So even if Paris is a queen bitch diva who totally left him hanging at an absolutely terrible time and barely apologized for it, he's still Johnny's best friend, which means when he calls Johnny and begs him to chaperone – like he's some sort of middle-aged crocs-wearing skating mom, God – a night out in Chelsea, he can't really say no. "I'll buy you all the club soda and lime you can drink," he says, "and Galina can totally have my liver on toast if you can't skate tomorrow."
"Oh, your liver isn't high enough quality for Galina," Johnny says, and then puts on his Viacheslav accent. "Only highest grade liver of bad influence gays for coach of Johnny!"
"Shut the fuck up, you're coming. You're coming or I will kidnap you myself. There will be duck tape involved."
"It's duct tape, you idiot."
"Whatever." Paris is unimpressed. Johnny can tell from the tone of the sigh. Paris has very expressive sighs.
"God, fine, but you owe me. I don't DD for just anyone."
"Oh my God, yay!" Paris says, and drops the phone.
The club is just as trashy as Johnny remembers it, which is to say barely at all, because the last time they were here was Johnny's 21st birthday, and he barely remembers taking his 16th and 17th shot at the bar before groping some guy in leather pants on the dance floor and then throwing up in the back room and getting kicked out. Tonight, though, he sips on his club soda and lets Paris and three of Paris's New York Best Friends pull him onto the dance floor.
It comes as a surprise to most fans that the majority of figure skaters, in their ordinary lives, are actually mediocre dancers. They have choreographers to help their natural rhythm along, and they so rarely have time to go out that, in most cases, they never really learn how to dance off the ice.
Johnny is not one of those skaters.
He lets the music put a sway in his hips and turns to the nearest reasonably attractive body. The guy is tall, eyes shaded dark and a smile that should have been dangerous but manages not to be, and his big hands fit perfectly into the hollow of Johnny's hips. Soon enough, they're grinding up against each other, and the guy is mouthing something against his ear, low and hot. Johnny finds himself bending backward, arching up toward the guy's body, moving to the beat like there's nothing or no one else in the whole fucking club. Too long, he thinks. It's been too long since he did this, since he went out and found someone and felt something different, something besides stress and pressure and the weight of impossible expectations.
"Hey," the guy says against his neck, and Johnny realizes he's gone still.
"Sorry, I…" he starts, then shakes his head. "Fuck it."
The guy laughs, rolls his hips once like it's all some big cosmic joke, and Johnny is shoving him away before he can think twice. He wants to say something clever, cutting, but whatever. He's too fucking tired.
He makes it off the dance floor before Paris finds him. "Oh my God, tell me you know who you were just dancefucking with."
Paris is pretty much bouncing, which he hasn't done since he moved into the city and became Too New Yorker To Get Excited, and that if nothing else gives Johnny pause. "Excuse you, I do not dancefuck."
Paris just gives him this look, particularly apt because Johnny barely hears what comes next over the thumpa-thumpa of the bass. "…Idol!"
"Hilarious," Johnny says, deadpan. "I think I'd recognize Clay Aiken. Also, ew."
"No, dumbass," Paris says. "The hot one. And – oh. Um."
Paris scurries away like the rat he is before Johnny can tease any sort of sense out of his drunken celebrity-obsessed ramblings. And then he feels his arm being pulled, and when he turns around to toss his club soda on his crazed assailant, he doesn't have to, because Adam Lambert is standing right there, looking down on him – holy shit he's tall, and kind of painfully pretty – with a face like a question mark.
"…oh," Johnny says feebly, and lets himself be pulled toward the bathrooms.
"So I think you misunderstood me earlier." Adam is standing close, hips still swaying to the beat that's making the wall Johnny is backed against vibrate under his hands. "What I meant," and Johnny closes his eyes against the breathless moment when Adam leans in, "was this."
