Fall For Me
Fall For Me
Author:fools_game
Rating: R
Pairing: Adam/Tommy, minor Adam/other
Length: 13,000
Summary: “Oh my god, just stay here if you’re that delicate, you brat,” Adam says one night. Love on buses.
Author notes: Okay, it’s finished. *flings fic at internets* Many thanks and sloppy kisses to janescott for the help, encouragement, continuity, and preventing me from setting things on fire. Title from Dance With Me by Uh Huh Her.
Despite the good-natured ribbing that occurred when space on the buses was divvied up at the start of the tour, nobody really minded Adam getting the rear quarter of one bus, with the queen-size with a real mattress and a door that closed and locked. They're all doing the same amount of shows, except Adam is doing all those shows, pouring his heart out on stage every night, every song, and averaging six hours of promo work every day on top of that, interviews with local radio and fan meet-and-greets and signings and getting totally, utterly mobbed every time he stepped outside. He starts looking pale and wan around halfway through the second week, doubling up on concealer under his eyes and falling asleep in weird places. Round the third week he starts getting tense and snappish, irritable with everybody, and though he apologises profusely for making Allison cry - she'd only been teasing, and he'd overreacted - the tension ramps up a little in their little band of troubadours, every getting a little more tetchy.
Tommy starts stocking up on candy bars, carrying them around in his pockets and slipping one into Adam's hand whenever he starts getting cranky. Adam forgets to eat, or maybe he's on some crazy crash diet, but when his blood sugar drops he's like a three-year-old up after bedtime and having something sweet to chew on is a surefire way to both distract and shut him up.
But by far the easiest way to soothe Adam out of a bad mood is physical contact; he’s like a cat, you can pretty much cuddle him happy. When he’s tense and stressed it’s the easiest thing the world for Tommy to just sort of wander up and lean on him casually, Adam’s body relaxing to fit Tommy in, the shrill note going out of his voice.
“I know what you’re doing, you shit,” he says, as Tommy rubs his cheek against Adam’s neck. “It’s not going to work.”
“Mm-hm,” says Tommy, and hooks his thumb into Adam’s belt loop. “You want some tea? Lemme get you some tea.”
“You’d have to detach yourself from my ass to do that,” Adam grumbles, and Tommy kisses his cheek and wanders off to find tea.
It’s not like Tommy minds. He gives awesome hugs, he knows this, he loves hugging people. He’ll hug anybody. Mia calls him a cuddle slut, and he has to agree with her when he falls asleep during a movie a couple of weeks into tour and wakes up to find himself in the centre of some kind of convoluted group snuggle situation with Cam, Liz, Dave and Sasha. On tour, he is designated hug provider, because his life is just that awesome that he deserves to be hugged all the damn time.
But Adam, as it becomes dramatically clear on tour, doesn’t need a hug provider, he needs a fucking keeper. He drives himself totally fucking ragged, takes on more work than he could possibly handle and then feels horrible and guilty when he can’t keep up with a schedule which looks like it was created by the Marquis de Sade and keeps shouting at people because he’s so exhausted he can’t even stand up straight, let alone deal with other people demanding things of him.
So nobody, least of all Tommy, is irritated by Adam having his own room on the bus. Those twelve-and-fourteen hour drives are probably the best chance Adam actually has for uninterrupted rest, especially since he’s pretty much the only one who has a decent bed. Tommy is a little envious, and he takes to sprawling out on the bed next to Adam when he goes in to say goodnight, just for the novelty value of having an actual mattress under him. He does end up on Adam’s bus a lot, even though he’s officially supposed to be on the other one, but there’s a couple of spare bunks that the dancer aren’t occupying and they all swap around fairly regularly anyway.
“Oh my god, just stay here if you’re that delicate, you brat,” Adam says one night. He’s a little pink-cheeked, and Tommy suspects he may have overdone his raptures on how amazing Adam’s bed is. Rubbing himself on the sheets and moaning may have been a bit much.
“I’m not sure my virtue is safe,” he says, and Adam hits him with a pillow.
He feels a little bad the next day, because Adam’s tired, all sleepily malleable because Tommy kept him up late talking when he’s supposed to be making sure Adam doesn’t do shit like that. So he’s extra careful to make sure Adam eats and is all ready to step in and take the brunt of Adam starts getting irritated. There’s no need though, Adam’s just kind of dozy and inattentive rather than cranky all day. He docilely eats what's put in front of him and goes where he's told, and Tommy decides to push his luck and manages to get Adam to lie down for a nap on a couch backstage before the show.
"That is fucking adorable," says Cam. "I should tweet it."
"Fuck you," says Tommy amiably. He pets Adam's head where it's lying in his lap; it took some coaxing, but he'd eventually gotten Adam to sleep by rubbing his head. Adam and Tommy are alike in their shared love of having their hair played with, and Tommy doesn't even mind that it's thick and sticky with product if it gets Adam to sleep an extra half-hour.
“I can’t tonight, honey,” says Adam, when Tommy goes to say goodnight. He’s swaying with the motion of the bus, looking faintly green. “I’m too tired, need to get some sleep.”
“That’s ok, it happens to everybody,” says Tommy, and holds out his arms. “We can just cuddle.”
Adam groans and bats at him, but stumbles forward into a hug. Tommy rubs his back gently, soothing circles, and Adam sighs and scratches his nails against Tommy’s shirt. “You not feeling too good, baby?” asks Tommy.
“Headache,” Adam mumbles. “M’neck’s killing me.”
“You take something for it?”
“Hasn’t kicked in yet.” Adam nuzzles his hair. “Keep doing that, feels nice.”
Tommy pats his back. “Go lie down, I’ll give you a proper neck rub. Mia swears by my neck rubs.”
Adam clutches at him. “I love you. I really do,” he says pathetically. “You’re totally my favorite, don’t tell Taylor.”
“I’m leaving you for somebody who cares about my needs,” says Taylor, from his bunk.
Adam sprawls out on the bed with a pained noise, holding his head at a careful angle.
