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Familiar Faces

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Adam's famous, but he's not completely ubiquitous. If he pays attention, picks the right clubs and the right nights, and especially the right boys, he can find some anonymity. Coming in with Roger or a substitute doesn't help, of course, but if he watches the door he can catch people who didn't see him walk in and get mobbed.

Mostly it doesn't work, actually. But he keeps trying. And every so often, he finds one: a guy who seems to have no idea who he is, just likes his face or his ass or his smirk.

Tonight's a blue moon night. The boy isn't just blissfully ignorant of who he's dancing with—he's also Adam's type, tiny and pretty and lively. They aren't talking, but Adam can tell he's smart and sarcastic, just from the faces he makes when new songs come on.

He's up for it, too, not the back-room blowjobs Adam can't do anymore but for going home with him. Adam's known how to read that kind of signal since before Brad. This guy doesn't require much skill to interpret, anyway; he's got his hands on Adam's ass and he's been pulling them incrementally towards the door for forty minutes.

Adam should have let him pull them out the door faster. It's just so great to be out, dancing, surrounded by people who'd gotten his autograph when he walked in and are now leaving him the fuck alone. So he'd tempted fate. And now, fading in over the end of some trance track Adam didn't know, is his first single.

The guy's face says: "hey, I know this song," and then, "oh, yeah, this is a hot one!" and then, inevitably, "—oh, shit."

Goddammit, Adam thinks. I really need to learn to leave sooner.


"So you didn't fuck him."

Brad's voice pierces the margarita haze remarkably well. It's one of the reasons Adam likes drinking with him.

"No, I didn't fuck him!"

"Well, you still could have. I mean, did he stalk off? Is he a Kris fan?"

Adam rolls his eyes, or at least he tries to. "That is—that's not the point, Brad. The point is that he, that I, that—no."

"Compelling," Brad says, and pours himself another glass from the pitcher. Adam nods redundant agreement to the idea of Brad getting a little drunker, because he doesn't want to be this trashed alone.

"You know I couldn't," Adam says, finally, when he can get his tongue around the syllables. "He was looking at me."

Brad just giggles. "Turn the lights off, then."

"You are so—" Adam can't quite manage the end of the thought, so he reaches over and jabs Brad with his finger instead, and then, since he's already over there, he keeps leaning until he's tipped over, head on Brad's thigh, watching the underside of his chin.

"I'm such a great friend? I assume that's what you're planning to say. I'm the kind of great friend who makes you margaritas and listens to your sad tales of boys you totally failed to fuck even though you could have."

"Brad," he draws the name out, petulant. "Stop pretending—you know why! You know you know why!"

Brad looks down at him, puts a hand in his hair to stroke his scalp, and Adam shuts his eyes and makes a few little noises, pretends he's not.

"Yeah, I know why. But that's all you're gonna get at those clubs, Adam. You really need to give up on the whole thing. Stick to known entiti-ties." It had been a good speech right up until the tequila caught up with Brad at the end.

Adam giggled at the mistake and then pulled a face. "They're all—busy or monogamous or some shit. I mean, not all of them, but you know. You know?"

"I know," Brad says, and scrubs at his scalp some more. "I'm always here, though."

"Don't—don't say that!" Adam says, aghast. "You're—you'll find someone! You have to, to, focus on the positive." He pauses for a second, watching Brad's mouth. "Sparkles!"

Brad grins, and Adam tracks the motion. "Yeah. Sparkles. That's my gig, all right."

"You didn't answer the other thing," Adam says, and puts a hand up, with a couple of failed attempts, to still Brad's hand in his hair.

Brad looks away. "That's not the point. The point is I'm—here. If you need me."

"'Cause you're a great friend."


They're quiet for a while, and when Adam next blinks his eyes open, it's to the morning sun, streaming over his security fence. They're still on the back porch, Adam's head on Brad's thigh and Brad curled around him, head on his own arm, face pressed into Adam's hip. Adam's maybe still a little bit drunk, and his first thought is how a little shift or two and they could be sixty-nining.