His mouth tastes like tonic, bitter and tart and swiftly warming as Johnny breathes into the kiss, because there's absolutely nothing cutting to say to this, nothing but yes and more and where did you even come from? He makes a noise into Adam's mouth that he feels is an appropriate stand-in for all three.
Adam's hand comes away from where it's pressed against the wall next to Johnny's cheek to rest on Johnny's chest over his rapidly beating heart. And okay, yeah, he's an athlete, he's in insanely good shape, and if anyone asks, one can, in fact, bounce a quarter off his ass. But when Adam's mouth presses deeper, tongue sliding against Johnny's in a way that makes him think nakednakednaked - it makes his heart jump out of his chest. He feels fourteen again, ridiculous. Glorious.
He huffs a laugh into Adam's mouth, because there is no way this is not going to turn into something that Galina is going to kill him for tomorrow morning. When Adam pulls off to take Johnny's ear into his mouth and bite once, he thinks he'll be lucky if he gets away with anything less than a 10 minute lecture in florid Russian about dedication to the sport.
"What are you doing five minutes from now?" Adam says, teeth grazing the curl of Johnny's ear with just the right pressure to make his cock throb against the zipper of his skintight jeans.
"I'm… ah, I'm open to suggestions."
Adam whispers something that could be called a suggestion after it's called several other things, none of which he would feel comfortable saying to his father, which is his usual litmus test for handling himself in public situations. Johnny developed his litmus test after years of exhaustive research and a barrage of national criticism. When he can remember to put it in place, it is a nearly fail proof system.
Right now, though, pretty much all he can remember besides the way Adam's mouth felt biting a bruise onto his neck is that he's supposed to be making sure Paris and his drunk friends don't kill themselves on their way to another club. "Motherfuck," he says, heartfelt, and then explains the problem to Adam.
Adam's hotel room is a suite, the kind Johnny can only afford to stay in when someone else is paying, and as a shameless aesthete it adds a little something extra to the pleasure he gets when Adam drops to his knees and mouths his cock through his jeans.
"You fucking rock star," Johnny says on a gasp, and feels Adam's low laugh vibrate against his thigh.
"I've heard that before." Adam doesn't hesitate, doesn't even fumble with the belt buckle. Johnny's jeans come undone like magic under Adam's fingers, and then Adam's mouth is right the fuck there, breathing hot and wet through thin black cotton. He smiles, pets the back of Johnny's thigh. "Never gets old, though."
Johnny feels his hands come up like they're out of his control, like they're someone else's, to tangle in Adam's hair. His hips jerk – he needs Adam's mouth, needs it on him and around him and in him, God. "Please, Adam."
Adam pulls Johnny's briefs down, and it's totally accidental that as soon as Adam frees his cock from the evil, evil underwear, it streaks precome on Adam's cheek, right under the glitter. But the image of Adam on his knees between Johnny's legs, face shimmering with makeup and wet from Johnny's dick, makes him nearly lose it right there.
He's glad he doesn't, though, because Adam's mouth sliding down around his dick is perfect. "Gonna kill me with this," he gasps out, high and needy as one of Adam's hands moves between his legs to cup his balls. It's gentle, soft and questing and he needs more. "Stop fucking around and suck me!"
Adam laughs around his dick, the fucker, but he pulls back up and sucks on the head of Johnny's cock like a pro, hand twisting hard around the base. He pulls off for a second. "Tell me what you need," he says, looking up at Johnny. His eyes are very, very blue.
Johnny closes his eyes against the visual, needing to last longer – it's too much for him, now. It's the aural that seems to drive Adam, though, because he shudders with what Johnny is pretty sure is pleasure when Johnny starts, "Tongue – use your…"
Adam's tongue rolls across the head of Johnny's cock, pressure and texture and heat. It's fucking perfect. Johnny tells Adam so, uses words and tone and his hand against Adam's cheek, careful not to disturb the shining wet streak where he marked Adam earlier. "Keep going, God, your mouth is. Perfect, you're perfect, this is…"
He looks down. Adam's got his other hand working his own jeans open, not so smooth now as he fists his cock beneath his underwear. Johnny trails off, "You love my cock in your mouth" on the tip of his tongue. And then Adam blinks up at him, catches Johnny staring. The way he looks, mouth wet and stretched around Johnny's cock, and it just comes out - "You love it, you love the taste of my cock, baby," all moaned and hoarse.
