Sex On The Beach (Mixes It With Love)
FANDOM: American Idol
PAIRING: Adam/Brad
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 1,208
WARNINGS: Mild sexual content
DISCLAIMER: nothing described is real.
SUMMARY: Sketches of a relationship.
NOTES: The first part of the title is from the alcoholic beverage around which this fic is structured, using the official recipe of the International Bartender Association. The second part is from the song they're quoting (lyrics) in the movie they're watching, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
SNIPPET:
They interlock fingers strolling down sidewalks, and kiss chastely when they make each other laugh. They cook together, and order take-out together when their dinner turns out inedible. They sit on opposite sides of a bowl of popcorn for TV marathons, touching only when their hands bump against each other. They take a bottle of rose wine to a park without a gate and lie on their backs to watch a meteor shower, lights scattering across the sky like LA is where stars go to die, "Which it is," Brad says, and Adam laughs even though it's not much of a joke.
Sex on the Beach (Mixes It With Love)
2.0 cl Peach Schnapps
There's a sweetness to it: sunlight pooling golden like honey across limbs damp with sweat from being pressed against each other all night in a Los Angeles summer when they're too broke to afford air conditioning; and kisses tasting of mojitos, coconut chapstick, Cherry Garcia, sugar-dusted strawberries, pineapple fried rice from the Thai place down the street; and the sight of each other apple-cheeked after a day outdoors, or because they're sex-tired, or because they're embarrassed about how much they like holding hands; and candy-colored outfits, sprinkled with rhinestones, frosted with eyeshadow, styled like a gingerbread house.
"Who can take a sunrise," Adam sings along with the movie, "sprinkle it with dew."
"There's a joke in there," Brad says, "about tequila sunrises."
"Not a good one."
Brad shoots him a look, and Adam kisses him while the Bill the candy vendor sings about wrapping rainbows in sighs.
4.0 cl Orange Juice
There's the glitter and the fishnets and the sparkling platform boots; there are the drunken soliloquies about the oppressive bonds of the patriarchal bourgeoisie, and there are the subsequent breakfasts of aspirin and coffee; there's the booze, the weed, the shrooms, the coke; there's the enthusiastic sodomy and back-room blowjobs, scratch marks and bruises, handcuffs and toys; but what no one ever talks about is how wholesome it secretly is.
Snuggled up on a couch, muscles relaxed in the familiar delicious exhaustion, Adam says, "I feel like anything that makes anyone this happy has to be innocent, in a way."
Brad doesn't say God, you get maudlin after you come or that's what I said but they got me for possession anyway. He murmurs, "I never thought of it that way."
They interlock fingers strolling down sidewalks, and kiss chastely when they make each other laugh. They cook together, and order take-out together when their dinner turns out inedible. They sit on opposite sides of a bowl of popcorn for TV marathons, touching only when their hands bump against each other. They take a bottle of rose wine to a park without a gate and lie on their backs to watch a meteor shower, lights scattering across the sky like LA is where stars go to die, "Which it is," Brad says, and Adam laughs even though it's not much of a joke.
They wish on shooting stars out loud, because they care about telling each other more than they care about having them come true.
4.0 cl Cranberry Juice
What stings isn't quite the fights, or the fact that they happen. It's not how loud they get, or how long it can be before they start speaking again, or the way sometimes, Brad will jerk away when Adam goes to touch him, and other times, Adam won't try to touch him at all. It's not that neither of them thought about what a difference four years makes in your twenties, or that once the realization slaps you stunned, you can't ever unlearn it.
It's that they're both people who will, when injured, find it in themselves to cut deep enough to draw blood; and it's the knowledge that loving each other isn't, it turns out, enough to stop them.
It's: "I should have fucking seen this coming."
And: "The problem is that the person you want me to be doesn't exist, and you refuse to grow up and stop living in fantasy."
And: "Next time I'll listen when people try to warn me about someone."
It's threatened regret polluting the air like smog, the implication of accumulated falsehoods hanging bitter like poisonous fruit.
What eases the sting is that they know, with the certainty of those much older than they, that this is a thing that can never be regretted. Words bloom out of them like the petals of a flower as it opens, gestures reaching out like vines.
Like: "I'm sorry," and: "Oh, come here, it's okay," and: a hand resting on a shoulder, easy and simple as spring.
What keeps them coming back is that they keep finding their way back again.
4.0 cl Vodka
Brad doesn't mind that any creeper could watch them, or that everyone they know who's done it says it's not as fun as it sounds, or that sand will get in places sand should never be. Adam might have minded, once, but excitement flares in Brad's eyes like a bonfire, so he says yes as easily as the crimson sun slips below the horizon.
