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They end up alone on the parked tour bus, sitting on the couch and watching TV while everyone else is out clubbing. Tommy's not in a social mood, isn't a club kid even on his best days (and this one has been pretty fucking terrible – why do ex-girlfriends always have to show up at the worst times?), and Adam is just plain tired. So tired, in fact, that he doesn't even last until the first commercial break of whatever random sitcom they're watching before sliding down on the couch and falling asleep, head pillowed in Tommy's lap. Tommy doesn't mind – Adam's warm, and his head rests comfortably on Tommy's thigh, and he likes running his hand through Adam's hair, over and over until all the remnants of product are gone, leaving it smooth between his fingers. He gives Adam a quick, affectionate glance before turning back to the TV.
He hasn't been following the story very closely, but it's a sitcom – they're all the same. And besides, most of his attention is on one of the actresses anyway. She's tiny and curvy, with dark hair that falls down her back in soft waves, and Tommy has no idea what any of her lines are, because all he can focus on is her lips, the way they wrap around the words, plumped up and shiny with gloss. It's getting to him way more than it should, really, and he's throwing excuses around in his head – they've been on the road a long time, and there's just no fucking privacy, and when exactly was his last hookup anyway – when she starts, for absolutely no reason he can think of, sucking on a popsicle. A red one. Tommy groans and shifts in his seat, uncomfortably hard, wishing he was alone right now, wishing that Adam's head wasn't so right there.
The show ends at the hour, and the channel flips over to an infomercial, a big bald guy yelling through the screen about some kind of cooking thing, white plastic with hidden sharp edges. Tommy glances around for the remote and groans when he finally spots it, all the way on the other end of the couch, well out of reach. He looks down at Adam. Easy enough to just nudge him awake and point him toward his bed in the back of the bus, freeing Tommy up to change the damn channel and maybe, just maybe, get the first couple minutes resembling alone time he's had in what feels like weeks. But Adam's been working himself half to death lately, too many shows in a row, and Tommy can't bring himself to wake him up when he looks so peaceful right where he is.
Tommy doesn't think he's ever watched Adam sleep before, not alone like this, where he can stare to his heart's content without anyone else there to see. He's always liked pretty things, and – sexuality be damned – Adam is a very pretty thing. His mascara-dark lashes rest still against his cheeks, impossibly long, and all the lines of his face are sleep-softened, relaxed. He looks younger this way. Almost innocent, actually, save for one thing.
His lips are just slightly parted, flesh catching in a gentle pull at the corners. They are pale, pale pink tonight, shiny at the edges with the fading cling of gloss, freckles hardly visible in the dim, flickering light of the TV. They look velvet-soft, tempting, and Adam's breath skims over them in a near-silent rush of warmth. Tommy watches his fingers stretch, reaching out for that pretty lush softness, trembling at the first touch of Adam's lips under his fingertips. He traces the full curve of the bottom lip, the gentle wave of the top, brushes so-lightly over the parted space between, and admires their shape in a detached sort of way, as you would a sculpture, something cold and lifeless and very, very beautiful.
And then Adam shifts in his sleep, and his head lifts just so, and Tommy's fingertip slips past his lips into the hot wet aliveness behind them. A gasp escapes his lips unbidden. He knows he should pull back, knows that stroking Adam's face while he slept was flirting with their boundaries and this is definitely crossing the lines. Instead, his fantasy of the brunette sitcom actress pops up in his head again, how she would look on her knees in front of him, lips spread around his cock. But now it's all mixed up with other things, things that don't belong in his fantasies at all...Adam-things. Adam licking his lips after drinking, panting open-mouthed after a workout, doing things to his microphone it was surely never designed for. Desire hits him again, stronger than before, taboo and terrifying and overwhelming, and his fingertip is still resting between Adam's lips, penetrating his body, and he wants so badly to press deeper. At the thought, his hips thrust up again, moving of their own volition, seeking friction, seeking relief.
