Fic: Bringing Me Out The Dark [ 1/1 ]
Title: Bringing Me Out The DarkAuthor: xDawnie
Warnings: some swearing and mention of Tommy in a Speedo.
Rating: T (PG)
Pairing: one-sided Adam/Tommy
Disclaimer: Glambert (c) the Glamily. Lyrics belong to Adele
Dedication: no one as of yet.
Beta: none
Summary: All things Tommy send shivers down Adam’s spine, that’s just how far gone he is.
A/N: Inspired by this prompt on glam_kink . I just want to say thanks to the prompt-giver, I know this is a really late reply but the prompt helped me get over the minor block my exams gave me... Also! Dawn's not dead. Yet.
First time writing Adam/Tommy, though, so enjoy my failure of a oneshot.
The sickeningly sweet smell of strawberries is killing him. Or maybe it’s just Tommy (it most likely is). He tries not to think about Tommy (that Tommy can kill him over and over again and he’ll die happily each time) but that’s never worked out.
Tommy is eating a strawberry from his plate, and his lips (ones Adam’s imagined all over his body, all the fucking time) curved around it. It’s harder than Adam can imagine, and to him it’s almost in (tantalizingly) slow motion that Tommy bites down, causing the leafy end of the strawberry slipping off his lips and hanging free in between the blonde’s thumb and forefinger.
It’s also hard not to notice the juice of the red berries has made a tiny bead on his lips. Not for the first time, Adam wonders how sweet they are - and he’s not talking about the berries.
So fucking hard.
Monte catches his eye. The guitarist’s eyebrow is raised; Adam tears his gaze away from Tommy and sips his drink. For the first time, he realizes that he’s ordered a latte.
As the others chat about their next concert, Adam can only hear Tommy’s voice, wondering if his red-and-black shirt would be ready by then. Adam hopes it will be - he loves the silken feel of that shirt in his hands, and the red ruffles cascading down from Tommy’s neck make him want to rip all his clothes off to expose what he’s been not supposed (not allowed) to see. Because Tommy’s straight.
The white-hot punches strike at his chest again, and he ducks his head to hide his twisted expression until after it’s gone and more. He still doesn’t look up.
Adam tries to keep his gaze on his coffee, but Tommy chooses that moment to let out a laugh, one that sends shivers down his spine (all things Tommy send shivers down Adam’s spine, that’s just how fucking far gone he is - if Tommy was on the toilet it would send shivers down his spine; hell, if Tommy ate crap it would send shivers down his spine). So fucking gone.
He’s forced to look up. Catch the expression of joy on Tommy’s face and add them to the ever-growing collection in his mind - so far he’s got Tommy asleep, Tommy in his Speedo, Tommy with his pants hanging down his practically non-existent butt and of course, Tommy’s expressions after they kiss. Grinning, smirking, the lips that were folded over that enviable strawberry holding his finger in place.
The others are going now, Monte first amongst them. He pats Adam’s hair, tells him to finish his food, and goes. Adam looks down at his practically untouched plate, and picks up a fork to stab a piece of pasta. Sutan gives Adam a grin, linking arms with Taylor as they move out. Adam waits to hear Tommy’s voice, telling him to hurry the fuck up because the whole world isn’t going to wait for him, no matter how good his singing voice is.
He doesn’t. Instead he feels a gaze on his forehead and he fights every urge there is to flinch because it’s intense, burning. He drops the fork, doesn’t look up even though he wants to meet those big brown eyes and hold them there forever.
“Adam.” The name is folded in a sigh, and it takes every inch of willpower Adam possesses not to groan aloud because the way Tommy says it is just so fucking hot and his fingers itch to wrangle more of it out of the blonde. He forces them to still by sitting on them. Adam isn’t what Tommy wants.
There’s a pause and another long sigh. Then, “What are we going to do with you?” Adam tries not to think about all the things he could say in reply to that, all of them sexual and none of them within Tommy’s sensibilities. He chooses not to reply, either, because the words at the tip of his tongue aren’t what Tommy wants to hear.
