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Tommy's never been good at lying. He doesn't plan far enough ahead and he wears his heart on his sleeve. He runs high on emotion and, in the heat of whatever fucking moment, blurts shit out and just damns the consequences. And, honestly, he plain sucks at things including the adjectives subtle and covert.
And, of course, because this is his life, ten minutes after the AMAs close out, Tommy is ass-deep in lies. Not completely his fault, because Adam runs headlong into the first interview and just fucking announces Tommy's straight to whole world. And, yeah, okay, he's totally been banging a chick, even introduced her to Adam. He'll admit to misleading.
But, seriously, straight? Yeah, not so much.
Nothing he can do about it though. Because Adam's put it out there and owning up to rolling over for a guy will just open a can of worms that Tommy is so not ready to talk about, not to Adam and damn sure not to the press. Shit that involves really damn frank discussions that would include the words leather and floggers and just how much he likes feeling it for at least a few days after.
Instead of stopping Adam, Tommy just rides it. Lets Adam spread far and wide how straight Tommy is and how it wasn't planned, but his amazing bassist just went with it. And the lie just builds until it's believable and dancing fucking close to real and, what the fuck, Tommy figures. It's not like he's gonna be hitting his knees on tour.
Except Tommy's no good at lying and, since it was all off the cuff, there're a few things he never even thought about much less actually planned for.
Like Adam. He totally didn't factor in Adam being… Adam. On him being so fucking toppy and so goddamn clueless. At the same time. It's a ridiculous combination that keeps Tommy on the edge of huh and what and Jesus fucking Christ from the post-AMA interview circuit clear through to New Year's Eve and Gridlock.
It doesn't get any better when Adam starts integrating Tommy into his life. Introducing him to his friends. Taking him to events. Tweeting and texting and just fucking being. Then Adam whisks him – and, yes, it wasn't just Tommy – but, still, whisks him off to Cabo for vacation.
The European promotion sneaks up pretty quickly. Adam apologizes for taking just Monte and LP. Over and over and over. But Tommy's pretty good with being left behind. He's a hooked, jabbering mess, hanging on Adam's every word and waxing poetic every time he gets drunk. The alone time is actually quite welcome.
The time and space and time are very necessary things before he locks himself on a tour bus and travels the US, and then the world, with Adam. Time to get himself in check before he ends up spilling everything. Most likely by stripping off and kneeling in the middle of Adam's bed, head down and ass high.
It's three days into GlamNation when Tommy realizes that the time apart, the time away from Adam and the crazy headspace he lives in, never had a chance at being enough. He knows because three days in – just three fucking days – Tommy waits for Adam to sit down, to kick back on one of the couches on the bus, and then he slips to the floor by Adam's feet. On fucking instinct. Because of Adam and the way he just freaking demands supplication without really demanding it at all.
He's just happy he sat square on his ass instead of hitting his knees. That would have been embarrassing and telling and so damn hard to explain away.
Then Adam reaches out and drags a hand through Tommy's hair, tugging on the ends until Tommy leans in and rests against Adam's leg, his head nestled along Adam's thigh, and Tommy is gone. Just fucking gone and on the verge of begging for something, anything that will keep this balance of give and take intact.
He mashes his lips together and closes his eyes, completely tuning out the conversation around him. Just relaxes into the attention and floats until Adam nudges him to stand up – all soft and gentle and freaking ass caring – and then walks him to his bunk.
The next morning, coffee in one hand and his phone in the other, Tommy sneaks to the front of the bus to make a private, a personal call. He's got to find a solution before he compromises this gig. And one more night like last night? He'll seriously be compromising this gig.
Begging to suck your boss' dick has a tendency to do that.
Tommy dials Brian's number from memory, totally forgetting to use speed dial in his haste to get back to something familiar. Brian's an old friend, an even older lover. He's the first guy that Tommy went to his knees for. When Brian's voice finally comes across the line – static-filled as all fuck, thanks so much Middle-of-Nowhere, America – Tommy slouches back on the bench seat. "Brian."
"Tommy? What the fuck, man? Thought you were off being a rock star, touring the world and collecting groupies."
Sighing, Tommy listens to the sounds of Brian moving around the kitchen. The microwave dinging, the sound of ice hitting against glass, cabinet doors being closed too hard. A sudden wave of homesickness hits Tommy in the gut. "I am on tour, man."
"And?" Brian sounds excited. "Is it everything you always thought it'd be?"
He bites back a burst of hysterical laughter. "We're in the middle of a goddamn cornfield."
Tommy tries to ignore the way his voice breaks at the end, the air in his lungs coming out in a fast whoosh. Brian, however, doesn't ignore it, doesn't even pretend to ignore it. "Breathe, Tommy Joe," Brian murmurs, his voice hitting an octave that Tommy hasn't had directed at him since their last night together. "Slow and easy. In and out."
Brian repeats himself – in and out – until Tommy's ratcheted down, backing away from the edge and breathing quietly in time.
Tommy shudders, a ripple of movement going from head to toe. It's been years since Brian talked Tommy down, pulling and pushing him into a quiet place with words. It works now as well as it did the last time. Tommy wants to be pissed. Wants to call bullshit on Brian. Wants to tell him what a dick he is for punching below the belt, for going to the one place they both decided to leave behind. Except he's too caught up in the relief of having someone who knows him, knows all of him, to really dwell on the irritation.
"Better?"
"Yeah," Tommy mumbles. "Better."
"So, either you've got an irrational hate on for cornfields or," Tommy winces as Brian draws out the last word, "you're hiding yourself from someone. Guess which one I'd lay my last dollar on."
"Bri."
Brian chuckles, low and knowing. "And since you called me, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say that you're hiding from a guy that you want to break for."
"I call you all the time."
"Not from a cornfield."
Tommy huffs a laugh. "Not many of those in Burbank, yanno?"
"And I haven't heard that much panic in your voice since Mike followed you to the club." Brian talks right over him. Typical. "Are the cornfields scaring you, Tommy Joe?"
"Only if someone named Malachai shows up."
Brian bursts out laughing. "You and your goddamn horror flicks."
"Hey," Tommy says, grinning, "I actually read the book first. Scary as fuck, man."
"Figures your taste in reading is as atrocious as your taste in movies."
"Whatever," Tommy mutters and then falls silent, picking at the hem of his shirt while Brian's breath echoes in his ear.