But the motion is too much, and to Tommy's horror Adam starts to move, eyes blinking slowly open. He jerks his hand away as fast as he can, hiding it behind his back, as if it bears evidence of his indiscretion burned into the skin. Adam looks up at Tommy blearily, still more asleep than awake...and his tongue, his gorgeous long talented tongue that Tommy's felt licking into his own mouth so many times, darts out to wet his lips where they've dried as he slept. It's a simple, thoughtless motion, not meant to be seductive in the least – but suddenly, Tommy understands why girls scream and faint and cry at the sight of Adam. He understands, and wishes he didn't.
It's the last rational thought in his head before the fire in his blood ignites into an inferno, and Adam isn't beautiful like a statue, not at all, because statues are cold and lifeless and Adam is stretching over his lap now, his arms up, head tilted back and exposing the pale, soft skin of his neck. His eyes are still far away, still mostly asleep, when he finishes stretching and settles again into Tommy's lap, his lips (his fucking lips) just starting to curl into the edges of a smile.
Tommy moves so fast he hardly realizes what he's doing, and by the time his brain finally catches up he's already slid out from under Adam's head, kneeling on the couch, fucking straddling Adam's face, Jesus. One hand buries itself in Adam's hair, and the other fumbles with his jeans, fingers tripping each over each other in haste, and there's no thinking happening here, just the remnants of the day's anger and frustration alchemically transmuted into a desperate burning desire, something that's maybe been growing in the back of his mind for a long time, waiting and waiting and waiting and finally just beyond waiting any more.
“...Tommy?”
Adam's voice sounds almost drugged, slow and sleepy and confused, and his eyes bore into Tommy's face, searching, like he's trying to figure out if he's still lost in a dream.
“Tommy...what...”
But Tommy's burning up, his whole body pleading with him, and somehow he's got his cock in his hand, quick efficient strokes right in Adam's face, for fuck's sake, and this is by far the most insane-bad-wrong thing he's ever done, and he knows he's gonna hate himself for it later, but right now he just can't bring himself to care, because this whole tour has been one long cocktease and he just can't.
He can hear himself begging, words that don't quite make sentences, full of please and Adam and fuck, and he's edging closer every moment, positioning, angling, and it couldn't be more clear what exactly he wants. No words necessary.
Adam's staring at him with wide eyes, all traces of sleep gone now, unmoving. It would be so easy just to push forward, to feel those perfect pink lips against his cock, slide of gloss and skin and saliva...but he's frozen in place, unable to go on, unable to pull away, stuck right at the point of no return. Because this, right here, this they can come back from, maybe even laugh off, chalk it up to crazy tour stress – too much stageplay, not enough real action, for either of them. Go any further, and...well, there's no coming back from that. That means changing things. Forever.
One drop is all it takes. One slow, viscous drop of clear fluid falls from the slit of his cock right onto Adam's bottom lip, and to Tommy it almost seems to happen in slow motion, long slow horrifically hot seconds of watching, powerless to do anything to stop it. He stares unblinking at Adam's dirtied mouth, realization finally starting to sink in, the very beginnings of a wave of guilt and regret that will likely overwhelm him in the end.
And then Adam – slow, deliberate, never breaking Tommy's gaze for the barest of seconds – Adam licks his lips. Licks the taste of Tommy off his lips, pulls in into himself and swallows it down.
And Tommy had thought he was desperate before.
Adam opens his mouth to speak then, but Tommy will never know what he'd meant to say in that moment, because all their boundaries are broken anyway, and he can't hold back one second longer. It's the easiest thing in the world to let instinct take over and thrust – one smooth roll of the hips and he's pushing between those sinful lips and into Adam's mouth, hot and wet and deep, fuck, far too deep, right into the resistant tightness of Adam's throat, and Adam's choking, gagging around him, and it shouldn't feel amazing, the fluttering of throat muscles, the clinging slickness of them, but oh fuck it does, and now Tommy knows it does, and while it's easy to pull back, to let Adam breathe for fuck's sake, it's very, very hard not to push right back in.
Adam's hands go to his hips, and Tommy freezes at the touch, forces himself to pause as Adam coughs, trying to catch his breath. He knows Adam's strength and size well, knows that Adam could throw him off as easy as anything if he wanted to. Tommy wouldn't blame him. Not at all.
