Fic: If I Kiss You - Adam/Tommy
Mar. 12th, 2011 10:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blue_soaringFor @sonicscrewed, who asked for something from Lullaby by The Spill Canvas (lyrics; listen), and my brain latched onto 'just let me sing you to sleep'.
You wanted schmoop, honey. You got it. I am exhausted and should not be posting this.
If I Kiss You
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. PG-13. ~1200 words.
Are you gonna sing me rockabye?
*
If I Kiss You
"You should go to bed," Tommy suggests for the third time when Adam's leg twitches against his.
Grumpily snuggling closer, stretched out halfway on top of Tommy in the flickering glow of the television, Adam mumbles, "No."
They're at his place again, Tommy's choice. While Tommy likes his apartment, it's weird to have Adam there. It isn't that Adam doesn't fit seamlessly into his life. Everywhere Adam goes, whoever he's with, he fits. But Tommy has housemates, and friends that don't call before dropping by, and neighbours that don't know how to mind their own business. It's easier this way. Adam is all his here.
"If you're sure," Tommy says, running his fingers through Adam's hair, soft and product-free from a day spent inside. Though Adam showered hours and hours ago, he still smells of berry shampoo and soap, and when he heaves a contented sigh, like minty toothpaste and orange chicken. "I'm not gonna be ready for bed for awhile."
"You stayed up almost all last night," Adam says drowsily, his eyes still closed, cheek pillowed on Tommy's chest. "What time is it?"
"After three." Tommy flicks a glance at the screen to see what's playing. He's got lists for sleepless nights like these. They don't happen as much as they used to, though, so he's not sure anymore what's up after the season one finale of True Blood, and he hadn't really been paying much attention.
Awake, Adam never stops. There's always some shifting emotion on his face, from an easy smile for friends to deep concentration for a lyric not quite right to baffled upset for the paps when the leeches manage to track them to a place he was hopeful about going unspotted. Asleep, the animated lines of Adam's face still and soften, become smooth contours easy for Tommy's eye to trace. If he had to, Tommy's sure he could draw Adam's likeness perfectly from memory, all the way from the slight hitch in his left eyebrow a pass with a dark pencil usually hides to the exact placement of every last freckle, even the ones on his lips.
Tommy's got it bad for Adam. Better and worse than he's ever had for anyone else before.
When Adam's eyes blink open, and Tommy quietly says, "Hey pretty," his sleepy smile blossoms.
"Hey yourself," Adam says, rubbing his face against Tommy's tee as he tries to wake up. "I don't have anywhere I need to be tomorrow. I'm staying right here."
Right here is where Tommy wants him to stay, but it's not fair that both of them should go without a decent night's sleep. "I'll come to bed with you."
"Nope," Adam says, stubborn even when he can barely keep his eyes open. "I'm keeping you company."
Tommy continues running his fingers through Adam's hair, sneakily lulling him back to that quiet place between sleep and waking. Too many nights to count, on the bus or in strange hotel rooms, they took turns doing this for one another. Most times, Tommy for Adam. Tommy wasn't the headliner, the golden goose with four interviews, three appearances and a fan meet-and-greet before every show. He could afford to go sleepless if it meant Adam wasn't stumbling around in a brain-dead haze.
"Fighting dirty," Adam snuffles, one by one his muscles relaxing, his eyes slipping shut again.
"Hell no," Tommy says, fumbling for the remote to turn the almost non-existent sound down lower. "Fighting dirty's when I sing you to sleep."
Instead of the honest fear that threat should instil in anyone, let alone in someone with Adam's perfect pitch, Adam smiles happily. "Are you gonna sing me rockabye?"
"That is a fucking terrible lullaby," Tommy says. "Like, whole generations traumatised by heights from the cradle."
Adam laughs, low and lazy. He hums a bit, then quietly sings, "From the high rooftops, down to the sea, no one's as dear, as baby to me."
"That part's okay." Tracing the soft part of Adam's lips with the pad of his thumb, Tommy closes his eyes, thinks back to the few times he's minded tiny tykes for friends. Duh, he thinks, and ignoring the nervous flutter in his gut, sings rough and only a little off key, "Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, papa's gonna buy you-"
In the silence as his voice fades, Adam says, "What're you gonna buy me, Tommy Joe?"
Blanking completely on the lyrics, Tommy says, "You don't need me to buy you anything."