"Come on, Tommy," Brian says, breaking through the hiss and static. "What's eating you?" When Tommy still doesn't answer, Brian adds, "I know it's not the cornfields."
"They were pretty cool for the first fifty miles or so."
"Tommy Joe."
Closing his eyes, Tommy blurts, "I almost went to my knees last night."
"Oh. Huh. Okay." The flicking sound of a lighter, of Brian taking a deep drag from a cigarette fills the gap between words. "Let's start with, willingly?"
"On my part, but he had no fucking clue." It's an honest answer. Probably not the best answer, but an honest one.
There's another pull from the cigarette, then, "So someone on the bus, in the band."
Dropping his head against the table, Tommy nods. "Yeah."
"Adam?"
"Jesus fucking, how the fuck…"
Brian laughs softly, a sad, resigned sound. "Easy, Tommy."
"How?"
"Unlike the other thirteen point nine million viewers, I know exactly what happened when he kissed you on live teevee." Ice clinks and Tommy hears Brian swallow, once and then once again. "I'd have laid money right then that you two were fucking each other."
"Whatever," Tommy grumbles. He is so not talking about that knee-buckling thing. So fucking not. "Just tell me what the fuck to do now."
Seconds tick off, the sound of Brian smoking and drinking ringing louder and louder in Tommy's ear until he just pops, fucking snaps, "Well?"
"Talk to him."
Tommy pulls the phone away from his ear and, looking at the screen, frowns. Tucking it back in, he sighs. Then, his voice rising with each word, says, "That's the best you can do? Talk to him? Are you crazy?"
"Tell me why you can't."
And, well, huh. That stops Tommy cold. But not for long. "He's my boss. We're living in a fishbowl. He thinks I'm straight," Tommy ticks each point off on a finger. "And, the money shot, he doesn't fucking know."
Brian laughs. Loudly. "Are you kidding me? He has to know."
"Oh, no," Tommy says, his tone wry and amused and resigned. So fucking resigned. If this is the best Brian has to offer, he's gonna be trapped in hell for the next six months. Because Tommy is so not doing the anonymous club thing. Not with all of his back-up, his friends on the other side of the country. "He is fucking clueless. Pretty and big and so goddamn far into his headspace he can't breathe without it screaming, 'Kneel, boy,' and, yeah, he prolly knows enough to be dangerous, but actual understanding? He has none."
"Really?" Brian drawls.
Tommy can hear the interest, the way that, even without meeting him, the anomaly that is Adam Lambert is reeling Brian in, making him wonder. He sighs. Then curses and snaps, "Dammit, man. Come on."
Brian snorts and sighs, mutters something that sounds like Christ, Tommy Joe, only you, and then says, "Start at the beginning. We'll figure something out, Tommy. I promise."
New York is fucking awesome. People and clubs and not a fucking cornfield, not even a damn stalk, in sight. They'll be here a few days and, with the exception of Adam, no commitments other than the two shows. Time off is a wonderful thing.
Plus, Brian has friends here. Friends that he's put Tommy in contact with. Grinning, Tommy waggles his fingers and, an hour after arriving, disappears into the night, an address clutched in his hand.
The club is perfect. Familiar. And Tommy fits right in. Knows the language everyone is speaking right from the beginning.
Within ten minutes he is breathing easy, his nerves settling and slowing, the wariness of being in a new place taking a backseat to the need vibrating in the back of his head. He starts talking with William – Brian's acquaintance and Tommy's new best friend – and coyly flirting with the room at large. Then fifteen minutes more and someone – all broad shoulders and darker hair – is sliding in beside him at the bar and making a move.
And then it all goes to shit. Because Tommy is measuring everyone in the room, but especially the man sitting next to him, against Adam. It's hardly fucking fair.
He murmurs a goodbye and, slipping off the barstool, walks out of the club, disappointed enough in himself he could cry. Except that would be totally unmanly and he isn't that far gone. Yet.
He's close though. Too fucking close. Because he can't shake how it felt to sit at Adam's feet and let the motion of the bus carry him. And he just really, fucking really wants to feel that again.
Shoving a wad of bills at the cab driver, Tommy drags his feet through the hotel lobby, stabbing a finger into the button for his floor. As he strips down, he's tempted to call Brian, but shelves the idea for tomorrow. He's in no mood to hear that 'you need to talk to him' bullshit again.
Pulling on his sleep pants, he sighs. He is so fucked. Fucking fucked, fucked, fucked.
Tommy waits until Monte leaves for lunch. Then, after texting Brian, letting him know that last night was a bust but his friend is pretty cool, Tommy stuffs his earbuds in, cranks some Manson, and closes his eyes. There has to be a way to manage this shit.
He just needs to figure it out.
An hour later, Tommy is no closer to an answer. He decides to just keep the lie going. Let everyone believe he's the straight arrow Adam keeps selling to the press and then do everything in his power to stay the fuck away from situations that invite him into overplaying his hand. Really, six months isn't all that long.
He blows every plan he has that night in New York. Because, really, licking – fucking licking – Adam on stage is nowhere near towing either party line: straight or keeping his distance.
The knot in his stomach, a hard pit that fluctuates between fire and ice, is screaming at him that he's an idiot. He's inclined to agree.
Avoiding Adam proves as hard as ignoring the sun coming up everyday. Tommy starts mapping escape routes in every venue, making sure he can disappear into the mess that is backstage as soon as the encore is done, signing and retreating to the bus long before Adam has the first sparkle off his face.
The bus itself becomes his personal hell, requiring a fuckton of Jack to survive the drives from town to town. He never realized just how small a tour bus, or his fucking bunk, really is.
Tommy latches onto Neil, replaces one Lambert with another – and that is some shit that Tommy isn't going to look at too closely – and becomes Monte's shadow. That part is pretty cool. He's picking up some serious jamming techniques.
Four days into his great fucking plan and the knot in his stomach tightens, growing larger every time he walks away from Adam, every time he sees the confusion and hurt flood Adam's eyes and mar his brow.
The 9:30 Club in DC proves just how bad it is. Because Adam seems to have reached his limit and in the middle of a concert, right at the beginning of Fever, he wraps his fingers around Tommy's throat and kisses him. With tongue.
He's insistent and demanding. Tommy goes from flaccid to hard in the span of one breath and the next. And he doesn't even have a keyboard to clutch when his knees turn to a jiggling mass of jello.
His playing is off for the rest of the night, a half-a-fucking-beat behind. Not enough for the fans to notice but, if his looks are anything to go by, Monte definitely clues in really fucking fast.