But Adam doesn't push him away, only tightens his fingers bruising hard around Tommy's hips, pulling him almost imperceptibly closer. And somehow it breaks through the lust-haze in Tommy's head that this is, somehow, impossibly, permission.
Tommy doesn't waste another second, a deep, grateful moan forcing its way through his lips as he fucks back into Adam's mouth, Adam's throat. At first, Adam tries to participate, tries to lick and suck and do the things he probably usually does when he sucks cock, but Tommy doesn't want that right now, doesn't need that. He doesn't trust himself to speak, so instead he reaches down and gets a hand on Adam's neck, holding tight. And, thank everything, Adam seems to understand, stops doing anything and just lays there, just lets Tommy fuck his face and tries to breathe.
And Tommy's found a rhythm now, hard and deep and unforgiving, and he imagines he can feel the distended outline of his cock through the abused flesh of Adam's throat, marking him from the inside out. The thought makes him crazy, makes him growl and pull Adam's hair to force him even more open, force him to take everything Tommy's giving. Adam's choked-off whimpers get louder and louder over the sounds of the infomercial still playing in the background, but his fingers are still there, keeping a tight hold on Tommy's hips as they move, pulling him closer and closer just when they should be shoving him away.
Tommy's close, so close, losing his rhythm and murmuring quickening strings of half-words, pleasure-nonsense, lost in sensation, in tight wet heat, in fucking. And then he glances at Adam's face, and there are honest-to-god tears in Adam's eyes, glittering in the bright-white glow of the TV, dripping down his cheeks in parallel lines to the saliva running sloppy from the corners of his mouth. It's that sight, Adam gone messy as hell at his doing, that sends Tommy right over the edge, fucking deep into Adam one more time and staying there, coming as hard as he can ever remember right down Adam's throat as Adam whines high and frantic and tries to keep up the best he can.
Tommy loses a few seconds of time then, lost in a place where thinking just doesn't happen, eyes closed and unable to move. When he comes back to his senses, Adam is shoving at him, hard, trying to free himself from Tommy's body weighing down heavy on his chest. And suddenly everything comes rushing in at him at once, painful and unwanted realization, and everything else is lost to one deafening, damning word, a word that begins with “r” and ends with “felony.”
He practically trips over himself in his hurry to get away, retreating to the other end of the couch and huddling into it, tucking himself away into his pants hastily, like he's hiding evidence. He wants to close his eyes, hide from what he's just done, all the things he's never that now, suddenly, he has. But he can't tear his eyes away from Adam, Adam sitting up slow and painful, one hand going to his already-bruising throat, massaging it gently. It's terrifying, to know that it's all his fault, all this pain. Something's going to happen next, and maybe Tommy should be thinking about what it will be, but he can't even bring himself to speculate. He keeps his thoughts carefully in the now, and watches Adam, and waits.
When Adam finally speaks, Tommy misses the words entirely, can only hear how hoarse his voice is, how broken, and a chill runs through him deeper than any before. How could he possibly have been so stupid, so thoughtless? Adam needs his voice – they all do. They're in the middle of a concert tour, for fuck's sake. Adam's never going to forgive him for this, not as long as he lives. And with the way Adam's looking at him right now, Tommy thinks that maybe he's not going to live that much longer, anyway.
And then Adam's eyes darken, and he wipes his tears away and crawls up onto the couch, looming over Tommy like the world's deadliest predator, all sinuous curves and overwhelming presence. Tommy's mouth falls open as he watches Adam's hand slide down his own body, coming to stroke himself roughly where he's huge and hard in his jeans, and Tommy's mind is racing as he realizes that maybe he's stumbled onto something here, something strange and unexpected and very, very exciting.
A dark grin spreads across Adam's face, all sharp white teeth, and he leans down close to Tommy's face and speaks low and deliberate, the hoarseness in his throat turning his voice into a growl.
“Turnabout's fair play, Tommy,” Adam says, that dangerous grin still playing about his lips.
And though Tommy shudders again, a deep bone-wracking thing that goes right to his core, he's not afraid anymore. Not at all.