“You’re a dumbass,” says Tommy. “Roll over, lie on your back.” Adam whimpers out a complaint but obeys, and Tommy gets him arranged so Adam’s head is right at the edge of the bed and Tommy can sit on a cushion on the floor and get his hands into the sore muscles without Adam’s head being twisted around.
Tommy wasn’t exaggerating his awesome massage skills. Adam declares his love as soon Tommy starts, and progresses to marriage proposals inside five minutes. He starts offering unspecified sexual favors at one point, and when Tommy nudges him to roll over so he can get to his shoulders through the thin t-shirt, the offers get graphically specific.
“That is actually disgusting,” Tommy says when Adam burbles something he's fairly sure is impossible. “You’ve never done that, right?”
“I will suck your cock forever if you keep going,” Adam hums happily, and then, “Oh, Tommy,” in this low, drawn-out, totally pornographic way that’s somehow worse than promising to bend Tommy in half and dick him ‘til he screams.
“How’s the headache?” Tommy asks, shifting a little uncomfortably. Adam is probably too blissed out to notice his hard-on, and really in no state to comment on it.
“We’ll be passing through a state with gay marriage pretty soon, I think,” says Adam. “I’ll be good to you, I swear.”
Tommy’s giggling by the time he’s done, Adam deliriously mumbling about how he’s going to dip Tommy in triple fudge icecream and suck it off his nipples. He keeps trying to do illustrative hand gestures, but he’s so tired and floppy he just kind of waves his hands around and moans. Tommy ruffles his hair to signal that he's finished, but it's soft and clean for once instead of sticky with product, and it feels nice. Adam arches up like a cat, so he keeps going, strokes Adam's hair and scratches his scalp in circles until Adam's completely non-verbal, making helpless little pleased noises and twitching occasionally.
"You're such a hedonist," Tommy points out, and Adam makes a sound that might be agreement, and turn his head so he can kiss what he can reach of Tommy, his arm. "I'm totally sleeping in your bed tonight, you know. You're not kicking me out after this."
"Mmmm." Adam sounds dreamily like that's the best idea he's ever heard, so Tommy pulls his hair gently and gets up just long enough to shuck off his outer shirt and pants and switch off the light before crawling back in.
"You'll be cold if you don't get under the blankets," he tells Adam, settling down. "I'm not tucking you in, I'm not your mother." But Adam is already asleep, and Tommy does spend a few minutes rearranging the bed so that Adam is covered up.
Adam collapses on him at breakfast the next morning in the kitshy diner the buses have stopped at and kisses his cheek noisily. "I really do love you, you know, I wasn't just your magic fingers talking."
"I don't want any context for that sentence," says Cam, across the table. "Ever."
Tommy pets his hair. "I know, honey, but your elbow is in my bacon."
"Bacon!" Adam brightens and promptly steals some. Tommy makes a half-hearted effort to stop him, but doesn't really mind. There's plenty more, but Adam won't have any unless he's stealing it off somebody else's plate, because stolen food has no calories. If he doesn't steal Tommy's bacon, he'll have half an orange for breakfast or something stupid and be cranky all day. So Tommy piles more food on his own plate and chases Adam's sneaky fingers away a little too slow every time.
“Hey, Tommy, can you help me with this?” says Allison after breakfast, brandishing her guitar, so he grabs the nearest acoustic - Dave’s - and pulls her onto Adam’s bus so he can show her the riff he’d been messing around with yesterday. He plays it slower, so she can copy, and pretends not to notice that she blushes a little when he touches her hands to correct her. She really is trying to improve her playing, and he doesn’t mind that she comes to him for help when she knows about six thousand other guitarists. Her crush is far less intrusive and disturbing than, for example, the ten-year-old who swore she would marry him and Adam could come too, or the big guy in head-to-toe leather who tried to tongue-kiss him without warning because he’d heard Tommy liked that sort of thing.
In any case, Allison’s cute as hell, and off-limits in the best kind of way, busy being a teenager at the top of her impressive lungs. She’s got a kind of balls-out confidence that makes her easy to like, and easy to get along with. He pulls her hair when she finally nails it, high-fives her, and then shows her another one, more complicated that makes her groan and cover her eyes and flail at him.
“You tormenting my girl, Tommy?” Adam appears, looming over them, and drops onto the couch between then, wriggling until they make room.
“He is!” Allison moans, and swings her guitar aside to hug him.
“I am, it’s true,” says Tommy, playing a sad little chord. “Toughen up, sweetheart.”
“That’s horrible!” says Adam, with a protective arm around her, but he’s grinning, and Allison is stifling giggles. Tommy pulls a face at them and their cuddliness and invents a song on the spot about how much he loves being mean to pretty girls which makes Adam laugh until he’s breathless and Allison go red and embarrassed.
“She’s got a terrible crush on you,” Adam tells him later, in sound check, and Tommy blinks at him, because does Adam think he’s totally stupid?
“Well, yeah,” he says. “Of course she does.” It’s only when Adam rolls his eyes that Tommy realizes how arrogant that sounds, and he hurries to explain, “I mean, I noticed, dude. It’s cool.”
Adam frowns and draws himself up a little. “It’s not cool, Tommy, she’s just a kid.”
It wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting the whole over-protective big brother spiel at some point. “I know she’s a kid. I’m gonna do anything, what do you think I am?”
“She’s very mature for her age,” says Adam, a little defensively, and Tommy interrupts.
“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?”
Adam laughs at that, shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I gotta say it.”
Tommy raises his hand. “I promise not to take advantage of her, okay? But she’s a smart chick. You can tell, because she’s crushing on me.”
“Because you’re so awesome?” says Adam, with that little face he makes when he’s not sure if Tommy’s messing with him.
“Because I won’t do anything, and she knows it,” Tommy says. “So I’m safe.”
Adam looks adorably puzzled, and Tommy has to remind himself that Adam’s experience with teenage girls is fairly limited. “Because I’m older and inappropriate and in a band,” he explains, “so I’m the right kind of, you know, bad guy. But she’s not actually insane, so I’m a friend of a friend and not really that threatening. Dangerous but not dangerous, right?”
Comprehension dawns across Adam’s face. “Oh. You’re Edward.”