“You can’t do this to yourself.” This causes Adam’s head to fly up; their gazes meet in what feels like an explosion of startled blue and sad, regretful doe-brown.
“Do what?” He’s proud to notice that his voice was as clear and steady as it’s ever been. He would pat himself on the back if he wasn’t sitting on his fingers.
Tommy’s gaze is clear and a touch sorrowful, sympathetic. “This… whatever it is. Whatever you feel about me. It’s killing you.”
Oh. That. Right. So Tommy’s not quite as oblivious as he seems, apparently. Adam looks back down at his plate, not answering.
There’s a frustrated sigh and Adam peeks up through the curtain of his hair to see Tommy running his hand through his own. Click! Another picture for the stalker-Adam collection. He’ll think about nothing else soon.
“Adam?” Tommy’s tone is expectant, prompting him for a reply. Adam fights the urge to scowl like a little kid, deny it (but it’s so fucking obvious and tangible that a blind man and touch-desensitized person would be able to see and feel the sexual tension emanating from Adam).
He sighs.
“I don’t know, Tommy.” He likes saying his name. He does so to himself, lips forming the word, then again, slowly. Lips pursing slightly for the first part, the breath of air escaping with the flick of his tongue; then the pull of his lips to either side for the second, upper lip sliding over his teeth, tongue flattening to let the second soft breath escape. One more time, putting emphasis on them both, dragging the second out a little in a silent moan (it’s loud in his head). He imagines Tommy’s hands on him, expertly teasing and pulling the two syllables from his throat, past his lips as he-
“Are you even listening to me?”
Tommy sounds kind of pissed off. Adam jumps a little, then tries to hide it, ducking his head further that he was practically parallel to the table. He feels like a child caught eating the last purple Popsicle.
There’s a long pause, and yet another sigh. “Adam,” Tommy puts emphasis on the name, causing Adam to shift a little restlessly as he reacted. “You can’t do this to yourself. It doesn’t affect just you, it affects us all. I love you, Adam, I really do,” the words cause Adam’s traitorous heart to jump and do happy cartwheels all around his chest, “and because of that I really, really don’t think that this is the right thing for you to do. For all of us.” Tommy’s gaze is fixed on his face now, searching, questioning.
Adam takes a deep breath, and he loathes the way his voice is quietly choked as he mumbles, “Falling out of love a lot harder than it sounds, Tommy.”
That causes Tommy to roll his eyes. “I’m not a fucking idiot, Adam. I’m just saying… look, you’re one of my best friends. I care for you, just not in that way. I care for everyone on the bus, even the driver cause if I didn’t he’d happily crash us. And they’re all affected by you. You don’t even eat anymore, Adam. And when you do it’s not even proper food, just ice cream and peanuts from the bars. It’s not good for you. We all noticed, Monte tried to talk to you but you were drunk and fell asleep…” Adam vaguely remembers something of the sort, but he then thought it was just a dream. Tommy shakes his head. “Fuck, Adam.”
“I’ll get better,” Adam says in a small voice, so unlike his normal tone.
“No you won’t,” Tommy mutters. “I know you. Damn it, Adam, couldn’t you have fallen for someone who actually had a chance of falling back in love with you?” His tone is harsher than before, and Adam flinches, reminded of the past few times he’s done this falling for straight guys lately. Tommy instantly backs down. “Fuck, sorry Babyboy.”
“S’fine,” he mumbles. There’s a lengthy pause, and it’s not at all comfortable. Adam shifts restlessly on his hands, then sighs and lets them free to take a bite of pasta when Tommy’s gaze drifts over to the uneaten food. It’s cold and disgusting, but he swallows it down anyway.
“So what are we going to do?” Tommy’s voice is suddenly soft, low. A thrill goes through his body at the use of the plural pronoun. Adam curses it. Reminds himself that it isn’t what Tommy wants. He lifts his head to look at Tommy’s eyes (and tries not to get lost in them).
“I don’t know,” Adam answers honestly, and sighs. “What I always do, I guess.”
Tommy lifts his head to look at the dark-haired man, eyes curious. Adam shrugs, looking down.
“Sit and wait it out.”