They lay out their towel on a stretch of sand bordered by palm trees. "I always forget how cold the beach gets at night," says Adam.
Brad loops his arms around Adam's neck. "Well then," he says, "I guess we better warm you up."
They kiss, mouths hot and open and almost soundless in deference to the soft steady crash of the waves. Desire overtakes them slowly, gathering in their stomachs, loosening their limbs, building until it pulls them to the ground, drowning.
It's not that fun, but they didn't expect it to be. They are giving each other everything in a place where they're all they have. They fill and surround each other as the sky swallows their cries. Stars shine white-hot above them, and their bodies arch towards each other's heat, and the gritty remains of stones dig into their skin, and it burns, burns, burns, ring of fire.
Pour all ingredients into shaker. Shake and pour into a highball glass filled with ice.
There's a sweetness to it, and a burn, and in the intersection of the two lies the danger: in the thick rush seeping into the blood, the teetering edge between bliss and pain, the dizzy conviction that they could ride this out forever, if they just wanted it bad enough, and they might.
Adam shouts, "Dance with me," and they go, go, go all night, sharp colored lights cutting through the best kinds of shadows, music pulsing through bodies like an innocent drug.
They undress each other delicately, the fever of desperation having given way to the delights of anticipation. Adam's eyes, Brad thinks, are like glass brought to life; the lines of Brad's body seem to Adam a small miracle. They keep their gazes locked, in love with being looked at the same way that they're looking.
On a Saturday they do nothing, they go nowhere, they don't even get dressed. They talk: their words weave sky-castles built of fears, dreams, the secret parts of themselves they've protected since childhood, mortared with trust neither of them has ever known, and with laughter, and with touch.
After sex they lie on Adam's couch, listening to deep breathing and the hum of words they once couldn't say and now don't need to say, and Brad picks up the remote and says, "Let's see what's on TV," and Adam says, "I love this movie," and they settle in to watch Charlie Bucket win his Golden Ticket.
There's a sweetness to it, and a burn, and there lies the danger, and there lies the power.
Garnish with orange slice.
Once Adam kissed Brad after he didn't quite make a bad joke about cocktails and Willy Wonka, and it felt like an act of creation.
PAIRING: Adam/Brad
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: 1,208
WARNINGS: Mild sexual content
DISCLAIMER: nothing described is real.
SUMMARY: Sketches of a relationship.
NOTES: The first part of the title is from the alcoholic beverage around which this fic is structured, using the official recipe of the International Bartender Association. The second part is from the song they're quoting (lyrics) in the movie they're watching, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.
SNIPPET:
They interlock fingers strolling down sidewalks, and kiss chastely when they make each other laugh. They cook together, and order take-out together when their dinner turns out inedible. They sit on opposite sides of a bowl of popcorn for TV marathons, touching only when their hands bump against each other. They take a bottle of rose wine to a park without a gate and lie on their backs to watch a meteor shower, lights scattering across the sky like LA is where stars go to die, "Which it is," Brad says, and Adam laughs even though it's not much of a joke.
Sex on the Beach (Mixes It With Love)
2.0 cl Peach Schnapps
There's a sweetness to it: sunlight pooling golden like honey across limbs damp with sweat from being pressed against each other all night in a Los Angeles summer when they're too broke to afford air conditioning; and kisses tasting of mojitos, coconut chapstick, Cherry Garcia, sugar-dusted strawberries, pineapple fried rice from the Thai place down the street; and the sight of each other apple-cheeked after a day outdoors, or because they're sex-tired, or because they're embarrassed about how much they like holding hands; and candy-colored outfits, sprinkled with rhinestones, frosted with eyeshadow, styled like a gingerbread house.
"Who can take a sunrise," Adam sings along with the movie, "sprinkle it with dew."
"There's a joke in there," Brad says, "about tequila sunrises."
"Not a good one."
Brad shoots him a look, and Adam kisses him while the Bill the candy vendor sings about wrapping rainbows in sighs.
4.0 cl Orange Juice
There's the glitter and the fishnets and the sparkling platform boots; there are the drunken soliloquies about the oppressive bonds of the patriarchal bourgeoisie, and there are the subsequent breakfasts of aspirin and coffee; there's the booze, the weed, the shrooms, the coke; there's the enthusiastic sodomy and back-room blowjobs, scratch marks and bruises, handcuffs and toys; but what no one ever talks about is how wholesome it secretly is.
