couch, staring off towards the window, a couple of wet trails down his face.
“I can’t do this,” Adam says into the empty space, and Brad’s breath catches before Adam continues. “I can’t… not sing. I can’t.” There’s a note of desperation under his words. “Even if I try and it doesn’t come back-“ Adam stops, then takes a deep breath. “Even if it’s not what it was, anything’s better than this, right?” His hand goes to his throat in an unconscious gesture, and Brad finds himself on the sofa, pulling Adam’s hand away from his neck and squeezing it.
Adam bows his head for a moment, breathing harshly. But when he looks up, eyes meeting Brad’s, for the first time in weeks Brad sees the fire of determination in them. Adam opens his mouth, voice cracking and wavering as he says, “I’m going to try.” And Brad knows what those words are costing him, can still see the fear lurking in the back of that cerulean gaze, the knowledge of the long, frustrating road ahead of him. But then Adam straightens, his hand tightening in Brad’s as he declares fiercely, “I’m going to try.”
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For those interested, this is now posted at AO3.
Thanks for reading!
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I'm glad you enjoyed it!
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