"That doesn't mean I don't want you to." Adam's fingertips trail slowly down Tommy's side, tuck under his hip. "Keep going?"
"I forgot what's next."
"A diamond ring," Adam sings, muffled through a kiss pressed to Tommy's palm.
"A diamond ring," Tommy echoes in singsong, and carding his fingers through Adam's hair, goes through them all, the looking glass and the billy goat, the cart and the bull, and in the places he forgets the words again, hums the melody instead. His voice is nothing at all like Adam's. He can carry a tune most of the time, vocalise when he needs to, but he sings too high in his throat, raw and untrained and weak.
And when the words fade again, Adam says, "Don't stop."
"I'm out of song," Tommy says, throat dry.
"Sing me anything."
"Baby, Manson's not gonna put you to sleep." There's a hell of a lot more than Manson in Tommy's head, though, and he rifles through a mishmash of melodies, searching for something quiet and soft without the heartache. There's less of that, and he lands on Dashboard Confessional before he realises it, humming the tune for a moment before the lyrics to Better come spilling hesitantly free.
A longing Tommy doesn't feel comes through anyway, the song too ingrained in his head to be any other way. Barely halfway through, Adam shuffles up to his knees, Tommy's voice dying for a third time as Adam covers his mouth with a kiss. The whole world falls so far away when they're alone in the dark. The crowds, the shows, the foreign cities, the fans and the money, Tommy loves it all, is grateful for it, but he'd be happy playing in hazy back rooms nowhere special as long as Adam was right there with him. He'd been right all along about his life meant for music. The only thing he hadn't known was that his life was meant for music with someone.
As if he's in Tommy's head, Adam says, "You could buy me a ring someday, if you wanted," unguarded in his sleepiness, the warm, safe cocoon of each other they're wrapped up in. It's not a request, or a passive-aggressive hint for more. He's only letting Tommy know.
"I'll bring you one from a gumball machine," Tommy says, grinning through the next kiss Adam pecks to his lips, the sudden kick of his heart. "It'll have stars and sparkles on it."
"All the boys and girls'll want one," Adam says, eyes bright in the television glow, wide awake now.
"Let 'em want," Tommy says, "my gumball rings aren't for just anybody," and he pulls Adam back down, drowns the crazy, racing thud of his heartbeat in Adam's mouth.
*
End
Better - Dashboard Confessional
You wanted schmoop, honey. You got it. I am exhausted and should not be posting this.
If I Kiss You
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. PG-13. ~1200 words.
Are you gonna sing me rockabye?
If I Kiss You
"You should go to bed," Tommy suggests for the third time when Adam's leg twitches against his.
Grumpily snuggling closer, stretched out halfway on top of Tommy in the flickering glow of the television, Adam mumbles, "No."
They're at his place again, Tommy's choice. While Tommy likes his apartment, it's weird to have Adam there. It isn't that Adam doesn't fit seamlessly into his life. Everywhere Adam goes, whoever he's with, he fits. But Tommy has housemates, and friends that don't call before dropping by, and neighbours that don't know how to mind their own business. It's easier this way. Adam is all his here.
"If you're sure," Tommy says, running his fingers through Adam's hair, soft and product-free from a day spent inside. Though Adam showered hours and hours ago, he still smells of berry shampoo and soap, and when he heaves a contented sigh, like minty toothpaste and orange chicken. "I'm not gonna be ready for bed for awhile."
"You stayed up almost all last night," Adam says drowsily, his eyes still closed, cheek pillowed on Tommy's chest. "What time is it?"
"After three." Tommy flicks a glance at the screen to see what's playing. He's got lists for sleepless nights like these. They don't happen as much as they used to, though, so he's not sure anymore what's up after the season one finale of True Blood, and he hadn't really been paying much attention.
Awake, Adam never stops. There's always some shifting emotion on his face, from an easy smile for friends to deep concentration for a lyric not quite right to baffled upset for the paps when the leeches manage to track them to a place he was hopeful about going unspotted. Asleep, the animated lines of Adam's face still and soften, become smooth contours easy for Tommy's eye to trace. If he had to, Tommy's sure he could draw Adam's likeness perfectly from memory, all the way from the slight hitch in his left eyebrow a pass with a dark pencil usually hides to the exact placement of every last freckle, even the ones on his lips.
Tommy's got it bad for Adam. Better and worse than he's ever had for anyone else before.