Tommy can't disappear after the encore fast enough.
"What's your issue?"
Tommy looks up from his computer and, coming face-to-face with Adam, stifles a groan. He should've seen this coming. That fucking kiss only hours before was seriously goddamned telling. "Huh?"
"You. Your issue. You're acting like I've got the plague." Adam lifts Tommy's feet up and drops down on the couch, pulling Tommy's feet into his lap. "Did I do something to piss you off?"
Closing his eyes, Tommy shakes his head. Pissed? Hardly. On the verge of shaking apart, especially if Adam doesn't stop drawing circles on his ankle with his thumb? Oh, fuck yes. And now he's trapped between DC and Norfolk with no escape route. Touring the country makes for some seriously cozy living. Too bad all Tommy wants is some goddamn space.
"But you won't even look at me? Really?" Adam's hands tighten around Tommy's ankle. "Come on, Tommy Joe. Look at me." When Tommy slowly looks up, eyes honing in on a spot just over Adam's head, Adam whispers, "Tell me something."
"I don't know what you want to hear."
"Why are you avoiding me?" Adam sounds so earnest it makes Tommy wince.
Swallowing back a burst of hysteria, Tommy chokes on the words. He wonders how Adam would take the honest answer of 'doing what's necessary for survival.'
"Because you so are. Every venue since what? The fourth or fifth? I come into the room, you duck out. It got worse in New York."
"No," Tommy whispers. Lies. Because that is so damned true.
"And then," Adam starts tracing another pattern over Tommy's ankle – around the knobby bone, down over the top of Tommy's foot – his nail dragging light and rough over the skin, "then in New York, what the fuck was that? It seemed like, maybe… " Adam stops abruptly and changes direction. "Look, I want to know what I did to piss you off, to make you not want to be around me."
"About New York, I won't…"
Adam huffs softly. "You better."
Tommy twitches, stops staring around Adam and focuses on Adam. "What?"
"Nothing," Adam replies, a blush staining his cheeks. "I just," Adam sighs, drags a hand through his hair, "I don't know what's going on and it just keeps getting worse and worse and I… Are you wishing you didn't sign on with us? Do you want to go home?"
"Fuck, no," Tommy growls, jerking back, pulling his feet off Adam's lap, his ankle out of Adam's grasp. He scoots back, bending his knees and tucking his body into a tight ball in the corner of the couch. "Look, you didn't do anything wrong, I'm not pissed. It's just… just…"
"Just what, dammit?" Adam snaps.
"You, goddamn it. It's you. Always fucking with my head." And now that it's started, Tommy can't slow it down, can't rein the words in and make them stop. "You don't even fucking realize, don't know jack shit about any of it. Don't know what you do to me just by walking into a damn room."
"Then tell me, because this?" Adam flails a hand between the two of them. "This is not working."
"No shit!" Tommy shouts.
Adam draws back, like Tommy's words were a physical blow. Tommy doesn't care, can't fucking care. Not now, with the dam breaking and everything rushing out. He unfurls his body and pushes to a stand. "It can't work because we want two different things. And, fuck you, for being so goddamn clueless about yourself and the way you act and how you miss or ignore the way it turns me into a hot mess just itching to hit my knees for you. It's fucking unfair and the only way to survive it, the only way to keep from making a complete idiot of myself, is to stay the fuck ass away from you."
Tommy drains the rest of his beer in one, two long pulls. "It's not you… well, it is you. It's who you are without even trying, and it's who I am at my most raw. And there's not a fucking thing to be done but for me to deal with it."
Tommy sets the beer bottle to the side and sneaks a look at Adam. His face is a crazy mashup of confusion and wonder and possibilities, then, turning impossibly blue eyes up to Tommy, Adam says, "Explain it to me, Tommy."
"Huh?" And, fuck, isn't this where they started?
Adam reaches a hand out, inches through the air until he can snag Tommy's arm and pull him, tug him off his feet and onto the couch beside him. "Explain it to me."
"What do you mean you're not straight?"
Two minutes. Two measly little minutes and Adam is interrupting with questions. Tommy's just fucking grateful that Adam agreed to save the conversation for the hotel in Norfolk. This is so not something he wanted to discuss on the bus. Especially seeing as their argument – Because, yeah, shouting? Totally an argument. – drew the attention of the entire crew, band and dancers alike.
"What the fuck does it sound like? I'm not straight."
"But, you introduced me to your girlfriend." Adam pins Tommy with a hard stare. "That is not gay, Tommy."
"And there are more than two choices, Adam," Tommy snaps right back, voice just as snide as Adam's. "There is such a thing as bisexual, man. Really? Since when did you start defining shit with black and white labels?"
Tommy is so not ever having this conversation again. Never ever never. He doesn't care if he has to start making it part of his standard introduction. He's leaning towards, 'Hi, I'm Tommy. I do guys and girls.'
Because this? Is giving him fucking brainache.
"So you're avoiding me because you're bi? And, what…"
The pain in Tommy's head spikes. Idiot. Adam is such a damned idiot. "No, Adam," he says softly. "Not because I'm bi." Tommy covers his face with his palms, muffling his next set of words. "It's because you're so in control, so fucking domineering. And you don't get it. I can't even pretend to understand how you just don't get it."
Dropping his hands and canting his head, Tommy stares directly at Adam. "Staying away from you keeps me from reacting to you."
Adam blanches and, reaching out towards Tommy, starts babbling. "I know I can be hard to take, but, please. If you just, like, call me on it or something, I'll back off. I mean, I can try to and just, I don't want you to be all weirded out 'cause I keep telling you what to do."
Tommy rolls his eyes, breathing deep and slow until he knows he won't snark at Adam. "I don't want you to stop, man."
"But you said…"
"I said, I have to keep myself from reacting to you. There're a ton more ways to react than being mad." Like being extremely fucking needy.
Pure bewilderment flitters across Adam's face. "I don't get it."
It's too much for Tommy. He bursts out laughing. When Adam scowls, he laughs all the harder. "No," he says between gasps for air, "you really fucking don't."
Three beers, a shot of Jack, and more secrets than Tommy cares to count later and Adam interrupts him again. "So, wait, what? You're, like, really into that stuff? I mean, the whole thing, not just the fuzzy handcuffs and a slap on the ass kinda goofing around but the serious shit? Why?"
Snorting, Tommy grins. "I dunno, fuzzy handcuffs can be cool sometimes."