“Fuck right off,” Tommy grumbles and bumps his shoulder companionably against Adam’s. “You know I hate that shit.”
“You love vampires!”
“I do, which is why I hate that.” Tommy makes a face at him, and Adam makes one back, poking out his tongue and crossing his eyes, and they both dissolve into laughter and stumble through soundcheck while Tommy gives his standard lecture on how vampires are scary dark terrifying creatures of the night who drink human blood and prey on the innocent, not fashion accessories for whiny teenagers.
“You’re so mean, Tommy Joe,” says Adam sadly, and changes the lyrics to Sleepwalker so they’re about sparkly vampires and sings in a warbling falsetto, and Monte laughs so hard he misses the start of his solo and Longineu beans him in the head with a drumstick.
The concert that night is insane. Adam slaps him on the ass in Rabbit Hole, and Tommy promptly turns around and chases him across the stage, both of them giggling like loons when they crash into one another. The audience triples in volume, and Adam hooks an arm around his neck and grins like his face is going to break. Later, during Fever, he pulls Tommy’s head back by the hair and nuzzles at his throat, breath blowing hot across his skin, and Tommy lets himself float, drifting along on the unbelievable high of how awesome his whole life is.
He sleeps badly that night, neglects to eat breakfast the next day, or lunch, and rocks up at mid-afternoon with nothing in his stomach but coffee and some pocky he stole off Dave. In the middle of explaining to Cam that nailpolish is totally communal so there’s no way he could possibly have stolen hers, he has a brief dizzy spell and wakes up blinking at the ceiling with a ring of concerned faces above him.
“You fainted,” Cam says. “Like a girl.” Or not so concerned, actually, as Cam looks like she’s barely stifling laughter.
“A girl in a corset,” Longineu agrees.
“Fuck you guys,” says Tommy groggily.
“Are you okay, honey?” That’s Sutan, wonderful sweet Sutan, stroking his hair and looking actually worried.
“’s hot in here,” Tommy says, and Cam snorts.
“Did you have lunch? No? How about breakfast? Then this is your own dumb fault.” She pats his chest. “Have a sandwich and stop being such a drama queen.”
Which is when Adam bursts in, looking totally frantic, and when he spots Tommy sprawled on the floor, he makes a noise which defies description. “Tommy! Oh my god, what happened?”
“Thought I’d have a nap,” says Tommy, from the dusty floor. “Shhh.”
But Adam has rushed over, hip-checked Sutan out of the way, and is sort of petting his face with fluttering, nervous hands. “Lane said you just went white and collapsed. Are you okay? Are you sick? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I’m fine,” says Tommy, batting the hands away and blithely ignoring the headache gathering behind his eyes. “I just need to eat something.”
But Adam won’t stop fussing, and Tommy finds himself forcibly escorted - half carried, to be truthful - to the little kitchen in the back of the venue, and Adam stands over him while Tommy devours about sixty tiny catering sandwiches and drinks a full bottle of Gatorade. He looks like a demented mother hen, an image reinforced by the fact the he’s streaked his hair with red and spiked it all up like a coxcomb, and he paces restlessly and lectures Tommy about needing to take better care of himself, which is hypocritical enough Tommy stops eating and stares at Adam with his mouth hanging open.
“Close your mouth, that is disgusting,” snaps Adam, and finally sits down beside him, all the fight gone out of him.
“I’m actually okay,” Tommy tells him. “It’s embarrassing, but I really did just faint because I forgot to eat.”
“You and your stupid metabolism,” says Adam. He glares at the table, and Tommy leans over and puts his head on Adam’s shoulder.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “Have a sandwich, the chicken ones are really good.”
“I’m on a diet,” says Adam, irritably, and has a sandwich.
The show is mellow that night, like Adam’s trying to be gentle with Tommy’s aching head. Coming down the stairs for their Fever opening, and he stops halfway and pulls Tommy’s head back against his belly, cradles his jaw in that big gloved hand and strokes his cheek with a thumb, smiles fondly down at him. The audience goes predictably nuts, but when the fan meet-and-greet after turns out to be edged with a little anxiety and several inquiries after his health, Tommy discovers that Cam - that traitor - has tweeted a picture of him passed out on the floor. Between that and Adam’s gentleness during the show, the internet is quickly convincing itself that Tommy is dying of consumption, which is either hilarious or mortifying. Tommy’s too tired to figure out which, so he puts his phone away and goes to knock on Adam’s door.
They have another all-nighter on the bus, which is about the last Tommy needs, fried as he’s feeling now. “Cam’s making fun of me on the internet,” he whines when Adam calls for him to come in.
“Aw, honey,” says Adam, sitting at the head of the bed. “Do you need a hug?”
“No. Yes,” says Tommy, and crawls into his lap, tucks his face into Adam’s neck, and hangs on. Adam hums a tune Tommy can’t quite place, and rubs his back and neck and rocks him a little, soothing.
“Did you eat vegetables with dinner,” Tommy mumbles, and feels Adam’s chuckle rumble through his chest.
“Yes, mom. I can actually take care of myself.” Adam squeezes the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the little hollow there, which feels awesome.
“Liar,” says Tommy. He gets his arms around Adam’s neck and settles in, absolutely no intention of moving, possibly ever. “Am I killing your legs?”
“You’re teeny-tiny,” says Adam, and pats his thigh. “Don’t worry about it.”
Tommy falls asleep like that, with Adam’s breath ruffling his hair, waking up only a little when Adam finally lays him down and covers him up. “My toothbrush,” he tells Adam, muzzled with sleep, but Adam just laughs and strokes his cheek.
“Don’t worry, baby. Just sleep.”
Tommy’s not exactly sure where they are when it happens. It’s that horrible rock star cliché, been on the road so long all the cities start to blur together, but he thinks somewhere on the east coast, maybe. He’s tired, the fan meet went for hours, and they’ll be driving all night to get to the next city he can’t remember the name of, and the buses are all ready to leave except Adam is nowhere to be fucking found. Neil is grumbling that he didn’t sign up to be Adam’s keeper, and Lane looks ready to cry, so when one of the venue’s sound guys mentions he saw Adam heading back to the dressing rooms, Tommy rolls his eyes and goes to get him. Adam’s probably forgotten some vital jar of glitter, or possibly his hairspray.
