The last drops of alcohol trickled down, bitter on his tongue. There was nothing quite like that slight buzz in the back of his head after a bottle.
In the mirror was the reflection of a strange being, lips painted smoldering blue and eyes accented by a shadowy black under the cover of blonde locks. There was nothing quite like the way he looked on stage.
Shrugging off his costume and throwing it in the hamper, he began to smell less of marijuana. It wouldn't come off his breath. He didn't want it to anyway.
The sensation up being bent backwards, his lips crashing up against his, the scent of combination and weed on his breath. There was screaming – yes – lots of it. Some far off place where it came from was irrelevant.
Slipping into a simple outfit unlike the elaborate ones he wore on stage, he felt more at home. The soft, familiar fabric on his skin.
The bass drum booming in his ear, snare sounding off like one thousand bullets being shot off were not really there. Hearing each individual string as they were strummed was only him. It didn't register to anybody else.
Dragging a small make up removing wipe across his eyes, tugging at the places it clung to his lids. Wiping the sticky lipstick off, although to no avail, was comforting. Comfort was all he wanted.
He pulled away, launching back into the chorus as if it had no effect on him. But if only he knew the effect he had.
Stepping outside to the immense screaming that was the crowd pushing up against the hardly enforced barrier brought him out of the haze.
People would ask.
Thanking each and every one of them even if it was him that should be thanked for taking the time to go through this hell which included being grabbed at by the utmost strangers.
And ask they did.
"Are you two official?"
"When did you start fucking?"
"I wish I had a sexy boyfriend like yours."
He smiled but dare not answer their catcalls. Nothing was really happening anyway.
That tongue working his mouth open, the steady presence of his body next to his. He couldn't compare it to anyone. He'd never compare it to anything.
The lights and shouts sent him into a lightheaded daze so he listened to a story of how he was being used and cheated on by someone he wouldn't ever date.
Whatever sounds that microphone made sliding up and down the strings would remain a turn on for the rest of his life. It wasn't even a pretty sound; the sound he'd fooled around with, dragging his nail down the thick grooves in each string when he first got the guitar.
He was being ushered away from the tidal wave finally, unsure of what was next.
Nobody was there. Whoever placed their hand reassuringly on the small of his back and led him there was gone.
Worn out, he clambered up the inlaid ladder to his bunk deciding he would lay there and try to forget. Forget everything and just be.
Mind fogged from the pot and alcohol, he lazily collapsed onto his bunk.
Whatever sound came from him was surely inhuman, but it surely jolted him out of his daze.
"Tommy?" his familiar voice murmured. The lights were dim but not dim enough that Tommy was unable to scale the ladder.
He looked down at Adam, some shard of light in his clear eyes glinting in the muted light.
"Tommy Joe?"
"Aaadam…?" something of the insane emotion flitting through his head must have showed. He wondered whether it was the way his voice trembled or the way he could barely complete those two syllables.
"Um," and he was kissing him.
His lips were soft and apologetic, the cherry chapstick leaving nothing but a faint flavor on his lips.
"Do you even know?" Tommy pulled away, not looking at Adam as he was pulled onto the bunk from the ladder. Whatever he implied by the question, Adam understood.
"Tell me," Adam whispered, lips close to Tommy's, eyes searching for contact. Tommy could feel Adam's lashes against his forehead flitting back and forth.
"I…," Tommy murmured. He finally tilted his chin up and closed the gap between their lips.
It was instant to Adam.
He let his hand trail down the soft cotton of Tommy's shirt, to the waist of his jeans. He whined into the kiss as it became increasingly passionate.
Adam's fingers pulled at the denim, resting a hand against the back of Tommy's head as he did so. They only broke the kiss to breathe.
Tommy's hand met Adam's, first as a way to help him. Then his thin fingers wrapped around Adam's wrist firmly.
"Stop." He said suddenly, with much more force than intended. He planned to take Adam's hand away but it shot away at the word instantly. It reminded him of spraying a cat with water.
"I'm sorry." Adam said, pulling away from Tommy's body and into a sitting position across the bunk.
There was a long silence after Tommy had sat up.
"I'm straight." Tommy said. It was more a way to convince, remind himself than to tell Adam. Because Adam knew.
"It's not my place…" Adam answered already getting himself up to leave.
"No," Tommy said, distant. "It isn't."