They haven't done that in a long time, longer than most stuff. They've fucked within the season, he thinks, and blowjobs more recently than that, and there were those drunk hand jobs three weeks ago, but that—not in a long time. They don't lie down to have sex anymore, really, like there's something about being horizontal that's too intimate.

Adam puts a hand down to Brad's head, strokes his nape until he stirs. "Morning," he says, and Brad grunts, tucks his face more firmly into Adam's hip to block out the light.

"I have to stop drinking with you, Lambert," he says, and his voice is raspy with sleep.

"You love it," Adam says, settling his head back onto Brad's thigh.

"My back doesn't," Brad says, and stretches it a little. His morning erection brushes Adam's temple and he pulls his hips back, fake casual, like he didn't even notice.

Adam's feeling reckless, and more than a little horny, and Brad's right here, after all. "Let me make it up to your back," he says, and leans his head back into Brad, turns to rub his cheek against Brad's dick, through the thin material of his pants.

Brad sighs into his hip. "I still don't know what it is about you and mornings. Normal people sleep in, they don't molest the nearest person as soon as the sun's up."

Adam doesn't dignify that slight with an answer, just rubs a little harder, turns his own hips toward Brad. "My back hurts, too," he says, and Brad's eyes peel open and catch, staring, on the bulge in his pants.

"I guess that's one way to deal with morning breath," Brad says, and then he's shifting, too, getting into position, hand coming down to unbutton Adam's jeans. Adam smiles and turns his own attention back to the goal at hand, pushing Brad's pants down under his ass and getting a good grip there, just because he can.

Brad's nuzzling into him, not unzipping yet, but Adam doesn't want to tease, wants Brad's cock in his mouth right now. It's been too long—since anyone at all, but more importantly since Brad, the last time hurried and upright and somewhere sleazy, Cassidy's bathroom maybe. He can't even really remember, and that's all wrong. He'll remember this.

The feel of it is always different, sideways; Brad's weighing down his cheek instead of his tongue, but it gives him some extra room to lick, swirl around him, listen to his noises. He's finally unzipping Adam now, and Adam steels himself against the feeling of Brad's lips on him.

He can't stifle a moan, though, when Brad starts sucking him, and the vibration of it gets Brad moaning, too, and for a moment they're in a feedback loop, too good and too fast, and then Adam pulls off and tucks his face into Brad's thigh for a second. He pants there, hand still gripping Brad's fantastic ass, and he focuses on that instead for a moment while he gets his bearings. He eases back into it, leans up to suck one of Brad's balls into his mouth, gentle, and to bite just a little at the soft crease of his thigh.

He's focused enough that all he feels from Brad is disassociated goodness, nerve pleasure his brain isn't pinpointing as any particular sensation, and finally he feels steady enough to turn back to Brad's cock, suck it back into his mouth and fist the base, head starting to bob.

Brad moans again and Adam shivers but keeps himself quiet, keeps himself focused. He knows what Brad likes, well enough that it's half instinct for him to settle into a teasing rhythm, to pull off from time to time to let evaporation chill him so Adam's warm mouth is a shock.

Brad can't last, and Adam's hips are shifting all of their own accord, pleasure spiking in his belly. Adam lets himself moan, then, to goad Brad into it, and they're matching each other for volume when Brad comes, Adam swallowing what he can and then letting Brad's cock drop out of his mouth so he can focus on his own orgasm, hips jerking.

They shift apart a little, tuck themselves back in and settle back into the positions they woke up in: Brad's face in Adam's hip, Adam's head on Brad's thigh. Adam hums happily for a couple of minutes, almost inaudible, and then he lifts his head to look down at Brad. "Omelette?"

Brad smiles at him, eyes heavy-lidded. "Egg whites only?"

"Of course," Adam says, and they pull each other up and walk into the house with their fingers tangled together.