"Tommy Joe," Adam growls. "I'm being serious."
The tone goes straight to Tommy's dick. Thanks so fucking much. Chugging half of another beer, Tommy shakes his head against the building need. "Why does everyone always, fucking always think it's just about the sex?"
"Well, isn't it?" Adam snaps, his frustration matching Tommy's beat for beat.
Tommy shakes his head. "Not really, man. It's a mindset. First and always, a mindset. After that, it's what you and your partner want it to be. That means that, really, sometimes fuzzy cuffs are cool."
Adam's body is pitched forward, his elbows on his knees, and his face is a canvas of concentration, eyes focused and holding on Tommy. Tommy has Adam's attention. It'd be obvious to a stranger that Adam is taking in everything Tommy is saying; for Tommy it's a heavy weight, making the air around them thick and his skin prickle with sweat.
"It's not about the sex." It's really not. Tommy can give Adam a list, a long fucking list, of times when sex isn't even a thought. Adam stars in a ridiculous number of the examples. "It's a certain energy, built on trust and a mutual desire."
Adam's nose wrinkles as he frowns.
Arching a brow, Tommy says, "What?"
"Give me something concrete, a hardline example of the mindset."
Rolling his lips together, Tommy thinks about a way to explain. "You know how sometimes, the show just makes everything else fade. When it spotlights down to just you and the crowd?"
"The feedback loop," Adam says, grinning, almost looking relieved to be back on familiar ground.
Tommy nods. "Yeah."
"It's like the best high, everything just goes all buzzy and speeds up and I kinda lose track of everyone else on the stage." Adam closes his eyes, his grin fading into a soft quirk of lips. Seconds tick off in silence, then Adam blinks his eyes open and looks over to Tommy. "You telling me it's like that?"
"It can be." Then Tommy qualifies it with, "When the two people are moving on the same wavelength."
Adam pushes to a stand, takes a spot in front of the window facing out towards the Norfolk night. Tommy sits back and watches him, lets him ponder and process. He's tempted to get up and leave, go back to his room and let Adam be completely alone with his thoughts.
Except they've finally gotten to the crux of the issue and rabbiting out now would kinda defeat the purpose of talking to begin with. And Tommy damn sure didn't go through all of that for nothing.
His waiting pays off when five, maybe ten minutes later Adam turns back to him and says, "You like that? That's what you're telling me, right? That you like for your girlfr… your lover to be in control?"
Heat stains Tommy's cheeks, spreads down and colors his neck. Still, he holds Adam's stare. With a jerking nod, he says, "Yeah, at its most basic."
Shaking his head, Adam huffs. "So much is making sense now. How you just… You go boneless on stage, every time I tug your hair or press in tight behind you, you just go limp."
Not completely limp, Tommy thinks. He's a master now at keeping a steady hand on the music while his dick is hard and pressing against the cold zip of his pants. He looks at Adam and shrugs. "You're very… you. You walk into a room and fill it up. It's worse on stage because up there you purposely project it."
Adam drops down onto the couch beside Tommy, his eyes an open window to the riot of emotions swirling in him. Bewilderment is still there, but it's tempered with a touch of understanding and a metric ton of curiosity. It's the first time tonight, really the first time since the tour started, that Tommy feels like it might all work out in the end, that he won't lose his mind or his friend over the next few months, that maybe he might even walk away with something more.
"So, just anyone? I mean, if Monte or Terrance…" Adam waggles a hand between them, letting the words fade behind the gestures.
Tommy snorts softly. It's a good thing he's fluent in Adam speak. "No. Not even."
"So, me, huh?" And, oh, yeah, Tommy totally recognizes the smug, satisfied, baffled look that accompanies those three words. Adam is a man of strange bedfellows, of contradictory emotions and actions, switching between sexy and dorky and shy in way that seems natural and right. It's annoying as all fuck for Tommy.
"You."
Then Adam frowns. "I could strangle you, Tommy Joe."
"What?" Talk about left turns in a conversation. Tommy shakes his head. It still doesn't make sense. "What the fuck, man?"
"You let me believe you were straight for months. Do you know how many restless nights that caused?"
Tommy leans into Adam's side, his shoulders shaking with laughter. "Really? You're still thinking about that?"
Adam drops an arm around Tommy's shoulders and pulls him in tighter. "You just don't know."
Thinking about the number of nights he's spent in his coffin of a bunk wide awake and staring at the darkness, Tommy sighs. "Actually, I do."
They fall asleep on the couch, Tommy tucked into Adam's side, Adam's armed draped protectively – possessively – over his shoulder.
It's stupid easy for Tommy to take the moment, the comfort, without question or doubt.
Nothing is weird the next day, or the concert that night. Adam is still Adam. Mighty and in charge and larger than any single person should be. And Tommy is finally just Tommy. Reserved and watching, laughing and teasing with Monte and Terrance and Sutan and just circling in Adam's orbit.
And even though he doesn't quite know what's happening, doesn't fully know where he stands, the tight, obnoxious feeling in Tommy's stomach starts to unfurl.
Adam hovers around Tommy on the bus to Atlanta, picking at his nails and dropping his gaze whenever Tommy looks up. Twenty minutes in and it's driving Tommy batshit. "What, man?"
Adam shrugs then plops down beside Tommy. "So, tomorrow night, in Atlanta."
"Fourth of July, yeah?"
"Yeah, well, there's this rooftop party…"
And eighteen hours later Tommy finds himself in a crowd of strangers with Adam's hand splayed against the small of his back. He's buzzing on Jack and enjoying the downtime. They dance and drink and eat and watch fireworks and, if Tommy indulged in fantasy, he'd think this was a date. It's hard enough to convince himself otherwise as it is.
They stumble back to the hotel, laughing their way through the lobby and into the elevator. Adam's hand is still at Tommy's back, fingers curling into Tommy's shirt and dragging across his skin. In the elevator, Adam hits the button for his floor and then, turning his gaze towards Tommy, asks, "Okay?"
Tommy searches Adam's eyes, stares until he sees a serious, intent glint lurking beneath the blown haze of liquor. With a jerking nod, he says, "Yeah, okay."
In his suite, Adam moves through his routine. Tossing a pair of sleep pants and a tee towards Tommy, Adam retreats into the bedroom, emerging minutes later in sweats and a tee and wiping his face down with a make-up cloth. He snatches two bottles of water from the mini-fridge and, grabbing Tommy's hand, pulls him out onto the balcony.