Adam stands up. Maybe he can see Johnny's about to come or something – but he stands, and Johnny almost forgot just how big he is. He's crowding Johnny toward the chaise lounge in the corner now, bending down to lick a trail up the side of Johnny's neck, right over the jugular. He keeps going, keeps occupying his space, until Johnny falls back on the chaise, almost tripping over his jeans before leaving them behind in a ball on the floor.
But Adam doesn't stop. He crawls up Johnny's body, pulling Johnny's shirt off as he goes, and – "Holy fuck," Adam says. "That's a lovely surprise."
"I get to the gym sometimes," Johnny breathes out.
"Mmm, yeah, sometimes," Adam agrees, trailing a hand up Johnny's abs, gentle. And then he sits up, straddles Johnny's chest until Johnny is a little breathless, until all he can see is Adam's cock where his pants are undone, and that makes him even more breathless. "Now, let me give you what you need."
Johnny would laugh at the audacity of it, except Adam is pulling the waistband of his underwear down, and his cock is just as big as the rest of Adam. "And what is it I need?" Johnny manages, blinking up at Adam, trying for guileless.
Adam's smile is curiously soft. "What you need," he says, hand jacking his cock in a manner that is, frankly, making it hard for Johnny to focus, "is to get out of your head. To be overwhelmed." He traces the head of his cock across Johnny's mouth, and Johnny's tongue darts out to taste.
"Open for me, baby," Adam says, and Johnny does.
Adam is only giving him the tip, just enough to let him taste, enough for him to want more. Johnny twists his tongue around it, trying to get something from Adam, more.
"Little more now," Adam says. Now he's got the whole head in his mouth, lips stretched wide.
Not enough, Johnny thinks, and sucks hard, trying to get more taste, more weight on his tongue.
"Patience," Adam murmurs, and gives him a little more. He goes slowly, too slowly, and if he's trying to overwhelm Johnny right now, it's only with frustration. He gets a hand out from under Adam's thigh to pull at him, try to get him closer. Adam obliges, a few more inches this time, and then he starts thrusting a little, and it is on. Johnny digs his fingernails into the skin of Adam's ass and gets creative with his tongue, rolling it along the vein, trying to make Adam lose it.
When he starts to lose it, finally, Johnny feels it, encourages it, runs a finger along Adam's ass crack and works it into Adam, just the tip, as he goes for it with his mouth. He wants more, wants to be full of it, choke with it. He wants to be irresponsible, bruised, to forget.
Finally, finally, Adam gives it to him. He's thrusting hard now, and Johnny's mouth is watering around it, going lightheaded. His cock is throbbing so hard, wanting to come, fuck, and he's so far gone he can't think, can't do anything but need.
He can't take it any more. "Fuck me," he tries to say. "Now, fuck." It comes out garbled, but Adam gets it, sits up.
"Lemme just…" Adam begins, but Johnny shakes his head.
The time it takes Adam to slip on a condom is too long. He watches him do it, watches him stroke that huge cock once, twice, and waits.
Adam undresses on the way over, mechanically, like he's not quite sure how he hasn't gotten naked yet. He seems weirdly disinclined to show off – Johnny tends to make a production of getting naked whenever possible, because he's worked really fucking hard for his body and he loves the way it looks, all the incredible things it can do. Adam sheds his clothes and seems to become more focused on Johnny as each piece drops to the floor, until he's standing at the end of the chaise lounge between Johnny's spread legs, naked. His eyes, from this distance, are unreadable.