He doesn’t knock before he opens the door, just wanders in, and when he sees Adam, he says, “Hey, man, are you coming? We’re all ready to go.”
Or at least, that’s what he intends to say, but he gets as far as “Hey,” before his brain sits up and starts gibbering, because Adam is leaning against the makeup counter with his eyes shut and there is a blond boy on his knees sucking Adam’s cock.
Tommy thinks he must make a noise or something, all the air leaving his body like he’s been punched. Adam opens his eyes and sees him, goes from blissed to horrified in two seconds flat. “We’re ready,” Tommy blurts, and bolts without a shred of dignity.
There’s a couple of hardcore fans still hanging around between the venue and the buses, and Tommy slows down, signs some autographs, takes the time to get himself under control before he has to get back on the bus and spend twelve hours trapped in a small space with Adam and half a dozen of their closest friends. He’d go on the band bus with the others, but the band bus has already gone, the bastards. One girl kisses his cheek and looks like she might faint, another asks shyly if she can touch his hair. He says yes, and yes, and yes again, so when Adam finally emerges behind him Tommy’s at the centre of a crowd of girls who are all stroking him like a puppy.
“There you are,” says Lane, exasperated, from the steps. “Come on, let’s go, get on. Tommy - girls, put him down, he’s not a doll - Adam, I swear I will leave you behind, get on the damn bus.”
Tommy disentangles himself from his admirers, waves goodbye, and follows Adam onto the bus. He can tell from the way Adam keeps looking at him with helpless expression and biting his lip that Adam is desperate to talk to him, but the bus is not huge, and it is full of people. The only place that might be private is Adam’s room up the back.
“Well, I’m pretty beat,” says Adam. “Gonna turn in.”
“If you’re that tired, what took you so long?” Taylor asks. He’s lying on the couch with an arm over his eyes, so he doesn’t see the way Adam flushes a dull red, but Tommy thinks Brooke might have caught it, from the way her eyes narrow.
Adam shoots Tommy a speaking glance as he makes his way down the back, but Tommy sits down on the couch Taylor isn’t hogging and pulls his knees up to his chest as the bus starts moving.
Tommy likes to think he’s not the kind of guy who tries to hide from this shit, who pretends that things haven’t happened. Adam hooked up with a pretty fanboy after a show and that hurts, for some reason. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t ignore it, the image of Adam’s face all soft and stunned with pleasure branded on his eyelids, the feeling he can’t quite shake that he’s been very, very stupid somewhere along the line.
“You okay, honey?” says Brooke, and Tommy realizes he’s been hugging his knees and staring at the floor long enough for the bus to get out of the city - they’re on a highway now, and the lights have been dimmed, and people have drifted back towards the bunks.
“Mmm,” says Tommy noncommittally, and sighs when she reaches over to stroke her fingers through his hair. He loves having his hair played with. “I’m just tired or something, I guess.”
Brooke makes a quiet, thoughtful noise and sits down beside him, presses a hand against his head. “You aren’t getting sick again, are you?” she wonders.
“I’ve been drinking my orange juice every day,” Tommy tells her, and leans forward so he can snuggle himself into the crook of her shoulder. He loves Brooke. She totally understands his need for human contact, and she wraps an arm around his shoulder and kisses his head.
Adam’s light is still on when Tommy goes to bed, shining under the doorway like an invitation. Tommy slides into the bottom bunk and draws the curtain, relieved at the tenuous illusion of privacy. He can hear Brooke moving around, cleaning her teeth, and then there’s the shaking that marks her climbing into her absurdly precarious top bunk.
“Night,” she whispers, and sound carries through the quiet bus.
“Night, Brooke,” he replies, just as quietly, and then there’s silence.
It’s probably stupid to be upset. Adam’s his boss, not his boyfriend, not his lover, not accountable to Tommy for who he sleeps with. Adam’s made him no promises (Except for “friends for life” and “You’re my favorite, Tommy Joe,” whispered in his ear in a quiet moment like it’s the best secret ever) and never indicated that he’d want something more (except that he lights up when Tommy’s in the room and touches him like he has the right, onstage and off, so much affection and love that it’s like the best relationship Tommy’s ever been in except it isn’t.)
The worst part is, he isn’t even angry at Adam, even though it would be so easy, because it isn’t like Adam’s done anything wrong. Tommy’s the one who’s messed up, gotten ahead of himself. He’s forgotten that Adam kisses him hello and goodbye and sometimes just for the heck but it doesn’t mean anything except that Adam’s affectionate and bad at boundaries, that snuggling on the couch watching movies and falling asleep like some besotted couple doesn’t actually mean they are, that Adam’s pulled him from obscurity and given him everything he ever dreamed of and never, ever asked for anything in return but Tommy’s friendship and Adam doesn’t owe him anything, especially not loyalty to a relationship that doesn’t even exist. Worse, that Tommy's somehow let himself start acting like he does have Adam that way, started assuming it somewhere inside his stupid head, that Adam is his, that the way Adam touches him is special and meaningful instead of casual and convenient.
Tommy doesn’t sleep that night, twitches awake every time he’s almost drifted off to be angry at himself for being such a moron. This means, of course, that he’s awake when Adam’s door opens, some time in the early hours of the morning. He lies very still, but Adam doesn’t go to the tiny bathroom wedged between his room and the bunks, and he doesn’t go past them into the little living space. He crouches down instead, and whispers, “Tommy? You awake?”
Tommy considers answering, but this isn’t a conversation he wants to have at three in the morning on a bus. After a moment, Adam brushes the privacy curtain back enough that a little light shines in, and then Tommy feels Adam touch his hair, very softly, and let his fingers run down Tommy’s cheek. Adam doesn’t say anything else, just strokes his face for a moment, and then he pulls the curtain back into place, and Tommy hears his knees crack as Adam stands and goes back to his room.
It is seriously no fucking wonder Tommy can’t keep things straight - hah - when Adam pulls this shit.