Passing a bottle of water into Tommy's hand, Adam drops down to the balcony floor. He scoots back and then spreads his legs, motioning Tommy to the space between his thighs. Tommy lowers himself to the ground and then, pushing his back in against Adam's chest, asks, "What's going on, Adam?"
"How'd you keep it hidden?"
Tommy closes his eyes and sighs. "What? The bi thing? I didn't. I just focus on who I'm with at the time. When I auditioned and shit, that happened to be Delmy."
He feels Adam's frown, the slight downward curve of lips ghosting over his neck. "And the other?"
He buys a few minutes with a shrug, letting the words tumble and play through his mind, only opening his mouth after something at least semi-coherent has formed. "I did at first. And I still don't necessarily flaunt it."
"You don't flaunt much of anything."
Adam's breath, a burst of coolness racing across Tommy's sweat-damp neck, raises goosebumps along Tommy's arms. He shudders despite the muggy, humid night. Adam slips an arm around Tommy's waist and pulls him tighter. Tommy goes languid against Adam, chasing out the last slip of space between them.
Minutes tick off in silence. Adam is tracing a pattern of circles over Tommy's abdomen, catching and pulling the worn tee with every pass. Then, with a slight twitch, a subtle stiffening of his body, Adam asks, "So, is it, like, a deal breaker?"
It takes Tommy a minute to connect the question. Slowly he shakes his head. "I don't even know how to answer that. It hasn't always been a thing, so, right, I guess it's not a deal breaker in general."
"I hear a but in there, don't I?"
Tommy's lips quirk into a smile. Adam always hears his unspoken words. "Yeah, there's a but in there."
"Well?" Adam bumps his forehead against the back of Tommy's head. "But, what?"
"It's already there between us." Tommy stops short and swallows. "You were asking about us, right?"
"Yeah, I was, baby," Adam laughs softly. "Thing is, I don't get how something that I don't know about, something I don't understand is already there."
"It's just…"
"So, since I'm completely out of my depth, I've been doing some reading. Amazon has a ridiculous amount of books about lifestyles and shit," Adam says, steamrolling over Tommy's whisper. "Some of it makes sense, sounds appealing. But, some of it…" The words slowly fade away.
Tommy blinks. Adam has been thinking, like really thinking about this. It kind of shocks him, catches him off guard. "You bought books?"
"Um, well, one book. But, how else was I going to learn?"
"I'm not complaining, Adam." Tommy's words fly out in a rush. "I'm just surprised. You could've asked me, yanno."
"Yeah, if I'd've known what to ask." The arms around Tommy's middle tighten and then release, following the easy movement of Adam rolling his shoulders. "I got some of what you were saying, but mostly it was all in that figment, dreamy kinda way. It wasn't real and tangible."
"And now?" Tommy cants his head and looks up through a fall of hair, trying to see Adam, to get a read on him. "Know what you want to ask?"
"Mhmm."
Lips curling into a soft grin, Tommy says, "Might as well get started then, yeah?"
"Yeah." Adam suddenly sounds shy again. "So, after skimming through some of that stuff and poking around on the internet some – and did you know that my fans seriously think I'm into hardcore kinky sex, with whips and floggers and shit? – but after all of that, things started making more sense."
Tommy huffs a small laugh. He's so not surprised the fans honed in on Adam's toppy nature. "You mean you saw yourself in some of what you read?"
"Maybe," Adam replies.
Tommy snorts. Maybe, his ass. "You asked me if it was deal breaker."
"Uh huh."
Tommy swallows hard. The next question is a make or break question. Because he knows while it shouldn't be a deal breaker, if Adam refuses all possibilities it will be. Tommy is well beyond the point of vanilla where Adam is concerned. "That mean that it's something you're not willing to explore?"
Adam is quiet long enough Tommy starts to worry. He gets antsy, works against the hold Adam has him in. "Stop wriggling around, Tommy, and let me get my words together."
Dropping his eyes, Tommy stills instantly. He doesn't know what the fuck he's going to do if Adam says no dice to exploring.
"It's not that I don't want to experiment. I mean, like you said, I saw myself in a lot of what I read." Adam reaches out with one hand and snags his water bottle, tipping it against his lips and draining out the last few swallows of icy coolness. "It's just, I have to know where it stops."
"Where it stops?"
"Yeah, some of… There's no way I could hit you, Tommy Joe."
Tommy rolls his eyes. Adam moves in extremes. There is no other version where he is concerned, nothing short of hitting life at full tilt. "Did you happen to read the part about negotiations? About compromising and finding a middle ground?"
"Um, a little bit?"
Tommy shakes his head. Of course he didn't. It's that extremes thing again. "We'll start there then."
And then Tommy starts talking, starts giving Adam scenarios and situations that he likes, things that turn him on. None of them include a flogger or crop. Only two include even some form of bondage. Some don't have a mention of sex at all.
Tommy talks about the power of words, how the pitch of a voice can change the simplest thing from common to seductive to erotic, and the benefits of multiple sensations, and then how combining the two can push something from oh-how-nice to ho-fuck-intense. He talks about both the giving and following of directions, about the safety and contentment that can be found in it. And he explains how, while he relishes when his lover concentrates on him, Tommy needs to be able to concentrate on his lover just as much, if not more. That for him, taking care of his partner just falls in with the same mindset, the whole give and take, as hitting his knees does.
He bites back a shout of victory when, after he talks himself damn near hoarse, Adam tightens his grip and, with the hard press of an erection in the small of Tommy's back, whispers, "So maybe there're parts that I am definitely open to trying out."
It's well into the wee hours of the morning, long after even more talking, when Tommy slips out of Adam's room and creeps through the empty hotel hallways, his lips swollen and warm from Adam's version of a goodnight kiss.
Tommy's wrist is smarting with the sting of a fresh tattoo, the thick, black Libra sign standing out in stark relief and surrounded by swollen skin that will fade as the mark heals. He looks over, grinning when Adam gets stopped by another fan wanting a picture and an autograph. As soon as he escapes, his tour smile plastered on his face, Adam grabs Tommy's elbow and steers him out the door and into the nearest alley.
"So Cam and Sash and Terrance are all planning on some shopping."
Tommy hopes like hell something else is on offer. He is not shopping with Terrance ever again. He learned his lesson well enough in New York. "Okay."
"We can go with them, do the tourist thing."
"Or?"
