Bradam Drabble
Bradam Drabble
If Brad were someone else, he would give up. But he isn’t. For all his flippancy, Brad is like a bloodhound on the scent when a friend is in trouble and trying to hide it. And, truth be told, Adam wasn’t all that great at hiding things. Especially from Brad.
The first cue had been the AMA performance. Oh, not all the ridiculous stageplay people were making such a fuss over, but first the fall and then the singing. Adam at the end of the set, standing defiant and uncertain.
Brad had seen him on stage hundreds of times, he’d seen Adam so drunk he was slurring his words and getting weepily sentimental over their recent break-up; he’d seen Adam furious and throwing his diva on high; he’d even seen Adam miss notes, dead tired after a day in the burning sun, too high to even notice. What he’d never seen was Adam looking scared.
Adam had shook off Brad’s attempts to first, reassure Adam, and later to fucking laugh at himself. This was, perhaps, understandable. What did Brad know about the glare of publicity? The microscopic attention to every move, waiting for failure.
Oh, that’s right. Brad knew a LOT about it. He hadn’t asked to become fucking pseudo-famous. To have paparazzi hounding him for the inside story, offering him ridiculous amounts of money to tell all. To have followers who were just dying to see him with his tongue down Adam’s throat again. And those who hated him for being the one to dash their girly dreams of uber-stud Adam.
Question: Is this worth pursuing into an actual story, or shall I let it sleep in drabble land?