Part Two
Author:fools_game
Rating: R
Pairing: Adam/Tommy, minor Adam/other
Length: 13,000
Summary: “Oh my god, just stay here if you’re that delicate, you brat,” Adam says one night. Love on buses.
Author notes: Okay, it’s finished. *flings fic at internets* Many thanks and sloppy kisses to janescott for the help, encouragement, continuity, and preventing me from setting things on fire. Title from Dance With Me by Uh Huh Her.
Despite the good-natured ribbing that occurred when space on the buses was divvied up at the start of the tour, nobody really minded Adam getting the rear quarter of one bus, with the queen-size with a real mattress and a door that closed and locked. They're all doing the same amount of shows, except Adam is doing all those shows, pouring his heart out on stage every night, every song, and averaging six hours of promo work every day on top of that, interviews with local radio and fan meet-and-greets and signings and getting totally, utterly mobbed every time he stepped outside. He starts looking pale and wan around halfway through the second week, doubling up on concealer under his eyes and falling asleep in weird places. Round the third week he starts getting tense and snappish, irritable with everybody, and though he apologises profusely for making Allison cry - she'd only been teasing, and he'd overreacted - the tension ramps up a little in their little band of troubadours, every getting a little more tetchy.
Tommy starts stocking up on candy bars, carrying them around in his pockets and slipping one into Adam's hand whenever he starts getting cranky. Adam forgets to eat, or maybe he's on some crazy crash diet, but when his blood sugar drops he's like a three-year-old up after bedtime and having something sweet to chew on is a surefire way to both distract and shut him up.
But by far the easiest way to soothe Adam out of a bad mood is physical contact; he’s like a cat, you can pretty much cuddle him happy. When he’s tense and stressed it’s the easiest thing the world for Tommy to just sort of wander up and lean on him casually, Adam’s body relaxing to fit Tommy in, the shrill note going out of his voice.
“I know what you’re doing, you shit,” he says, as Tommy rubs his cheek against Adam’s neck. “It’s not going to work.”
“Mm-hm,” says Tommy, and hooks his thumb into Adam’s belt loop. “You want some tea? Lemme get you some tea.”
“You’d have to detach yourself from my ass to do that,” Adam grumbles, and Tommy kisses his cheek and wanders off to find tea.
It’s not like Tommy minds. He gives awesome hugs, he knows this, he loves hugging people. He’ll hug anybody. Mia calls him a cuddle slut, and he has to agree with her when he falls asleep during a movie a couple of weeks into tour and wakes up to find himself in the centre of some kind of convoluted group snuggle situation with Cam, Liz, Dave and Sasha. On tour, he is designated hug provider, because his life is just that awesome that he deserves to be hugged all the damn time.
But Adam, as it becomes dramatically clear on tour, doesn’t need a hug provider, he needs a fucking keeper. He drives himself totally fucking ragged, takes on more work than he could possibly handle and then feels horrible and guilty when he can’t keep up with a schedule which looks like it was created by the Marquis de Sade and keeps shouting at people because he’s so exhausted he can’t even stand up straight, let alone deal with other people demanding things of him.
So nobody, least of all Tommy, is irritated by Adam having his own room on the bus. Those twelve-and-fourteen hour drives are probably the best chance Adam actually has for uninterrupted rest, especially since he’s pretty much the only one who has a decent bed. Tommy is a little envious, and he takes to sprawling out on the bed next to Adam when he goes in to say goodnight, just for the novelty value of having an actual mattress under him. He does end up on Adam’s bus a lot, even though he’s officially supposed to be on the other one, but there’s a couple of spare bunks that the dancer aren’t occupying and they all swap around fairly regularly anyway.
“Oh my god, just stay here if you’re that delicate, you brat,” Adam says one night. He’s a little pink-cheeked, and Tommy suspects he may have overdone his raptures on how amazing Adam’s bed is. Rubbing himself on the sheets and moaning may have been a bit much.
“I’m not sure my virtue is safe,” he says, and Adam hits him with a pillow.
He feels a little bad the next day, because Adam’s tired, all sleepily malleable because Tommy kept him up late talking when he’s supposed to be making sure Adam doesn’t do shit like that. So he’s extra careful to make sure Adam eats and is all ready to step in and take the brunt of Adam starts getting irritated. There’s no need though, Adam’s just kind of dozy and inattentive rather than cranky all day. He docilely eats what's put in front of him and goes where he's told, and Tommy decides to push his luck and manages to get Adam to lie down for a nap on a couch backstage before the show.
"That is fucking adorable," says Cam. "I should tweet it."
"Fuck you," says Tommy amiably. He pets Adam's head where it's lying in his lap; it took some coaxing, but he'd eventually gotten Adam to sleep by rubbing his head. Adam and Tommy are alike in their shared love of having their hair played with, and Tommy doesn't even mind that it's thick and sticky with product if it gets Adam to sleep an extra half-hour.
“I can’t tonight, honey,” says Adam, when Tommy goes to say goodnight. He’s swaying with the motion of the bus, looking faintly green. “I’m too tired, need to get some sleep.”
“That’s ok, it happens to everybody,” says Tommy, and holds out his arms. “We can just cuddle.”
Adam groans and bats at him, but stumbles forward into a hug. Tommy rubs his back gently, soothing circles, and Adam sighs and scratches his nails against Tommy’s shirt. “You not feeling too good, baby?” asks Tommy.
“Headache,” Adam mumbles. “M’neck’s killing me.”
“You take something for it?”
“Hasn’t kicked in yet.” Adam nuzzles his hair. “Keep doing that, feels nice.”
Tommy pats his back. “Go lie down, I’ll give you a proper neck rub. Mia swears by my neck rubs.”
Adam clutches at him. “I love you. I really do,” he says pathetically. “You’re totally my favorite, don’t tell Taylor.”
“I’m leaving you for somebody who cares about my needs,” says Taylor, from his bunk.
Adam sprawls out on the bed with a pained noise, holding his head at a careful angle.
“You’re a dumbass,” says Tommy. “Roll over, lie on your back.” Adam whimpers out a complaint but obeys, and Tommy gets him arranged so Adam’s head is right at the edge of the bed and Tommy can sit on a cushion on the floor and get his hands into the sore muscles without Adam’s head being twisted around.