"We can head back to the hotel. Since bus call is after midnight, we only kept the suite, so there's no guarantee we'll be alone but it won't be as public…"
"Hotel," Tommy says quickly. Because, dude, the suite has multiple rooms so there is a good chance they can be alone. Plus there's air conditioning and, hello, room service.
Adam smiles that big happy thing that makes Tommy go a little weak in the knees, then, with a shy look settling in his eyes, says, "I was hoping you'd say that."
Tommy threads his fingers through Adam's and tugs. "Come on, man. It's fucking hot out here."
They're not truly alone until the sun goes down and band disappears for a group supper, Brooke and Monte both sending them knowing smirks as they leave the room. Adam rolls his eyes and, without commenting, locks the door behind them. "I hired a bunch of smug bastards."
Tommy laughs and shakes his head. "You wouldn't have them any other way and you know it."
"Doesn't mean they aren't irritating."
Snorting, Tommy lets the comment go. No way are they more irritating that Adam is in drama mode. Seriously. "We ordering in?"
"Already did. Should be here in forty-five to an hour."
"Am I going to like it?" Tommy asks warily. Because, really, Adam has been known to eat some nasty shit.
"I do know what you like to eat, Tommy Joe." Adam grabs the remote, dropping the volume on the movie until the crashes and squealing tires are a barely there background noise. Crowding Tommy into the corner of the couch, he adds, "Give me a little bit of credit, okay?"
Tommy concedes the point with a tilt of his head. "Almost an hour to fill, huh?"
Adam's lip twitch. "I think I can find a way to fill it."
"Yeah, how?" Grinning, Tommy teases, "Movie? Board games? Canasta?"
Laughing, a soft, breathy huff of sound, Adam cups Tommy's jaw with one hand, slides the other up Tommy's body, settling it at the front of Tommy's throat, his thumb lodged beneath Tommy's chin, his fingers spanning the column of Tommy's neck. "Brat."
And then he kisses the living fucking shit out of Tommy.
There is no hesitation, no parody of asking for or granting of permission. There is only Adam taking and taking and taking.
His hands hold Tommy, move Tommy, control Tommy. Adam plays Tommy the same way he plays the crowd: with complete abandon, forgetting everything else around him.
Tommy's body relaxes, bleeds into the soft cushion of the couch, and he moans, a high wanton, needy sound that Adam matches with a grunt and sigh and another thrust of his tongue.
Adam shifts, manhandles Tommy with every turn, until they are stretched the length of the sofa, Tommy flat on his back and Adam looming over him, covering Tommy with a layer of heat and scent and Adam.
He's soaking it in, capturing and cataloging the feelings. Memorizing the taste and the smell of this Adam, of the one giving into his desires and need, finally just giving over and getting lost in sensations and not really thinking about anything at all.
Adam's pupils are blown and eyes aren't focused at all and in between the kisses, in between the tiny bites and soothing swipes of his tongue, Adam is running his hands all over Tommy, he's pushing and pushing and pushing until Tommy is wide open and accessible, arms his above his head and legs bent and spread.
And Tommy sighs because now, finally, Adam is moving on autopilot, naturally following his instincts, taking command of the situation because he just cannot be any other way.
Cradled by Tommy's thighs, Adam drags one hand up Tommy's arm and circles his fingers just below the newest tattoo. Pulling back, breaking the connection of the kiss, he whispers, "Thank you."
Tommy quirks a brow. He's well beyond talking, beyond having a conversation that requires anything other demands for more and like that and yes, fuck, yes.
"For letting me pick out the tat."
The heat of a blush sneaks in and overtakes the flush of arousal. He opens his mouth, tempted to try and say something, something like you're welcome or no, thank you or, most likely, want your marks on me.
Instead he leans in for another kiss.
Tommy wishes he'd called Brian on Skype. Because giving someone the finger loses something when you have to say, 'Hey, I'm giving you the fucking finger.' He is so sending Brian a pic of him shooting the bird as soon as they hang up.
"It's not that funny, jackass," Tommy mutters.
Brian chuckles again. "Oh, yeah, it really fucking is."
The echoing sound of a horn is followed by a fast curse. Tommy isn't jealous of Brian being caught in L.A. traffic. It is definitely one of the things he doesn't miss at all. He's beginning to wonder why he misses Brian so damn much.
"Okay, you told him and the world didn't end." The tick-tick-tick of a turn signal is faint in the background. "So what did happen, Mr. Ratliff? Did he tie you down and fuck you senseless? Because that is what you need, someone to fuck that attitude right out of you."
"No." That's it. Just a no. Because Tommy is a little bit on the pissed side that they've been at this dating thing, this having dinner and watching movies and talking – a lot of fucking talking – thing for more than a week now and all Tommy has to show for it is swollen lips from all the making out and one big ass bite mark just under his collarbone. He wants to get laid, goddamn it. By Adam. When he's all gone in the moment and not thinking about watching and tempering his every move.
"No?"
He fingers the mark hidden beneath his shirt, pushing along the edges and then right at the center, shuddering when the zip of pain bursts outward, tingling and skating over his nerves and just under his skin. "Yeah, no. He didn't and hasn't fucked me."
"Well, it's only been a week, right?" A screech of brakes is followed by Brian cursing – fucker – and then he comes back to Tommy with, "That really isn't all that long. Especially if he's dipping his toes into the scene."
"In the real world, I'd agree with you."
"You aren't in the real world?" Brian snorts. "Am I calling across dimensions again, Tommy Joe?"
Tommy's lips twitch. "I hate you."
"No, you don't. Not anymore. And even then you didn't hate me, you just didn't like that I could read you so easily. Now, real world?"
Dropping his head back, Tommy sighs. "Living on a tour bus is like, I don't know, man, time just slows down. Like one of those time dilation things. It's like a week in here is six weeks out there. We're assed up under each other all the time. There is no such thing as privacy or alone time."
"That actually makes sense. Hold on, man, gotta get you off this fucking blue tooth thing." The line goes silent and then, after a click, Brian is back, his voice stronger without the effects of speaker phone and outside white noise. "You still here?"
"Yeah." Tommy tips his cup up, sips at the measure of whiskey. "You finally learned how to work that thing without hanging up on everyone."
"Lucky break. It's like a fifty-fifty thing. Hung up on mom this morning."
"Bet her reaction was righteous." Tommy chuckles softly. Brian is a good guy and a smart man. But he can't manipulate technology to save his sweet, little café-au-lait ass.