Snuggled up on a couch, muscles relaxed in the familiar delicious exhaustion, Adam says, "I feel like anything that makes anyone this happy has to be innocent, in a way."
Brad doesn't say God, you get maudlin after you come or that's what I said but they got me for possession anyway. He murmurs, "I never thought of it that way."
They interlock fingers strolling down sidewalks, and kiss chastely when they make each other laugh. They cook together, and order take-out together when their dinner turns out inedible. They sit on opposite sides of a bowl of popcorn for TV marathons, touching only when their hands bump against each other. They take a bottle of rose wine to a park without a gate and lie on their backs to watch a meteor shower, lights scattering across the sky like LA is where stars go to die, "Which it is," Brad says, and Adam laughs even though it's not much of a joke.
They wish on shooting stars out loud, because they care about telling each other more than they care about having them come true.
4.0 cl Cranberry Juice
What stings isn't quite the fights, or the fact that they happen. It's not how loud they get, or how long it can be before they start speaking again, or the way sometimes, Brad will jerk away when Adam goes to touch him, and other times, Adam won't try to touch him at all. It's not that neither of them thought about what a difference four years makes in your twenties, or that once the realization slaps you stunned, you can't ever unlearn it.
It's that they're both people who will, when injured, find it in themselves to cut deep enough to draw blood; and it's the knowledge that loving each other isn't, it turns out, enough to stop them.
It's: "I should have fucking seen this coming."
And: "The problem is that the person you want me to be doesn't exist, and you refuse to grow up and stop living in fantasy."
And: "Next time I'll listen when people try to warn me about someone."
It's threatened regret polluting the air like smog, the implication of accumulated falsehoods hanging bitter like poisonous fruit.
What eases the sting is that they know, with the certainty of those much older than they, that this is a thing that can never be regretted. Words bloom out of them like the petals of a flower as it opens, gestures reaching out like vines.
Like: "I'm sorry," and: "Oh, come here, it's okay," and: a hand resting on a shoulder, easy and simple as spring.
What keeps them coming back is that they keep finding their way back again.
4.0 cl Vodka
Brad doesn't mind that any creeper could watch them, or that everyone they know who's done it says it's not as fun as it sounds, or that sand will get in places sand should never be. Adam might have minded, once, but excitement flares in Brad's eyes like a bonfire, so he says yes as easily as the crimson sun slips below the horizon.
They lay out their towel on a stretch of sand bordered by palm trees. "I always forget how cold the beach gets at night," says Adam.
Brad loops his arms around Adam's neck. "Well then," he says, "I guess we better warm you up."
They kiss, mouths hot and open and almost soundless in deference to the soft steady crash of the waves. Desire overtakes them slowly, gathering in their stomachs, loosening their limbs, building until it pulls them to the ground, drowning.
It's not that fun, but they didn't expect it to be. They are giving each other everything in a place where they're all they have. They fill and surround each other as the sky swallows their cries. Stars shine white-hot above them, and their bodies arch towards each other's heat, and the gritty remains of stones dig into their skin, and it burns, burns, burns, ring of fire.
Pour all ingredients into shaker. Shake and pour into a highball glass filled with ice.
There's a sweetness to it, and a burn, and in the intersection of the two lies the danger: in the thick rush seeping into the blood, the teetering edge between bliss and pain, the dizzy conviction that they could ride this out forever, if they just wanted it bad enough, and they might.
Adam shouts, "Dance with me," and they go, go, go all night, sharp colored lights cutting through the best kinds of shadows, music pulsing through bodies like an innocent drug.
They undress each other delicately, the fever of desperation having given way to the delights of anticipation. Adam's eyes, Brad thinks, are like glass brought to life; the lines of Brad's body seem to Adam a small miracle. They keep their gazes locked, in love with being looked at the same way that they're looking.
On a Saturday they do nothing, they go nowhere, they don't even get dressed. They talk: their words weave sky-castles built of fears, dreams, the secret parts of themselves they've protected since childhood, mortared with trust neither of them has ever known, and with laughter, and with touch.
After sex they lie on Adam's couch, listening to deep breathing and the hum of words they once couldn't say and now don't need to say, and Brad picks up the remote and says, "Let's see what's on TV," and Adam says, "I love this movie," and they settle in to watch Charlie Bucket win his Golden Ticket.
There's a sweetness to it, and a burn, and there lies the danger, and there lies the power.
Garnish with orange slice.
Once Adam kissed Brad after he didn't quite make a bad joke about cocktails and Willy Wonka, and it felt like an act of creation.