Tommy wasn’t exaggerating his awesome massage skills. Adam declares his love as soon Tommy starts, and progresses to marriage proposals inside five minutes. He starts offering unspecified sexual favors at one point, and when Tommy nudges him to roll over so he can get to his shoulders through the thin t-shirt, the offers get graphically specific.
“That is actually disgusting,” Tommy says when Adam burbles something he's fairly sure is impossible. “You’ve never done that, right?”
“I will suck your cock forever if you keep going,” Adam hums happily, and then, “Oh, Tommy,” in this low, drawn-out, totally pornographic way that’s somehow worse than promising to bend Tommy in half and dick him ‘til he screams.
“How’s the headache?” Tommy asks, shifting a little uncomfortably. Adam is probably too blissed out to notice his hard-on, and really in no state to comment on it.
“We’ll be passing through a state with gay marriage pretty soon, I think,” says Adam. “I’ll be good to you, I swear.”
Tommy’s giggling by the time he’s done, Adam deliriously mumbling about how he’s going to dip Tommy in triple fudge icecream and suck it off his nipples. He keeps trying to do illustrative hand gestures, but he’s so tired and floppy he just kind of waves his hands around and moans. Tommy ruffles his hair to signal that he's finished, but it's soft and clean for once instead of sticky with product, and it feels nice. Adam arches up like a cat, so he keeps going, strokes Adam's hair and scratches his scalp in circles until Adam's completely non-verbal, making helpless little pleased noises and twitching occasionally.
"You're such a hedonist," Tommy points out, and Adam makes a sound that might be agreement, and turn his head so he can kiss what he can reach of Tommy, his arm. "I'm totally sleeping in your bed tonight, you know. You're not kicking me out after this."
"Mmmm." Adam sounds dreamily like that's the best idea he's ever heard, so Tommy pulls his hair gently and gets up just long enough to shuck off his outer shirt and pants and switch off the light before crawling back in.
"You'll be cold if you don't get under the blankets," he tells Adam, settling down. "I'm not tucking you in, I'm not your mother." But Adam is already asleep, and Tommy does spend a few minutes rearranging the bed so that Adam is covered up.
Adam collapses on him at breakfast the next morning in the kitshy diner the buses have stopped at and kisses his cheek noisily. "I really do love you, you know, I wasn't just your magic fingers talking."
"I don't want any context for that sentence," says Cam, across the table. "Ever."
Tommy pets his hair. "I know, honey, but your elbow is in my bacon."
"Bacon!" Adam brightens and promptly steals some. Tommy makes a half-hearted effort to stop him, but doesn't really mind. There's plenty more, but Adam won't have any unless he's stealing it off somebody else's plate, because stolen food has no calories. If he doesn't steal Tommy's bacon, he'll have half an orange for breakfast or something stupid and be cranky all day. So Tommy piles more food on his own plate and chases Adam's sneaky fingers away a little too slow every time.
“Hey, Tommy, can you help me with this?” says Allison after breakfast, brandishing her guitar, so he grabs the nearest acoustic - Dave’s - and pulls her onto Adam’s bus so he can show her the riff he’d been messing around with yesterday. He plays it slower, so she can copy, and pretends not to notice that she blushes a little when he touches her hands to correct her. She really is trying to improve her playing, and he doesn’t mind that she comes to him for help when she knows about six thousand other guitarists. Her crush is far less intrusive and disturbing than, for example, the ten-year-old who swore she would marry him and Adam could come too, or the big guy in head-to-toe leather who tried to tongue-kiss him without warning because he’d heard Tommy liked that sort of thing.
In any case, Allison’s cute as hell, and off-limits in the best kind of way, busy being a teenager at the top of her impressive lungs. She’s got a kind of balls-out confidence that makes her easy to like, and easy to get along with. He pulls her hair when she finally nails it, high-fives her, and then shows her another one, more complicated that makes her groan and cover her eyes and flail at him.
“You tormenting my girl, Tommy?” Adam appears, looming over them, and drops onto the couch between then, wriggling until they make room.
“He is!” Allison moans, and swings her guitar aside to hug him.
“I am, it’s true,” says Tommy, playing a sad little chord. “Toughen up, sweetheart.”
“That’s horrible!” says Adam, with a protective arm around her, but he’s grinning, and Allison is stifling giggles. Tommy pulls a face at them and their cuddliness and invents a song on the spot about how much he loves being mean to pretty girls which makes Adam laugh until he’s breathless and Allison go red and embarrassed.
“She’s got a terrible crush on you,” Adam tells him later, in sound check, and Tommy blinks at him, because does Adam think he’s totally stupid?
“Well, yeah,” he says. “Of course she does.” It’s only when Adam rolls his eyes that Tommy realizes how arrogant that sounds, and he hurries to explain, “I mean, I noticed, dude. It’s cool.”
Adam frowns and draws himself up a little. “It’s not cool, Tommy, she’s just a kid.”
It wasn’t like he wasn’t expecting the whole over-protective big brother spiel at some point. “I know she’s a kid. I’m gonna do anything, what do you think I am?”
“She’s very mature for her age,” says Adam, a little defensively, and Tommy interrupts.
“Are you trying to talk me into this or out of it?”
Adam laughs at that, shakes his head. “Sorry, man. I gotta say it.”
Tommy raises his hand. “I promise not to take advantage of her, okay? But she’s a smart chick. You can tell, because she’s crushing on me.”
“Because you’re so awesome?” says Adam, with that little face he makes when he’s not sure if Tommy’s messing with him.
“Because I won’t do anything, and she knows it,” Tommy says. “So I’m safe.”
Adam looks adorably puzzled, and Tommy has to remind himself that Adam’s experience with teenage girls is fairly limited. “Because I’m older and inappropriate and in a band,” he explains, “so I’m the right kind of, you know, bad guy. But she’s not actually insane, so I’m a friend of a friend and not really that threatening. Dangerous but not dangerous, right?”
Comprehension dawns across Adam’s face. “Oh. You’re Edward.”