"Whatever, fucker. Lemme change and then I'm gonna tell you why, even with the benefit of living in tour time, your man hasn't fucked you yet."
Tommy rolls his eyes. "Thank you, oh mighty one, holder of all the answers to life."
There's a clatter over the line and, closing his eyes, Tommy can picture Brian's movements, see his routine. Emptying out his pockets, taking off his watch and then his bracelet, then stripping out of his suit and pulling on either shorts or sweats and fucking tee guaranteed to be at least one size too big. The man believes in being sloppy comfortable when he's at home. It's something Tommy seriously appreciates.
"First of all," Brian says as soon as he's back on the line, "you have a smart mouth. That right there is a sure sign that it has been way too long since you've been over someone's knee. And second of all, you were what, a few weeks into the tour before you owned your shit where Adam is concerned?"
Tommy bites back a groan. Brian doesn't know how fucking right he is about it being too long. Because he never got to that point with Delmy, to the place where he trusted her with his deepest secrets, and he damn well wasn't going to cheat on her, and then his world went sideways with the appearance of Adam. It's been way too fucking long. He focuses on the second part of Brian's statement instead. "Yeah, about a month, what does…"
"No questions, Tommy. Not until I'm done."
And fuck if Brian isn't using that no nonsense tone on him again. Asshole. "Yeah, okay."
"Let's go back even earlier, before tour you were around Adam a fucking lot. For months. And during that whole time you never once mentioned anything, right?" There's a pause, a loud silence in the conversation, and Tommy can hear Brian swallowing, food or drink he doesn't know. "You never said anything. Not when he spouted off in interviews, or when you were in Cabo, or even when you two were on the phone while he was on tour."
He really is sending Brian a picture of him flipping the bird. He may send a double bird if the man doesn't get to the point really damn soon.
"But now," and Brian's voice softens, goes gentle where just a minute before it was bordering on curt, "but now you want him to trust you in something he's never been a part of. Give the man a break, Tommy Joe. Earn that trust and respect. You made the road longer by leaving shit out. Plus, think back to how long it took for you to admit to what you needed. Don't shortchange Adam, don't take that time away from him, just because you're itchy under the skin."
Tommy has no reply to that. Nothing. He hates it when Brian is so completely right there is nothing left to say. Fucking hates it.
"No comment?"
"Fuck you," Tommy mumbles. "You're right, you know it. What else is left?"
"Easy, Tommy," Brian replies. "It'll happen. You just gotta give it time. Is it worth waiting for?"
"Yeah," Tommy answers immediately. No question about that one at all. Totally worth waiting for.
"Then let him grow and breathe at his pace. Be there, answer questions, lead him in some easy play, but let him discover himself."
"It'd be easier if we were there, if he could meet you and maybe go to the club." Tommy's on the verge of crossing the line into being whiny. He knows it and, really, doesn't give a flying fuck.
"Well, the club is out until you guys make it back 'round this way."
"No shit."
"Ass high." Brian's exasperation echoes through the phone. "Seriously, he just needs to tip you ass high and tan your rear end. You'd be so much easier going."
Tommy shudders at the mental image that comment brings. At this rate, he's going to have blue balls by the time Adam fucks him.
"When's your next day off?"
With a frown, Tommy says, "Tomorrow, three whole fucking days." And they're stuck in the fucking middle of no-damn-where. Time off should totally happen near a beach or a casino or something. "Why, Brian?"
"Find a good time for your man, Tommy, and we'll set up a Skype call."
Tommy perks up at that. "Huh?"
"Yup," and Tommy can picture the wicked smirk accompanying the words, he can hear the fucking thing in Brian's voice. "You can introduce us and then get lost. You wanted him to be able to talk to me and I want to talk to him about dealing with your attitude."
Groaning, Tommy thumps his fist down beside him. He's definitely sending Brian a double bird shot.
He's in full on pout mode. Sitting under an umbrella by the pool, some fruity drink in his hand, and not enjoying it even a little bit. Because Adam had acted like talking to Brian was a birthday gift come early and had eagerly – eagerly – kicked him out of not just the room but the whole fucking suite, pushed him gently into the hallway with a Go wait by the pool, order something with juice in it. It's too hot for just whiskey.
Tommy rolls his eyes, irritated with himself for being irritated with Adam. And Brian. He is very irritated with Brian. The man was in serious headspace when he logged onto Skype.
The whole situation, the being annoyed for no good reason, is just pissing Tommy off, making him itch. Which is fucking stupid. Seeing as them talking should be a very good thing, should help Adam understand things that Tommy can't explain. Adam needs a mentor, another Dom he can turn to for help and understanding. And, really, Tommy should be glad it's not just any Dom, but one who knows Tommy. Knows his likes and dislikes, knows his kinks.
But Adam kicked Tommy out well over an hour ago, really almost two hours ago, and, really, what the actual fuck can Brian be telling him that takes that fucking long?
Then, just as Tommy's ready to bully his way back into the suite and close the laptop right in the middle of Brian running off at the mouth, Adam drops down into the chair across from Tommy's and motions to the bar service for a drink.
"Nice conversation?" And, yeah, maybe that came out a little – a lot – on the petulant side.
Adam's lips curl into a grin. "I'm betting that sassy, snarky thing you're doing right now is exactly what Brian was talking about when he said you make trouble for yourself."
Tommy blushes but doesn't reply. Because, yeah, there is a downside to Adam talking to someone who knows Tommy so well. And maybe Adam is right. Maybe Tommy is trying to make trouble, to push against boundaries. But they haven't established those yet so it's pointless. Kinda like the annoyed, pouting thing. Pointless and unrewarding.
"To answer your question, yeah, it was a good conversation." Adam thanks the pool girl for the drink, gives her Lane's room number for the tab – he never gives out his room number for obvious reasons – and then waits until she's out of ear shot to continue. "You realize I'm going to be feeling my way through this, right?"
That goes a long way to turning around Tommy's mood. Because that was totally Adam's way of agreeing to exploring not just a relationship but also the lifestyle. But there's still one thing Tommy has to know. "Do you really want this? Because if, you know, you're just trying this out because of me and not because..."
"Tommy," Adam interrupts, "I've done the changing to suit someone else before and it ended up in heartbreak. No matter how hot you are, how much I want to try for something with you, if this was something I wasn't interested in, I wouldn't have let us get this far."