"Patience," he says one more time, and puts his hands on Johnny's thighs, spreads them wide.
Yes, Johnny thinks.
Adam bends down, licks up the center of Johnny's ass, and flicks there.
"Jesus, would you fuck me already?" Johnny says. Actually, it's more like a shout, but come the fuck on. He wants to feel it, and there's lube on the condom, he'll be fine, just. "Now, Adam."
The head of Adam's cock is in before Johnny's body starts resisting, which Johnny attributes to his above-average mastery of mind over body. He forces himself to relax, to open, but Adam stills above him anyway. No fool, Adam. "Tell me when," Adam says, like he's been reading Johnny's mind this whole time.
"Please," Johnny gasps, and Adam goes a little deeper, starts these torturous little shallow thrusts that just miss the exact right spot. He's relaxing now, feeling it, and the pain has bled over into satisfaction at being here, wholly and completely, not half on an ice rink somewhere. It starts to feel like pleasure, if Adam would just – " Deeper," he says, voice breaking. "Hand on my…"
Adam takes him then, hard, one hand pressing Johnny down into the chaise while the other sets an inexorable rhythm on his leaking cock.
"Harder," Johnny begs, but it's pretty much a lie. He can't think of anything coherent to say, can't think of anything but the way he's feeling now that Adam is up against his prostate with every thrust, now that his big hand is jerking his cock just this side of too slow. He's staring down at Johnny, eyes dilated to fuck and hair dripping sweat and red standing out in his cheeks, and it's pretty much the hottest thing Johnny has ever seen. And then Adam bites his lower lip, thrusts harder, and okay, that is the hottest thing he's ever seen.
When Johnny comes, he comes everywhere - one spurt actually gets on Adam's neck, somehow, and the rest is all across his chest and stomach. It sends Adam off, one of his hands streaking through the come on Johnny's abs while the other grips his hip tight enough to bruise, and Johnny feels it when he comes.
Adam doesn't shy away from collapsing into the mess on Johnny's chest, which gets him points in Johnny's book, and spends a few close-to-uncomfortable minutes breathing heavily into the crook of Johnny's neck, which is pretty understandable given they made the silly decision not to make it to what is probably a ginormous bed in the other room. But pretty soon Adam is pushing himself up, pulling out by increments, and striding into the bathroom.
He comes back with a damp towel, wipes them both up, and walks them into the bedroom. Johnny has a moment of frantic gratitude that between the two of them, someone is capable of using their legs, and then he's falling asleep – deeply, dreamlessly asleep for the first time in months.
If he can thank Paris for getting him into this situation, he can thank Paris for preventing him from being murdered slowly and painfully by Galina the next morning. His Paris ringtone drifts in from the other room – "Stars Are Blind" by, as they refer to her, the Other Paris – and if anything could pull him out of a blissful post-coital sleep, it's that fucking song.
Then he looks at the clock, shouts "Oh, motherfuck," to the room in general, and is pulling on his pants when Adam makes it out of the bedroom.
"Going to be late for practice if I don't go now," he tells Adam.
Adam is rubbing at his eyes, bleary, but nods, fishes his iPhone out of his jacket and snaps a picture.
"What the hell?" Johnny says, buttoning his shirt.
"Number," Adam says.
"No time," Johnny says, and bolts.
And yeah, okay, in hindsight that was really, really dumb.
Four months later, he's at an exhibition in Japan when his phone beeps. "BACKSTAGE AT ADAM LAMBERT CONCERT," the text from Paris reads. "HE SENDS U EVERY INCH OF HIS LOVE LOL"
His phone rings as soon as he gets off the plane in Newark. Unknown number, his phone tells him, with a 323 area code.
Paris may be a queen bitch diva, Johnny thinks as he blinks down at the flashing screen, but occasionally – very, very occasionally – he gets it just fucking right. He smiles to himself, sends up a little prayer of thanks, and hits Accept.