“Fuck right off,” Tommy grumbles and bumps his shoulder companionably against Adam’s. “You know I hate that shit.”
“You love vampires!”
“I do, which is why I hate that.” Tommy makes a face at him, and Adam makes one back, poking out his tongue and crossing his eyes, and they both dissolve into laughter and stumble through soundcheck while Tommy gives his standard lecture on how vampires are scary dark terrifying creatures of the night who drink human blood and prey on the innocent, not fashion accessories for whiny teenagers.
“You’re so mean, Tommy Joe,” says Adam sadly, and changes the lyrics to Sleepwalker so they’re about sparkly vampires and sings in a warbling falsetto, and Monte laughs so hard he misses the start of his solo and Longineu beans him in the head with a drumstick.
The concert that night is insane. Adam slaps him on the ass in Rabbit Hole, and Tommy promptly turns around and chases him across the stage, both of them giggling like loons when they crash into one another. The audience triples in volume, and Adam hooks an arm around his neck and grins like his face is going to break. Later, during Fever, he pulls Tommy’s head back by the hair and nuzzles at his throat, breath blowing hot across his skin, and Tommy lets himself float, drifting along on the unbelievable high of how awesome his whole life is.
He sleeps badly that night, neglects to eat breakfast the next day, or lunch, and rocks up at mid-afternoon with nothing in his stomach but coffee and some pocky he stole off Dave. In the middle of explaining to Cam that nailpolish is totally communal so there’s no way he could possibly have stolen hers, he has a brief dizzy spell and wakes up blinking at the ceiling with a ring of concerned faces above him.
“You fainted,” Cam says. “Like a girl.” Or not so concerned, actually, as Cam looks like she’s barely stifling laughter.
“A girl in a corset,” Longineu agrees.
“Fuck you guys,” says Tommy groggily.
“Are you okay, honey?” That’s Sutan, wonderful sweet Sutan, stroking his hair and looking actually worried.
“’s hot in here,” Tommy says, and Cam snorts.
“Did you have lunch? No? How about breakfast? Then this is your own dumb fault.” She pats his chest. “Have a sandwich and stop being such a drama queen.”
Which is when Adam bursts in, looking totally frantic, and when he spots Tommy sprawled on the floor, he makes a noise which defies description. “Tommy! Oh my god, what happened?”
“Thought I’d have a nap,” says Tommy, from the dusty floor. “Shhh.”
But Adam has rushed over, hip-checked Sutan out of the way, and is sort of petting his face with fluttering, nervous hands. “Lane said you just went white and collapsed. Are you okay? Are you sick? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I’m fine,” says Tommy, batting the hands away and blithely ignoring the headache gathering behind his eyes. “I just need to eat something.”
But Adam won’t stop fussing, and Tommy finds himself forcibly escorted - half carried, to be truthful - to the little kitchen in the back of the venue, and Adam stands over him while Tommy devours about sixty tiny catering sandwiches and drinks a full bottle of Gatorade. He looks like a demented mother hen, an image reinforced by the fact the he’s streaked his hair with red and spiked it all up like a coxcomb, and he paces restlessly and lectures Tommy about needing to take better care of himself, which is hypocritical enough Tommy stops eating and stares at Adam with his mouth hanging open.
“Close your mouth, that is disgusting,” snaps Adam, and finally sits down beside him, all the fight gone out of him.
“I’m actually okay,” Tommy tells him. “It’s embarrassing, but I really did just faint because I forgot to eat.”
“You and your stupid metabolism,” says Adam. He glares at the table, and Tommy leans over and puts his head on Adam’s shoulder.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “Have a sandwich, the chicken ones are really good.”
“I’m on a diet,” says Adam, irritably, and has a sandwich.
The show is mellow that night, like Adam’s trying to be gentle with Tommy’s aching head. Coming down the stairs for their Fever opening, and he stops halfway and pulls Tommy’s head back against his belly, cradles his jaw in that big gloved hand and strokes his cheek with a thumb, smiles fondly down at him. The audience goes predictably nuts, but when the fan meet-and-greet after turns out to be edged with a little anxiety and several inquiries after his health, Tommy discovers that Cam - that traitor - has tweeted a picture of him passed out on the floor. Between that and Adam’s gentleness during the show, the internet is quickly convincing itself that Tommy is dying of consumption, which is either hilarious or mortifying. Tommy’s too tired to figure out which, so he puts his phone away and goes to knock on Adam’s door.
They have another all-nighter on the bus, which is about the last Tommy needs, fried as he’s feeling now. “Cam’s making fun of me on the internet,” he whines when Adam calls for him to come in.
“Aw, honey,” says Adam, sitting at the head of the bed. “Do you need a hug?”
“No. Yes,” says Tommy, and crawls into his lap, tucks his face into Adam’s neck, and hangs on. Adam hums a tune Tommy can’t quite place, and rubs his back and neck and rocks him a little, soothing.
“Did you eat vegetables with dinner,” Tommy mumbles, and feels Adam’s chuckle rumble through his chest.
“Yes, mom. I can actually take care of myself.” Adam squeezes the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the little hollow there, which feels awesome.
“Liar,” says Tommy. He gets his arms around Adam’s neck and settles in, absolutely no intention of moving, possibly ever. “Am I killing your legs?”
“You’re teeny-tiny,” says Adam, and pats his thigh. “Don’t worry about it.”
Tommy falls asleep like that, with Adam’s breath ruffling his hair, waking up only a little when Adam finally lays him down and covers him up. “My toothbrush,” he tells Adam, muzzled with sleep, but Adam just laughs and strokes his cheek.
“Don’t worry, baby. Just sleep.”
Tommy’s not exactly sure where they are when it happens. It’s that horrible rock star cliché, been on the road so long all the cities start to blur together, but he thinks somewhere on the east coast, maybe. He’s tired, the fan meet went for hours, and they’ll be driving all night to get to the next city he can’t remember the name of, and the buses are all ready to leave except Adam is nowhere to be fucking found. Neil is grumbling that he didn’t sign up to be Adam’s keeper, and Lane looks ready to cry, so when one of the venue’s sound guys mentions he saw Adam heading back to the dressing rooms, Tommy rolls his eyes and goes to get him. Adam’s probably forgotten some vital jar of glitter, or possibly his hairspray.