Tommy nods, accepting the words at face value. Adam has never lied to him, he doubts the man would start now. Not with so much riding on the truth. "So, feeling your way through this?"
"You're gonna have to be vocal, tell me what I'm doing wrong and what I'm doing right." Adam takes a sip of his drink. "And you're going to have to expect mistakes."
"No one is perfect, Adam. I'll make mistakes, too." Tommy swallows hard. This thing that he's wanted for months, since Cabo, since before Cabo, is finally within his grasp. It's scary and intimidating and so goddamn good he wants to shout.
"And, you need to know, I can't do this behind closed doors." The look Adam gives him is serious, adds weight to his words. "I'm out, I won't start sneaking around again now."
"Kinda expected you to say that." Tommy pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head, lets Adam see how serious his next statement is. "Now here's my 'you need to know:' if we're doing this, I can't hide being your sub. I won't flaunt it, I never do. But, if I'm in it, I'm in it all the way."
Adam arches a brow. "You ready for the shitstorm it'll cause?"
Tommy returns Adam's look with an arched brow of his own. "Are you?"
"Baby, I've been causing waves since I got here."
"Yeah," Tommy grins, "just remember, I've been on that ride with you since the AMAs."
Adam cants his head back, stares at the darkening sky. "Fair enough."
"Think we can take this inside now?"
He looks over at Tommy. "I guess."
"Yeah, well, I'd rather tell the people close to me before it shows up in twitverse. And, really, I just kinda want to crawl in your lap right now."
Adam pushes his chair back and drains the remains of his drink in one fluid motion and starts making his way to the elevator, not once looking back to see if Tommy is following.
Tommy laughs all the way to Adam's suite. He'll never understand how Adam totally ignored this side of himself.
Tommy wasn't joking about crawling into Adam's lap. They're in the room for barely a minute when Tommy starts corralling Adam towards the sofa and then, kicking off his shoes, climbs right into Adam's lap, throwing a leg on either side of Adam's thighs and nuzzling in against Adam's chest. He thrives on being touched. Always has.
Thankfully, no one on this tour has found it weird. If anything, they're a bunch of cuddle sluts, too. Maybe not as much as Tommy but they all, Adam included, love to cuddle and puppy pile in front on the couches on the bus.
Adam wraps his arms around Tommy and pulls him tighter. "Rules."
"Yeah," Tommy rubs his head against Adam's chest. "I need them."
"What kind, how many, encompassing how much of our life?"
Tommy closes his eyes. It's easier, talking to Adam, when he's not trying to steal a glance at Adam's face, looking for reactions. "Not to the point that I can't take a piss without calling you, but things like eating and sleeping and going out with the guys."
"And like masturbating?"
Groaning, Tommy turns and buries his face in Adam's shirt. Of course Brian covered that part. "And jacking off."
With hushed tones, they set the ground rules. Tommy sees too many fucking salads in his future and nowhere near enough shooting his load. "I hate salads."
Chuckling, Adam rubs a hand over Tommy's back, soothing him but, Tommy notices, not backing down. "If it's not enough, you have to tell me."
"If it's too much," Tommy counters, "you have to tell me. You're the one with the interviews and shit."
"We'll find the right balance between this and the tour. And then, when we get home, we'll find the right balance there." Giving a fast tug on Tommy's hair, Adam says, "Rules mean consequences. Brian explained the whole difference between serious and playful and you just being bratty and how the consequences need to fit. Gimme examples and ideas. I need a list we've both agreed to pick from."
"You sound like I'm gonna be needing my ass beat all the time."
Adam snorts. "I do know you, Tommy Joe. You just land in trouble without even trying. Remember that chick who had her tongue shoved down your throat..."
"Okay, okay," Tommy says, huffing a laugh. "You made your point."
"So... consequences."
"Honestly?"
"No, lie to me, baby." Adam swats Tommy's ass. Swift and smart and so fucking quick that Tommy knows he didn't stop to think about it. "Yes, honestly."
"That," he says. "Never for something serious, and I'm sure I will fuck up in a major way sometime, but playful shit, that right there."
"This?" Adam purrs, fucking goddamn well purrs and then swats Tommy's ass again. And again once more. "I can do this."
Tommy's dick hardens, jerking against the soft material of his swim trunks. "Adam," he groans.
"Yeah?" Another deep purr. And Tommy's dick twitches again. Then, with another tap to Tommy's ass, Adam says, "Talk to me, Tommy Joe."
"Keep that up and I'm gonna blow in my shorts." And that so wouldn't break the no jerking off alone rule. Not at all.
"That's kinda hot," Adam whispers as he lands another slap against Tommy's ass.
Tommy bites his bottom lip, teeth bearing down until a burst of coppery tang fills his mouth.
"I wonder…" and Adam smacks the other cheek, "if I can…" and he does it again, right over the first one, "make you come…" and two more hits in fast succession, fingers splayed wide and connecting along the cleft of Tommy's ass, "on stage."
Adam's hand lands one more time and Tommy's back arches, his hips rock forward, grinding his dick against the bulge in Adam's pants and, with a stuttered out groan, he comes.
"Oh, fuck, Tommy." The words are strangled and Adam is pushing Tommy back with one hand and scrabbling at his jeans with the other, his eyes blown wide and his face flushed with arousal.
"Let me, let me, let me," Tommy begs. Ignoring the cold slide of his come, he sinks to the floor, kneeling in the space between Adam's spread legs. He reaches for Adam's zipper, his hands hover scant millimeters away and then he stops, looking to Adam for permission.
"Yes," Adam grinds out through clenched teeth. "Take me out and suck me off."
Tommy's hands attack Adam's jeans, tugging and pulling them down when Adam raise his hips off the sofa. Then he stops. Stops and stares and just takes his time looking. He's wanted this, has thought about the heavy weight of Adam's dick on his tongue and the salty explosion of Adam's come in his mouth too many times to even remember.
Then Adam growls – dammit, Tommy Joe, don't fucking tease me or I'll just jack all over your face – and Tommy, right before he takes Adam into his mouth, before he seals his lips over the head of Adam's dick, flicking his tongue against the leaking slit and tightening his hands around the girth, then sliding them up and down and back up the length of swollen flesh, before he does that, before he gives into the temptation of Adam and being on his knees and how, ho fuck, reality is so much more than his fantasy, just before he does, Tommy smirks.
Because, really, just like using that surreal voice of his, topping Tommy is something that Adam was born ready to do, an inherent attribute of his soul.