When Adam's eyes blink open, and Tommy quietly says, "Hey pretty," his sleepy smile blossoms.
"Hey yourself," Adam says, rubbing his face against Tommy's tee as he tries to wake up. "I don't have anywhere I need to be tomorrow. I'm staying right here."
Right here is where Tommy wants him to stay, but it's not fair that both of them should go without a decent night's sleep. "I'll come to bed with you."
"Nope," Adam says, stubborn even when he can barely keep his eyes open. "I'm keeping you company."
Tommy continues running his fingers through Adam's hair, sneakily lulling him back to that quiet place between sleep and waking. Too many nights to count, on the bus or in strange hotel rooms, they took turns doing this for one another. Most times, Tommy for Adam. Tommy wasn't the headliner, the golden goose with four interviews, three appearances and a fan meet-and-greet before every show. He could afford to go sleepless if it meant Adam wasn't stumbling around in a brain-dead haze.
"Fighting dirty," Adam snuffles, one by one his muscles relaxing, his eyes slipping shut again.
"Hell no," Tommy says, fumbling for the remote to turn the almost non-existent sound down lower. "Fighting dirty's when I sing you to sleep."
Instead of the honest fear that threat should instil in anyone, let alone in someone with Adam's perfect pitch, Adam smiles happily. "Are you gonna sing me rockabye?"
"That is a fucking terrible lullaby," Tommy says. "Like, whole generations traumatised by heights from the cradle."
Adam laughs, low and lazy. He hums a bit, then quietly sings, "From the high rooftops, down to the sea, no one's as dear, as baby to me."
"That part's okay." Tracing the soft part of Adam's lips with the pad of his thumb, Tommy closes his eyes, thinks back to the few times he's minded tiny tykes for friends. Duh, he thinks, and ignoring the nervous flutter in his gut, sings rough and only a little off key, "Hush little baby, don't say a word. Papa's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird won't sing, papa's gonna buy you-"
In the silence as his voice fades, Adam says, "What're you gonna buy me, Tommy Joe?"
Blanking completely on the lyrics, Tommy says, "You don't need me to buy you anything."
"That doesn't mean I don't want you to." Adam's fingertips trail slowly down Tommy's side, tuck under his hip. "Keep going?"
"I forgot what's next."
"A diamond ring," Adam sings, muffled through a kiss pressed to Tommy's palm.
"A diamond ring," Tommy echoes in singsong, and carding his fingers through Adam's hair, goes through them all, the looking glass and the billy goat, the cart and the bull, and in the places he forgets the words again, hums the melody instead. His voice is nothing at all like Adam's. He can carry a tune most of the time, vocalise when he needs to, but he sings too high in his throat, raw and untrained and weak.
And when the words fade again, Adam says, "Don't stop."
"I'm out of song," Tommy says, throat dry.
"Sing me anything."
"Baby, Manson's not gonna put you to sleep." There's a hell of a lot more than Manson in Tommy's head, though, and he rifles through a mishmash of melodies, searching for something quiet and soft without the heartache. There's less of that, and he lands on Dashboard Confessional before he realises it, humming the tune for a moment before the lyrics to Better come spilling hesitantly free.
A longing Tommy doesn't feel comes through anyway, the song too ingrained in his head to be any other way. Barely halfway through, Adam shuffles up to his knees, Tommy's voice dying for a third time as Adam covers his mouth with a kiss. The whole world falls so far away when they're alone in the dark. The crowds, the shows, the foreign cities, the fans and the money, Tommy loves it all, is grateful for it, but he'd be happy playing in hazy back rooms nowhere special as long as Adam was right there with him. He'd been right all along about his life meant for music. The only thing he hadn't known was that his life was meant for music with someone.
As if he's in Tommy's head, Adam says, "You could buy me a ring someday, if you wanted," unguarded in his sleepiness, the warm, safe cocoon of each other they're wrapped up in. It's not a request, or a passive-aggressive hint for more. He's only letting Tommy know.
"I'll bring you one from a gumball machine," Tommy says, grinning through the next kiss Adam pecks to his lips, the sudden kick of his heart. "It'll have stars and sparkles on it."
"All the boys and girls'll want one," Adam says, eyes bright in the television glow, wide awake now.
"Let 'em want," Tommy says, "my gumball rings aren't for just anybody," and he pulls Adam back down, drowns the crazy, racing thud of his heartbeat in Adam's mouth.
End
Better - Dashboard Confessional