He doesn’t knock before he opens the door, just wanders in, and when he sees Adam, he says, “Hey, man, are you coming? We’re all ready to go.”
Or at least, that’s what he intends to say, but he gets as far as “Hey,” before his brain sits up and starts gibbering, because Adam is leaning against the makeup counter with his eyes shut and there is a blond boy on his knees sucking Adam’s cock.
Tommy thinks he must make a noise or something, all the air leaving his body like he’s been punched. Adam opens his eyes and sees him, goes from blissed to horrified in two seconds flat. “We’re ready,” Tommy blurts, and bolts without a shred of dignity.
There’s a couple of hardcore fans still hanging around between the venue and the buses, and Tommy slows down, signs some autographs, takes the time to get himself under control before he has to get back on the bus and spend twelve hours trapped in a small space with Adam and half a dozen of their closest friends. He’d go on the band bus with the others, but the band bus has already gone, the bastards. One girl kisses his cheek and looks like she might faint, another asks shyly if she can touch his hair. He says yes, and yes, and yes again, so when Adam finally emerges behind him Tommy’s at the centre of a crowd of girls who are all stroking him like a puppy.
“There you are,” says Lane, exasperated, from the steps. “Come on, let’s go, get on. Tommy - girls, put him down, he’s not a doll - Adam, I swear I will leave you behind, get on the damn bus.”
Tommy disentangles himself from his admirers, waves goodbye, and follows Adam onto the bus. He can tell from the way Adam keeps looking at him with helpless expression and biting his lip that Adam is desperate to talk to him, but the bus is not huge, and it is full of people. The only place that might be private is Adam’s room up the back.
“Well, I’m pretty beat,” says Adam. “Gonna turn in.”
“If you’re that tired, what took you so long?” Taylor asks. He’s lying on the couch with an arm over his eyes, so he doesn’t see the way Adam flushes a dull red, but Tommy thinks Brooke might have caught it, from the way her eyes narrow.
Adam shoots Tommy a speaking glance as he makes his way down the back, but Tommy sits down on the couch Taylor isn’t hogging and pulls his knees up to his chest as the bus starts moving.
Tommy likes to think he’s not the kind of guy who tries to hide from this shit, who pretends that things haven’t happened. Adam hooked up with a pretty fanboy after a show and that hurts, for some reason. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t ignore it, the image of Adam’s face all soft and stunned with pleasure branded on his eyelids, the feeling he can’t quite shake that he’s been very, very stupid somewhere along the line.
“You okay, honey?” says Brooke, and Tommy realizes he’s been hugging his knees and staring at the floor long enough for the bus to get out of the city - they’re on a highway now, and the lights have been dimmed, and people have drifted back towards the bunks.
“Mmm,” says Tommy noncommittally, and sighs when she reaches over to stroke her fingers through his hair. He loves having his hair played with. “I’m just tired or something, I guess.”
Brooke makes a quiet, thoughtful noise and sits down beside him, presses a hand against his head. “You aren’t getting sick again, are you?” she wonders.
“I’ve been drinking my orange juice every day,” Tommy tells her, and leans forward so he can snuggle himself into the crook of her shoulder. He loves Brooke. She totally understands his need for human contact, and she wraps an arm around his shoulder and kisses his head.
Adam’s light is still on when Tommy goes to bed, shining under the doorway like an invitation. Tommy slides into the bottom bunk and draws the curtain, relieved at the tenuous illusion of privacy. He can hear Brooke moving around, cleaning her teeth, and then there’s the shaking that marks her climbing into her absurdly precarious top bunk.
“Night,” she whispers, and sound carries through the quiet bus.
“Night, Brooke,” he replies, just as quietly, and then there’s silence.
It’s probably stupid to be upset. Adam’s his boss, not his boyfriend, not his lover, not accountable to Tommy for who he sleeps with. Adam’s made him no promises (Except for “friends for life” and “You’re my favorite, Tommy Joe,” whispered in his ear in a quiet moment like it’s the best secret ever) and never indicated that he’d want something more (except that he lights up when Tommy’s in the room and touches him like he has the right, onstage and off, so much affection and love that it’s like the best relationship Tommy’s ever been in except it isn’t.)
The worst part is, he isn’t even angry at Adam, even though it would be so easy, because it isn’t like Adam’s done anything wrong. Tommy’s the one who’s messed up, gotten ahead of himself. He’s forgotten that Adam kisses him hello and goodbye and sometimes just for the heck but it doesn’t mean anything except that Adam’s affectionate and bad at boundaries, that snuggling on the couch watching movies and falling asleep like some besotted couple doesn’t actually mean they are, that Adam’s pulled him from obscurity and given him everything he ever dreamed of and never, ever asked for anything in return but Tommy’s friendship and Adam doesn’t owe him anything, especially not loyalty to a relationship that doesn’t even exist. Worse, that Tommy's somehow let himself start acting like he does have Adam that way, started assuming it somewhere inside his stupid head, that Adam is his, that the way Adam touches him is special and meaningful instead of casual and convenient.
Tommy doesn’t sleep that night, twitches awake every time he’s almost drifted off to be angry at himself for being such a moron. This means, of course, that he’s awake when Adam’s door opens, some time in the early hours of the morning. He lies very still, but Adam doesn’t go to the tiny bathroom wedged between his room and the bunks, and he doesn’t go past them into the little living space. He crouches down instead, and whispers, “Tommy? You awake?”
Tommy considers answering, but this isn’t a conversation he wants to have at three in the morning on a bus. After a moment, Adam brushes the privacy curtain back enough that a little light shines in, and then Tommy feels Adam touch his hair, very softly, and let his fingers run down Tommy’s cheek. Adam doesn’t say anything else, just strokes his face for a moment, and then he pulls the curtain back into place, and Tommy hears his knees crack as Adam stands and goes back to his room.
It is seriously no fucking wonder Tommy can’t keep things straight - hah - when Adam pulls this shit.
Part Two